November was already reaching for her boots and coat by the door.
"I'll go."
"My Lady, the road in the rain?—"
"I'll go, Vasek. Go back to her. Keep her cool. I'll have the healer there within the hour."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Nodded once and disappeared into the rain.
The stables were dark,warm, and smelled of hay and kethral musk. November moved through them with purpose, bypassing Shade's stall entirely. She was not ready for that animal in the rain at night on an unfamiliar road. She saddled a bay — one of the gentlest the stablemaster used for supply runs, predictable and sure-footed and unlikely to dump her into a ravine.
The kethral shifted its weight as she tightened the girth. Its ears swiveled toward her. She put her hand flat against its neck.
"I need you to be very good tonight," she said. "The road is dark and wet and I've only done this a few times, so we're going to take it slow and you're going to be patient with me. Yes?"
The kethral blew a warm breath against her shoulder.
"Good enough."
She mounted. The six-legged gait rolled beneath her — that wavelike lateral motion she was still learning, still negotiating with her horse-trained muscles. She found her seat. Gathered the reins. Pointed the kethral toward the main gate and let it carry her into the rain.
The world dissolved into water and darkness. The road — a packed-stone track that wound down from the plateau toward the market town — ran slick beneath the kethral's hooves. Six legs were better than four for this; the gripping forelimbs extended on the steeper sections, finding purchase on the wet stone with a sure competence that let November focus on staying centered in the saddle rather than navigating.
Rain streamed down her face. It soaked through her coat within minutes. Her hair came undone entirely and plastered itself against her neck and shoulders. The cold was different from Earth cold — thinner, sharper at this altitude. Cold that found the spaces between your clothes and your skin and settled there.
The town materialized from the dark gradually. Lights first — amber and white, wavering through the rain — then buildings, then the familiar market square she had walked through with Rhaezon just days ago.
She shook the memory off. The tavern was lit. Its windows spilled warm light into the wet street.
She dismounted, tied the kethral to the post, and pushed through the door.
Warmth hit her like a wall. The tavern was mostly empty — a few late drinkers at a corner table, the barkeep wiping down the counter, the low hum of conversation that stopped when she entered and then started again with a different quality.
The barkeep looked up. Blinked. November watched him take in the picture: the Lord's human wife, soaked to the bone, alone, at this hour.
"Lady Vaethari."
"I need the healer. Vasek's wife has taken a bad turn. Can you send someone?"
He did not ask questions. He did not hesitate. He called to someone in the back. A young, gray-skinned Aeltharian who appeared, wiping his hands on a cloth, and the barkeep spoke a few quick words in the local dialect that November's translator caught a half-second behind.The healer. Now. The Lord's estate.
The young man was out the back door before November could say thank you.
"He'll be there within the half hour," the barkeep said. He looked at her. At the water pooling on the stone floor around her boots. At the way her arms had wrapped around her own body. "Sit down, my Lady. Warm yourself before you ride back."
He set a mug of something hot in front of the fire-side chair before she could refuse. She sat. The fire was enormous — Aeltharian hearths were built for the brutal winters, and even in the mild season the tavern kept it burning — and the heat of it reached into her wet clothes and pulled the tension from her shoulders by degrees. She peeled off her wet coat and let the fire warm her.
The drink was extraordinary. Warm and slightly sweet, with a depth that unfolded across her tongue — something herbal, something spiced, something that tasted like the amber light of Aelthar's dominant star looked. Halfway through the mug she identified the current underneath the sweetness. Alcohol. Not mild alcohol. Not the gentle warmth of wine. Something with actual engineering behind it.
She considered putting the mug down.
She did not put the mug down.
She was cold and tired and the rain was still hammering the roof and Rhaezon was somewhere out in it and Vasek's wife was burning with fever and she had looked at Rhaezon's mouth today and thought about kissing him and the drink was very, very good and she was going to sit here by this fire for five more minutes while her clothes dried and then ride home while thinking about Rhaezon's hands on her body some more.
The mug was empty before she knew it.
The warmth spread through her chest, her arms, the backs of her hands. The fire swam a little. She blinked. The room had softened at its edges, gone slightly liquid, and she understood with belated clarity that she had dramatically underestimated the strength of Aeltharian spirits. She had matched them against Earth liquor in her head and the comparison was laughable. This was something else. Something that had been fermented by people who lived on a wind-blasted plateau and needed their drinks to mean it.
