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“Is this Terrsaw?” she asks.

Ryon shifts his weight upon the cot. “Yes, and no. This is what you’d call the outskirts. There is a castle town – people here call it the Mecca. It is several hours from here by foot. This inn was once the midpoint between the Fallen Village and the Mecca. You met its owner last night, though you were part dead. His name is Salem. This inn is his kin’s.”

Dawsyn studies Ryon, the way the words shape themselves into things of affection. “It sounds as if he courts your friendship.”

“I court his. He shelters me when I need it.”

“And does he know what you are?” she asks abruptly, not bothering to hide her distaste.

Ryon’s grin wanes. For the first time, he looks… tired. “He knows… as do some others. But the rest do not. It needs to stay that way.”

“The rest?” Dawsyn’s eyebrows rise.

“Patrons who come and go. They wouldn’t take too kindly to me if they knew I was part-Glacian. They believe me to be a woodsman, travelling to and from the Mecca. And I need to ask you to uphold that lie.”

“No need. We part ways here, remember?”

He grins in earnest now. “That so? Well, off you go, girl.”

“I’ll go when I am ready.”

“Be sure to pay the innkeeper on your way out.”

Dawsyn is brought up short. Her eyes narrow. “Pay him with what?”

Ryon’s smirk fades. “With money, obviously.”

She remains ingenuous, her pallor darkening. “I do not know what that is, but I will not pay with my body. I can cut wood, but that is all I will do.”

Ryon looks to the wall before he replies, his jaw tight. Dawsyn cannot decide if he fights a smile, a grimace or a curse. “No, that is not how the people of Terrsaw pay. They use small coins – pieces of silver and pewter.” He digs in his pocket then and holds some out to her. On his palm are tiny disks of silver and bronze, each etched and grooved with different shapes. “Money,” he says.

She looks at the glinting metal, curiosity hidden beneath impassiveness. “My body would fetch far more than any amount of these.”

A snort escapes him. “I’d wager it.”

His eyes rise to hers and they hold. In them, Dawsyn sees his thoughts churning, sees the turn they take. She has seen that look many times before, roiling in the eyes of men whose thoughts become illicit. Normally, she would stop to muse on how pathetically helpless men are to their own yearning. But his hands do not grab for her, his eyes do not stick to her chest, his lips do not twist into the curve of a predator. They stay with her, go through her. She notes her heart quickening, her blood heating and wonders if she’s ever seen a man’s eyes so perfectly set in such a face.

“Stop that,” she says brashly.

His lip quirks. “Stop what?”

“Just… stop.”

Ryon’s eyes drop, but he holds out his hand and places the coins in hers, his fingers brushing against her palm. “Take them. Pay Salem for your room when you are rested. Go where you will.” He rises, making for the door, but stops before closing it behind him. “A mage will be here tomorrow. If you are willing to wait, she can heal you before you leave.”

“Amage? Like a witch?”

He nods. “Only do not call her witch, whatever you do. She is… temperamental. The two of you will be in good company.”

She hurls the spoon at him and it hits the door as he swiftly pulls it shut.

“Bastard,” she mutters.

CHAPTERNINETEEN

His elbows find the edge of the small bar. A long-suffering sigh leaves him and he scrubs his face. There is no one in the kitchen or in the cluttered dining room – if it could be called that. The chipped and sagging wooden floor is in desperate need of repair. The windows, caked in grime, only allow small leaks of morning light through. The tables of irregular shapes and sizes lean where they stand. It is early. The only guests staying at the inn are himself and Dawsyn, and she is yet to rise.

She is still here. When he woke, he could not resist pressing an ear to her door, listening for signs that she had not made away yet. That he cares at all is telling. He does not deny it.