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Down at the base of the foothills, the inn came into view; several people hovered outside, looking worriedly toward the pass and the direction the Storm-Wielder and Shadow had gone. Aric waved; one figure ran back into the inn, presumably bearing news. Most of the rest closed in around him and Em for the end of the walk, asking questions, demanding to know what’d happened. Aric promised to tell everyone the story, once inside near a fire, where Em could sit down.
At the door, Lythos came up, dangling a jug in one hand as if he’d forgotten he had it. “What went on, up there? Are you both all right?”
Aric said, “Em needs to rest—” and Em said, “Is that honeyed mead, and can I have it?”
“It’s lavender mead,” Ly said, “will that do?” and followed them back in. The fire crackled comfortably. “Do you need to lie down, or—?”
Em sank down onto a bench. “In a minute. Aric can tell everyone what happened.”
Theo, evidently recovered from near-freezing, long black hair attractively disheveled, an arm around a pretty young woman Aric thought had been one of the cloth merchants, said from the front of the crowd, “What did happen? The storm stopped—Aric, you and your magician do storm-magic, right?”
“Em,” Aric said, a question. He got a kiss for asking, along with, “You can tell the story.”
So he squeezed Em’s hand—the uninjured one—and made sure Em had apples and bread and cheese and more of those berry pies, the first of which vanished so fast Aric wondered about inhuman swallowing capacity. And then he turned to face the assembled crowd, mud on his boots, sheathed sword at his back.
He explained, as briefly as he could. Guard towers, felling timbers, setting supports, breaking the seal on ancient rock-tombs. Phantoms of ages past, awoken. Sent on, now. Not a threat.
He tried to make that part sound straightforward, no detail, no tempting descriptions of power and magical gifts. The pebble stained with Em’s blood made a heavy weight in the pouch at his waist.
He told the crowd that Em had known a spell, a means to free trapped spirits, something they’d tried that’d worked. True, in a sense.
He told them that the pass was open now, and safe. The fire heated his back, too warm now through previously drenched layers of clothing.
Relief broke out, and some cheers, and some offers to buy drinks for the Storm-Wielder and the Shadow, or to pay for another six berry pies, since the first batch had disappeared. Em made a small apologetic face and offered Aric an apple.
Theo said, “There’s also stew, carrot and onion and lamb, I think,” and took somewhat officious charge of ensuring Em got a bowl. While handing it over, under the congratulatory din, he asked quietly, “Did you find Rilla…?” The ache of responsibility, of having lost a partner, had left another kind of scar in his deep puppy-brown eyes.
“We did,” Aric said, equally quiet, “I left markers, so someone can go back,” and Theo nodded.
Em had started looking more tired, nibbling at bread instead of devouring it. Aric said, “Upstairs?” and scooped him up. Em put his head on Aric’s shoulder.
Bodies got out of their way, as they went up. Aric heard the noise resume behind them: the clatter and clamor of rumor, shared stories, new tales being added to the ballads or songs or whatever it might be this time. He heard Theo saying, “Oh, we’re great friends, fought together at Ardeth, you know, I learned so much just watching him—well, no, I hadn’t met the Shadow, that all happened later, but hey, do you know the story about Aric and the three warrior women of Skyrl, it starts with a lucky emerald…”
“At least it’s a flattering story,” Aric muttered, and nudged the door shut with his boot, and set Emrys tenderly on the bed. Em laughed; Aric bent and tugged off both their boots, lit a candle or two, sat down and took Em’s hand. “Lots of stories, tonight.”
Chapter 8
The words were an invitation, or he wanted them to be. He played with Em’s fingers in his, avoiding the bandaged one. His own were larger, though not clumsy, and never with this. He watched Em’s face.
“Stories.” Em shrugged a shoulder, that familiar economical gesture. “Ghosts say what they say. They don’t know everything.”
“They knew about my parents. About yours.”
“I don’t have a good explanation,” Em said. “I’d never seen a ghost, remember.”
“Only unreal ones. How’d you know that would work? The circle.”
“I guessed. I can feel…some things. They might not have listened, and then we would’ve been in real trouble.”
“Everything they said, about you…you didn’t listen.”
“I know who I am.” Em pushed up both sleeves with his spare hand; Aric had helped shed both their layers of outerwear, protection, leather and wool. A hint of old silver-pink made a line of light along his inner arm, for a second. The room was warm, candle-honeyed, velvet-plush. “I know who I’ve been. They meant the warning, that last part, to help, I think.”
“That you’ll have to make a choice?”
“We already know that. It’s not anything new.”
“No,” Aric said, “I suppose not,” and bent to kiss Em’s hand, to touch his lips to slim graceful fingers. His hair got into his face when he sat back up. “And you know nothing they said before that was…I mean, you know I love you. The people you save wouldn’t be here without you. Everyone who’ll be safe, because of what you did, today.” He himself hadn’t even drawn his sword.
