did.
“I’ll make sure to be careful,” he replied in a normal voice and didn’t care if the others in the room listened. Kalen took another sip of the tea. It was hard to force himself to care. He was warm, dry, and mostly clean.
And he had his favorite drink, served hot, served fresh, and served just right. There was an entire pot of it, and Derac showed no signs of wanting any of it.
Kalen could almost forget about how every muscle in his body was trying to voice a complaint. He almost felt bad about the clothes; they would be stained with his blood from his injuries and likely ruined by dawn.
The clothes they’d given him were too large, but that didn’t surprise him much. Even the stable hands were taller than him. It was remarkable enough that they didn’t fall off his slim frame outright. His old garb wasn’t even fit for rags, and Kalen had readily agreed to have them burned, if only to keep the stench from polluting the inn.
“There aren’t any inns in the Rift,” he commented. The large room shared by all the guests wasn’t quite empty, but the other folk had taken seats on the far side of the room, including the rest of Derac’s companions and Garint.
“There isn’t? What about travelers?”
Kalen laughed. “Travelers visiting the Rift? The last time I saw a merchant brave the trails was three or four summers ago. He made it in. Didn’t make it out. Didn’t listen.”
“What happened to him?”
“Scoured,” he replied. “Didn’t even leave enough for the nibblers. We tried to warn him. Didn’t find us as hospitable as he’d like.”
“At the risk of sounding ignorant, dare I ask what being scoured is?”
“A funny thing, ignorance. You’re only ignorant if you don’t ask when you have a question. You won’t appreciate the dangers of a scouring until you’ve lived through one. If you live through it, that is. In short, the Danarites can’t seem to keep the sand in their desert where it belongs, so it comes falling down on us. Get caught out in a good blow and you’re scoured. Sand and wind can tear the flesh right off your bones if you aren’t careful.” Kalen poured himself another cup of tea and tried not to think too long on how many good people he’d seen die over the years from the scourings.
The Kelshites wouldn’t believe him if he told them of the serpents of wind that descended from black skies to devour anything in their path. He hadn’t, when he’d been warned of the phenomena. The Danarites’ sand didn’t belong in the Rift, and the Rift saw fit to return it where it belonged, uncaring of those in its way when it happened.
“No offense, but the Rift sounds like a place I’d rather not go.”
“You’re wise,” Kalen replied.
“I trust you understand our position,” Derac said, glancing over his shoulder at the cluster of men across the room who stared at them. “If anyone finds out that we did not provide escort for the Rift King and something were to happen to you while in Kelsh, it would cause quite the incident.”
“I’ll be direct. You have two Knights at that table over there. Why are you the one talking to me about this?” Kalen set down the tea cup and drummed his fingers against the table. Each tap hurt where he’d scraped the skin off within the well.
“How did you know Garint wasn’t the only Knight?”
Kalen let out a low snort and stared at Marist. The young man stared into his bowl of stew with rapt interest. “Who else could recognize my sigil for what it is? What do you call them here? Ah, commoners? I don’t think so. I suspect your King would be quite happy if the Rift didn’t exist. For some reason, I doubt he would permit one of his personal retainers to go running out in the woods so far from his throne. That leaves a young Knight. A young Knight, I might add, who is clever enough to know when to speak up and follow his instinct. I wonder if I could talk him into coming back to the Rift with me. I know a few
“I’ll make sure to be careful,” he replied in a normal voice and didn’t care if the others in the room listened. Kalen took another sip of the tea. It was hard to force himself to care. He was warm, dry, and mostly clean.
And he had his favorite drink, served hot, served fresh, and served just right. There was an entire pot of it, and Derac showed no signs of wanting any of it.
Kalen could almost forget about how every muscle in his body was trying to voice a complaint. He almost felt bad about the clothes; they would be stained with his blood from his injuries and likely ruined by dawn.
The clothes they’d given him were too large, but that didn’t surprise him much. Even the stable hands were taller than him. It was remarkable enough that they didn’t fall off his slim frame outright. His old garb wasn’t even fit for rags, and Kalen had readily agreed to have them burned, if only to keep the stench from polluting the inn.
“There aren’t any inns in the Rift,” he commented. The large room shared by all the guests wasn’t quite empty, but the other folk had taken seats on the far side of the room, including the rest of Derac’s companions and Garint.
“There isn’t? What about travelers?”
Kalen laughed. “Travelers visiting the Rift? The last time I saw a merchant brave the trails was three or four summers ago. He made it in. Didn’t make it out. Didn’t listen.”
“What happened to him?”
“Scoured,” he replied. “Didn’t even leave enough for the nibblers. We tried to warn him. Didn’t find us as hospitable as he’d like.”
“At the risk of sounding ignorant, dare I ask what being scoured is?”
“A funny thing, ignorance. You’re only ignorant if you don’t ask when you have a question. You won’t appreciate the dangers of a scouring until you’ve lived through one. If you live through it, that is. In short, the Danarites can’t seem to keep the sand in their desert where it belongs, so it comes falling down on us. Get caught out in a good blow and you’re scoured. Sand and wind can tear the flesh right off your bones if you aren’t careful.” Kalen poured himself another cup of tea and tried not to think too long on how many good people he’d seen die over the years from the scourings.
The Kelshites wouldn’t believe him if he told them of the serpents of wind that descended from black skies to devour anything in their path. He hadn’t, when he’d been warned of the phenomena. The Danarites’ sand didn’t belong in the Rift, and the Rift saw fit to return it where it belonged, uncaring of those in its way when it happened.
“No offense, but the Rift sounds like a place I’d rather not go.”
“You’re wise,” Kalen replied.
“I trust you understand our position,” Derac said, glancing over his shoulder at the cluster of men across the room who stared at them. “If anyone finds out that we did not provide escort for the Rift King and something were to happen to you while in Kelsh, it would cause quite the incident.”
“I’ll be direct. You have two Knights at that table over there. Why are you the one talking to me about this?” Kalen set down the tea cup and drummed his fingers against the table. Each tap hurt where he’d scraped the skin off within the well.
“How did you know Garint wasn’t the only Knight?”
Kalen let out a low snort and stared at Marist. The young man stared into his bowl of stew with rapt interest. “Who else could recognize my sigil for what it is? What do you call them here? Ah, commoners? I don’t think so. I suspect your King would be quite happy if the Rift didn’t exist. For some reason, I doubt he would permit one of his personal retainers to go running out in the woods so far from his throne. That leaves a young Knight. A young Knight, I might add, who is clever enough to know when to speak up and follow his instinct. I wonder if I could talk him into coming back to the Rift with me. I know a few
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