Paragon - Book I

Britbaer

It's when they reach the little town of Britbaer that Allayria truly begins to truly panic. They are a three day's ride out from Thalassa and are on course to reach it before the week is up. Time is crumbling through her fingers and the tighter she tries to grasp it, the more quickly it falls away.

She knows this place—when she was seven she rode up with her parents to a large summerhouse owned by a squawking, rambling woman decked in lace and frills. The great dame had reached down and pinched Allayria's cheek between two stubby fingers, shaking the skin for good measure before pronouncing her "an angel."

Quite certain that if the lady could see her now she would not be called an "angel," Allayria feels exposed, like a march hare in the quiet stillness of the grass, waiting for a twig to snap, waiting for the silence to break. She's gone off food and Meg has noticed. She keeps pushing rolls onto Allayria's plate, and Iaves purchases another wedge of cheese they didn't need.

They're staying at a run-down, grungy inn that serves porridge and slop, and in the middle of their unappetizing dinner Ben places a hand at the nape of her neck, leaning in close to her ear.

"Are you alright?" he asks in a low tone. "You look like you could faint. Is there anything I can do?"

Allayria swallows.

"Its fine," she murmurs back, and then her eyes flicker up to his frowning face. He runs his thumb down the ridge of her spine, ignoring the fact that Meg and Iaves are right there, and the sensation is somehow soothing.

"I just don't like being back here," she admits after a moment, shying away from his gaze. "But we've got to go through Thalassa. It will be fine. I'll be okay."

Comprehension sparks in Ben's eyes and he shifts, swinging a leg out so that he straddles the bench, facing her fully. He leans in.

"They'll be looking for a cultured, noble girl who doesn't know her way around a country inn, much less a knife," he reminds her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "If they're even looking anymore they're looking for someone helpless, someone alone. You've got us."

She smiles at that, turning the rusty fork between her fingers.

"This is no different than any of the other places you have traveled through," he reminds her, and then he touches the sides of her wrist, tracing small swirls across her tendons. "You know how to walk, what to wear to go unnoticed—just think about what you need to make yourself invisible."

How is it he knows what touch will bring her comfort, what words will give her reassurance? It's strange, this sensation of softening toward another human being. It seems all at once parts of her swell and others melt and all she feels is this pure, unwavering affection, undisturbed by the anxieties and dangers around her. She studies his face and wonders if there will ever be a time when she will be the one comforting him, and if she will measure up.

He's right though, and Allayria spends the rest of the meal pondering what will hide her in plain sight. In the morning, she purchases a small bottle at the apothecary and when they stop for lunch just off the winding, dusty road, she washes her hair in the nearby stream, rinsing it first in the clear water, then pulling the dye through it so that the wavy tresses straighten and the soft brown hues are stripped away, leaving only her flat black undertones. She cuts it just at her shoulders, watching as the strands split apart and fray.

Iaves glances up when she returns to the campsite and, brow quirking, waves a hand in her general direction.

"You did somethin'," he says between mouthfuls. "Somethin' with your hair."

"How astute," Allayria responds as Ben, handing her a cup of soup, lightly brushes a lock of it.

"Subtle and effective," he says.