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Kalcedon pulled his filthy cloak as tight around him as he could, chin bowed down to hide his face. The harbor-master carried a scale and was able to exchange Oraik’s gold rings. She took a fee to watch the boat and handed him three whole argor of change. From her abrupt treatment of him, his bloody clothes were making her uncomfortable. I didn’t think she’d even noticed Kalcedon.

“Look at that,” I said, pointing to a brightly roofed cart in the harbor square. Masks and capes hung from its top. “It looks like they sell some here.”

“But we’re still going, right?” Oraik said nervously as Kalcedon turned on his heel and strode rapidly towards the cart. “To the corridor? These ones are just harbor souvenirs.”

“We’re not here to sightsee,” Kalcedon said as we reached the cart. He was already drawing stares. The mask-man at the cart gulped and flinched at Kalcedon’s appearance. “This one. How much?” He’d grabbed a hooded mask, a red wooden face surrounded by a brown cowl that would cover his neck.

“That one? Five… it’s five argit,” the man stammered, staring wide-eyed. Kalcedon jammed it over his head as Oraik browsed for himself, at last emerging with a blue button-down cape and half-mask that seemed to laugh even though it only covered the top of his face.

“And these?” Oraik asked. “Can we get it all for six?”

“It’s nine, for all that.”

“Would you take seven?” Oraik flashed a too-wide grin. His bloody shirt still hung off him, revealing the shiny new scar on his chest. The seller hesitated, then looked at Kalcedon, whose arms were crossed. The red mask wore a placid expression, but the color made it angry, and the man had clearly not forgotten the fae blood beneath. The seller gulped, nodded, and made change from Oraik’s argor.

“Did you want one, Meda?” the prince asked as he tied the mask over his eyes. I shook my head quickly with a smile. He swept the cape over his shoulders and fastened it closed down over the worst of his clothing’s damage.

“Food,” Kalcedon growled.

“Let’s get away from the harbor. I want to try somewhere with real Temorian food,” Oraik said.

Kalcedon turned and started to walk up the street. Together we trudged into the city. Oraik dragged us over the first bridge, and we paused in the middle to take in the view.

I had to admit it was a lovely sight, if terrifying. The base of the gorge lay far below us. Waves from the sea crashed through and sloshed up the gray stone walls. The city tumbled away to either side.

If I wasn’t still afraid for my life, I might have been charmed by Koraica. We finished crossing the bridge, then began to wander the narrow streets of the city’s eastern isle.

“We’re wasting time,” Kalcedon complained, when Oraik completely ignored the half-faerie’s first attempt to stop at a food cart.

“Keep your eyes awake for staircases going down into the earth,” Oraik said cheerfully, arms pumping as he walked. “Oh, I wish I had a map. Keep your eyes awake, also, for shops selling maps.”

Annoying overgrown idiot, I could have sworn I heard Kalcedon mutter.

Without asking either of us, Kalcedon swerved and approached a bright blue door with a picture of a bed and cup painted above it. Beside the door was a squat little tree in a ceramic basin, a cheerful swatch of green in the stone city. Kalcedon pushed the door open. We followed.

“An inn? Wouldn’t a traditional eating-house be better?” Oraik asked.

“No privacy,” Kalcedon countered sharply.

The door opened on a narrow hallway with a woven blue rug, a single small table, and a staircase leading up. A bell sat on the table. Kalcedon’s red mask craned around, and I wondered if it was hard for him to see out the eye slits. But he picked up the bell and rang it, then quickly jammed his gray hands back into his trouser pockets.

“Coming!” A voice called from up the stairs. A moment later I heard clattering footsteps. A plump, dark skinned woman in a bright caftan descended and smiled widely. In any other city or town, I thought, masked strangers entering one's business might be a cause for concern. In Koraica, it must have been normal, because all she said was: “Welcome. Here to sup, or spend the night?”

“Do you have a private eating-room?” Kalcedon ground out. “We’re very hungry.”

She did. We were led to the back of the house and seated at a small round table with a window overlooking an herb garden. I gulped water greedily while Oraik sipped herbal tea. Kalcedon sat, folded his arms (each hand tucked tight away beneath his cloak), and didn’t move. We'd run out of water soon after waking, so he must have been thirsty. Our hostess put a plate of warm brown flatbreads and a pot of sun honey on the table, then bustled back out of the room.

“Charming enough,” Oraik said approvingly. We both started eating the bread. Kalcedon stayed statue-still. I had the eerie feeling the mask was watching me.

“You should eat,” I told him as I drizzled a strand of honey on mine. My mouth was salivating.

“I will,” he said stiffly. He must have been as hungry as either of us. I felt guilty starting while he had to stay masked. But Oraik was eating without hesitation, and I thought my stomach might turn inside out if I didn’t start too.

It felt like an age before the woman and her servant were back, with olive-baked fish, emmer biscuits, broad beans in oil, and a fennel salad.

Kalcedon waited until the door to the room was closed. He pushed his mask up on his head so it could quickly be pulled down if needed; the edge of the cowl flopped over his eyes.

And then he proceeded to eat more food, and to eat it faster, than I had ever before seen him do.