Pursued - Entire book

Chapter 39

Klair waited until late evening, before coming out into the open.

He limped into the crowded tavern. The sign, The Hovel hung loosely from a broken chain. It was the last one still open His stomach growled. The torches in the room were burning low, but the voices and laughter were fully animated.

Unfortunately, when he fled Kerrida's betrayal, he abandoned all the gifts from the people of Koova. Now those gifts were suspect. Did the woodsmen give them in genuine appreciation, or hoped to avoid a wizard's wrath when provoked? Klair frowned. Would he spend the rest of his life questioning the motivations of everyone around him? Hand in pocket; he juggled the few coins there. They wouldn't last long. He would be expected to pay for a meal.

Where could he sit? His foot erupted in pain every time he stepped. Though bruised, it had not bled as much as he had thought.

He stood at the door of the tavern uncertain. He was not the only youth out in the night. Several tables were occupied by men and others by families. Two other older lads sat at different tables with some of the men. Spring was the time of year for unapprenticed lads to make their way into the world and taverns were a popular place to find potential mentors. One lad sat, glowing under the attention of a group of men. His black hair depicted him as a Seedling wannabe. Strangely Klair knew he was a fake. But the men at the table seemed impressed by his stories. His deception was gaining his reward, the attention he sought and what Klair wanted to avoid.

A plump woman stepped up and nudged him, "I'll find you a spot.'

One table stood alone next to the fire with one man. The table was filled to bursting with food.

The matron of the tavern rested fists on wide hips. "Give up MeTherion, she's not coming. You'll be getting a regular night's sleep tonight."

Men from a neighboring table laughed.

"Make room for this lad, he's hungry."

'MeTherion snorted. "I'm no Lacer, woman!"

He doesn't want me here.

Taunts from the neighboring table accompanied suggestive gestures.

Klair's face burned at the innuendos. Yeah he knew what a lacer was and he wasn't—

The matron seeing his response, "Neither is he, you're safe, MeTherion."

There was more rigorous laughter.

The large man looked over at the men and smirked, good-naturedly. "I don't need a pup of a boy annoying me," he persisted though not as defiant as before.

Maybe I can just buy some bread and—

The matron led Klair forward. "Be a gentleman. If she happens to come late, boot him."

The mirth of the neighboring table lowered to snickers.

"Sand it, boy. Sit down then."

Klair hesitated. MeTherion was one of the larger men in the room. The aromas of the meal spread across the table beckoned like an offering.

"So much for an active night," he said in a resigned tone. With another wave of the hand, he indicated one of the few empty chairs opposite him. No one else in the room offered accommodation.

Klair's potential host grinned as Klair warily approached.

"I doubt the other taverns will be any better." The man spoke with a dialect from one of the Northern Provinces, and Klair relaxed a little, limping over to the table. Behind the chair opposite, he again hesitated, using the chair to keep him upright. The stranger glanced briefly at the leg Klair favored. "You look hurt," he said with a brief flicker of concern. "Lose a battle with one of your cattle?" He grinned at his own joke. With a booted foot positioned beneath the table the man nudged Klair's chair out from under the table.