"At this point I'd pay ten qinde for a dry room," Cresenne said, looking miserable and pale as she sat huddled on her mount, a grey woolen blanket wrapped around her shoulders and covering her head. Bryntelle fussed within her blankets, as if agreeing with her mother.
Grinsa felt much the same way. They rode on, reaching the town an hour or so after nightfall. It was located on the western bank of the wash, but just north of the village a narrow stone bridge spanned the water.
They crossed the bridge and made their way through the deserted lanes and marketplace of the village, looking for an inn. It was a far smaller settlement than Greysford, and Grinsa began to wonder if a town of this size would even have an inn. But near the southern end of the village, along a lane that led back onto the plain, they found a small tavern that seemed to have rooms for lease. A weathered sign hanging out front read THE THISTLE PATCH.
They tied the horses outside and stepped into the tavern. It was warm inside, and the air smelled of musty wine and some kind of spiced stew that made Grinsa's mouth water. A fire blazed in a large hearth near the back of the room. About half the tables in the tavern were taken, and several men stood at the bar, drinking ale and laughing loudly. The barkeep was in the middle of filling a cup, a smile on his round face, when he saw Grinsa and Cresenne standing near the door. Immediately, his expression hardened. Others noticed this and turned to look. Conversations stopped; silence spread through the tavern, until the only sounds were the drip of the rain and the high squeak of the sign swaying in the wind outside the door.
"You lost?" the barkeep finally demanded, his voice like stone grating on iron. He had red hair, a thick beard, and dark eyes that shone with the light of the oil lamps.
Grinsa met and held his gaze. "No. We'd like a room for the night, and some of that stew, if there's any left." He pulled out his money pouch and jangled it. "We have gold."
"We're full up," the man said. "An' the stew's gone."
"You're certain?" Grinsa said. He nodded toward Bryntelle, who clung to Cresenne, her large, pale eyes scanning the room. "It's not a night for a child to be sleeping out on the plain."
The man's mouth twitched. One of the others standing at the bar caught his eye and gave a small shake of his head. The barkeep shifted his ample weight to his other foot, his mouth twitching a second time.
"We're full up," he said again.
Grinsa held his gaze a moment longer before glancing around the tavern. All conversations had stopped and all the patrons were watching them, many of them looking fearful, as if they expected the Qirsi to tear the tavern to its foundations with their magic.
But after a moment, he merely shook his head and said to Cresenne, "Come on. Let's get out of here."
She continued to stare at the barkeep until at last he averted his eyes. "You should be ashamed of yourselves," she said. "Putting a family out on such a night, simply because of the color of their eyes."
"We didn' tell you t' leave your clan, missy," said the man sitting at the bar. "It's not our fault."
"We're not from a clan," she told him. "We're new to your land. And this is a fine way to treat strangers."
With that, they left the tavern. They untied the horses and began to lead them out of the village. At least they had managed to cross the river. The night wasn't a total loss.
Before they had gotten far, they heard shouts coming from behind them, and turning they saw the barkeep hurrying after them.
"Wait!" he was calling. "Wait!" When at last he caught up with them, he was breathless. His soaked hair clung to his brow and water ran down his face. "I can rent you a room," he said. "I thought you was clan Qirsi. I didn' know you was from another land. Th' Forelands is it? I've always wanted t' see th' Forelands."
He looked at one of them and then the other, making himself smile. "So, you'll rent a room to Qirsi from the Forelands, but not from your own land?" Cresenne demanded.
He rubbed the rain from his face, looking confused.
She looked back at Grinsa and gave a shake of her head. "No," she said. Then, facing the barkeep she said it more forcefully. "No. I won't give you gold. I don't care how cold and wet it is. I don't want my daughter sleeping even one night under your roof."
The man stared at them. "You're fools."
"And you're small-minded."
She turned and started leading her mount away, leaving Grinsa alone with the man.
"You can all rot for all I care," the barkeep said. "She's right. All you white-hairs are the same."
"Maybe," Grinsa said. "Fortunately I know plenty of Eandi who are nothing like you."
He followed Cresenne out onto the plain. After a time she stopped to fix Bryntelle's blankets and Grinsa caught up with her. She was crying.
"I'm sorry," she said, without looking at him. "We should have just taken the room and gotten ourselves warm. But I couldn't do it. I just couldn't."
"It's all right." He kissed her cheek, then took Bryntelle from her. "I didn't want to give him our gold either, but I wouldn't have had the courage to refuse him if you didn't."
A small smile touched her lips. "Is that a polite way of saying it's my fault that we're getting soaked?"
"Yes, I suppose it is."
She climbed onto her horse and Grinsa handed Bryntelle up to her. Then he mounted as well, and they steered their horses away from the river.
They hadn't gone far before they spotted a fire burning in the middle of the plain. After a brief discussion they decided to ride toward it rather than around it. The blaze looked inviting, and given Grinsa's formidable powers, they knew that they wouldn't be in too much danger.
What they found as they drew near to the fire both surprised and delighted them. There must have been a dozen men and women gathered in the darkness, all of them Qirsi, all of them peddlers it seemed. Arrayed around them were carts and wagons filled with all sorts of goods. Several broad tarpaulins had been raised around the perimeter of the fire, so that every person was protected from the rain. One man had a lute in his lap and was strumming it softly, singing a song Grinsa didn't recognize. A few of the others were singing along. Others were listening. And still others were ignoring the music, carrying on conversations of their own. But all of them looked happy and warm.
Not wishing to unnerve them with their arrival, Grinsa called out and, raising a hand above his head, summoned a small flame so that the men and women could see them and know them for Qirsi.
"Come on, then," one of the men called. "Into the light with you. Let us see who's come."
They rode to the edge of their circle, dismounted, and walked into the firelight.
Grinsa started to say something, but the man cut him off.
"Not a word!" he said. "I don't want to hear your accent. I can tell your clan just from the look of you." The stranger was tall and thin, with long limbs that gave him the look of a child's puppet. His white hair was cut short, and he had a pale, wispy beard that made his face look even longer than it was. His face was lined, and Grinsa had the sense that he was old for a Qirsi, though his bright yellow eyes were clear and his smile revealed straight, strong teeth.
"Give up already, R'Shev," a woman shouted at him, laughing. "You haven't gotten one right in two turns."
The man spun toward her, looking aggrieved. "That's not true." He pointed at a woman with long white hair and intricate markings around her eye that were similar to those Grinsa and Cresenne had seen on the peddler in Greysford. "I knew G'Trayna here was J'Balanar the moment I saw her."
Everyone laughed uproariously, and the man turned back to them, narrowing his eyes as he looked first at Grinsa and then at Cresenne.
"Difficult," he said. "Very difficult. Your clothing is odd. The mounts could be those of the Fal'Borna, but your skin is too pale." He stared at them a moment longer before nodding once. "You're H'Bel, aren't you?"