Partisan - Book II

Very Old Friends

Even at dusk the hulking shadows of Solveigard City feel familiar. Allayria looks up as they approach, pulling the thick hood lower across her face.

She can hear the solid crunch of two pairs of boots beside her, and when she glances around she sees Finn's wide eyes looking up at the dusty, gloomy city. She wonders how many places he's been like this. Somehow, she can't picture him in a place of brick and cobblestone.

"We need to keep it quiet—what you can do," she had told him in a stolen moment of isolation, watching as his brow crinkled. "Only use it if you absolutely must. Don't tell anyone. Not even the others."

She could hear his unasked question but he hadn't pushed it, only nodding as he turned away. She wonders if he understands how differently people would treat him if they knew; the price he would have to pay for being honest.

The boy in question scratches his nose. His hood is inside out.

Doubt it.

To her other side, Hiran holds up a mask, frowning at it as he turns the cloth this way and that, looking for the opening.

"Why am I wearing this again?"

Allayria glances over and raises an eyebrow.

"We're trying to blend in, Hiran."

She moves forward, checking for the vague outline of watchmen, guards, but catches him saying to Finn: "Did you hear that? The Paragon called me extraordinarily handsome."

"That's not what she said."

"Well, neither of you have to wear masks, do you?"

They slip through the gate as a trio of low travelers, dirty and sly enough to look like some less-than-virtuous inhabitants returning from Gods-know-what.

Inside, nothing has changed. This should be comforting, should be reassuring when so much of the world has altered beyond recognition for her, but it is not. It feels too familiar in here, too old and untouched and it sets her teeth on edge, this place of careful scheming and quiet triumphs. The shades of memories lurk here, walking through the streets around her and she doesn't want to look at them, doesn't want to remember their happiness, now soured in present light.

They pass the small shipping dock and it whispers at her:

"I could have really hurt you, if things had gone differently."

He had been angry and afraid, the root of his fear left unsaid between them as they walked away from Keno's test.

You would have saved yourself a lot of time and effort if you had killed me then, she thinks, her mouth tasting of bitterness as she sets her back to the scene. Though it wouldn't have been the way you wanted, would it? It wouldn't have destroyed me completely. 

She takes a route to the bar that bypasses the narrow, winding path she knows leads down to the Open Arms, and as they pass the flickering lights of seedy establishments a myriad of colors and glow casts light on things that weren't here before. Symbols painted on the walls, tucked into corners. A triangle, set below a pair of antlers, a coiling swirl in its center and three swipes on either bottom corner. It's like lead hangs heavy in her stomach when she looks at it.

It's a relief to slip under the low underhang into the Hanged Man, to feel the grimy stick of the heavy door and slide into the smoke and dust. She leans against the bar, tapping one of the empty bottles with a fingernail.

"I'm looking for Keno," she says from under her hood.

The bartender doesn't even look up.

"No idea who you are talking about."