Part 1
Carana.
He stood on the riverbank in the early morning mist and looked at the town spread out before him. At most, it was a squalid little town that sprawled on the westernmost point of the river that he’d followed south. Past Carana, the river curved eastward towards a distant mountain range and, beyond that, the sea.
The place was situated on the strange borderland between the cultivated eastlands of this part of the continent and the dry, desert wastes that stretched from the river’s western bank all the way to the Western sea. The Great Desert of the West was a sprawling, empty place, much like its counterpart, the Desert of Destruction, on the eastern spur of the large land mass that stretched across this little world.
The stranger’s lip curled as he thought of the Desert of Destruction and the one who had ruled it. The little bastard had put him through plenty of grief and pain, and now he found himself on the run from more of his old cohorts. Having family really sucked, sometimes. They held the biggest grudges—especially if they were Mazoku.
Shrugging, the tall man once again resumed his survey of the town he’d come to. It looked to be a quiet enough little place, out of the way and of no importance to anyone except its own residents. The squalor was that of humankind and not the dark, hopeless misery so often seen in places infested with Mazoku. Which is exactly what he wanted.
Pulling the collar of his shirt up against the chill wind that blew in off the river, he started along the road that would lead him to his new home. Home for however long that may be, he didn’t know. Just as long as he remained undiscovered.
A good place to hide.
He circled around the city to come in the eastern gate, avoiding the northern gate. As he'd approached, the strengthening light had revealed the northern gate to be more heavily guarded and what he could glimpse beyond the great gates showed him posh neighborhoods. Everyone entering or leaving the city here was closely scrutinized and he preferred not to be scrutinized at all. So he'd followed the road across the river. The city wall enclosed only a narrow portion of the eastern bank because land sloped steeply upwards to become a rocky bluff. The road hugged the base of the wall, running in the artificial valley formed by the bluff and the wall.
All this he noted in passing and out of boredom, really. Carana wasn’t really much different from most of the other towns he’d passed through in the years since he left Gehn in such a hurry. He’d stopped bothering to consciously remember their names; though if necessary, he could recite every step of his journey. If he cared to. Which he did not.
So he entered Carana by the eastern gate and made his way over the river a second time. The river was wider here, but not as wide as it got just a bit further south where the main docks were. He took a moment to stop and look north: Just off the shore north of the bridge, there was a small bit of land that jutted out from the east bank. It was mostly a sandbar but a small grove of trees grew along it. To the south was another long sandbar and the docks and another bridge. Further than that, he couldn’t see.
On the western bank again, he found himself in a bustling market area. The crowds were thick here: Pedestrians, horses, camels, wagons…He was shoved and jostled several times before a low, menacing growl finally convinced those around him that he deserved his space. That and his intimidating size and the huge sword hilt that rode about his shoulder.
Here the roads split: The road he was on kept running westward and out of the city. It was crossed by what he guessed was the road he’d been on, running north and south, bending along and running parallel to the river further to the south. Looking along the waterfront, he considered his option. There were usually taverns along waterfronts; taverns of the type that he liked to frequent. Places where no one asked questions like “where are you from?” and “where are you going?” and more importantly, “what’s your name?” and were usually able to point someone who wanted to keep from answering those questions to other places where they didn’t ask questions. He needed a place to stay; someplace comfortable but not too fancy. Not that he couldn’t afford the best quarters in the city; he’d long ago learned that he could use just a little bit of his power to create any amount of money that he needed (or rather draw it to him when he needed it), but people who spent money indiscriminately were noticed and remembered. Besides, his tastes were rather spartan; he needed no physical comforts other than a secure place to rest when he needed it and a place to get food. His human body had needs that he had to provide for.
Deciding it was as good a direction as any, he turned left onto the road that ran along the riverfront to continue his journey south.
The first time he saw her, she was running down the street towards him.
Which was odd, to say the least.
Because he was new to this city, having just arrived, and didn’t know anyone.
Let alone a small, red-haired woman.
The second time he saw her, he was lying on his back in the middle of that street with her on his chest and her green eyes flashing angrily at him.
“Gods dammit! Why don’t you watch where you’re walking, you great lout!” she shouted as she scrambled up, inadvertently digging first her knee into his breastbone and then the toe of her slipper into his crotch. Before he knew what was happening, she’d disappeared into the crowd.
Grimacing against the pain, he pushed himself up, flinging his hair back over his shoulder and straightening his coat. “Damn woman,” he muttered just before one of the City Guard crashed into him. “Gods dammit!” he yelled, repeating the woman’s curse as he whirled around to face his assailant. “Some welcome this is,” he thundered, causing those around him to draw back because of his sheer size and commanding presence. “Barely get to town and get run over. TWICE!”
“Er, sorry, sir,” the Guard said, pressing backwards into the company of his fellows that were following him. “Uh…” he continued nervously. “The woman. With the red hair. Did you see where she went?”
He rolled his eyes and jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the alley. “That way.” As they hurried by (but giving him a wide berth), he called irritably after them. “I hope you catch the bitch!” Shrugging the huge sword strapped to his back into a more comfortable position, he continued his search for an inn.
It was mid-afternoon before he found an inn. He’d visited several taverns along the waterfront and had asked the owners where he could find decent accommodations. All had directed him to this place. Looking at the name, he had to laugh: The Red Dragon. How very appropriate. It wasn’t the best in the town, nor was it the worst. He didn’t particularly care about luxury, but he didn’t want to share his bed with anything involving more than two legs, either. But this one was neat and clean. The room he was directed to was furnished simply with serviceable trappings: A table and chair, a clothes press, a cabinet for personal belongings, a water pitcher and basin, and a pallet stuffed with straw and covered with a double layer of ticking to keep the ends from poking through. Unfortunately, there was one problem: It was too short to accommodate his extraordinary height. He tossed the girl that had led him up here an extra couple coins. “Get me another pallet,” he said. She curtsied and hurried off to comply.
He opened the cabinet and inspected it. Nodding, he shrugged off the pack he carried and stowed it inside without opening it, closed the cabinet door, then laid his hand on the door. A slight surge of power caused a strange sort of sigil to appear on the rough wood: A series of circles and lines that formed a type of seal. After a moment, it faded away.
Nodding to himself, he removed his sword and hung it up on a peg on the wall, then used the tepid water in the basin to wash his face and hands. He smiled and finally let himself relax. He was getting tired of wandering, always having to stay one step ahead of those that might recognize him, might guess who and what he was. He’d wanted to stay in Gehn, to be close to Valteria and the Gold that was raising him, but it had become too dangerous. He’d only managed to keep from being discovered by his sister’s Priest by a stroke of extremely good luck. He was tired of that hunted feeling he’d lived with for a thousand years.
Sighing, he wiped his face and hands just as there was a knock on the door. He opened it; it was the stablehand with his extra pallet. “You wanted this, guv’nor?” the young man said.
“Yeah. Put it down there,” he ordered, stepping back and holding open the door.
“Yes sir.” The stablehand dragged it in and did as he was told. As he was leaving, the tall man stopped him.
“Is there a place with good food around here?”
“Yes sir, guv’nor. The tavern across the way has the best food in all of Carana. And the best entertainment, too.” He grinned at the taller man.
“I’m not interested in entertainment,” he said as he tossed a coin to the stablehand. “I just want good food and a place to eat it. “
The other man shook his head. “You may want ta reconsider that, but you’ll find the food there more’n satisfactory. Better go early so you be sure ta get the best.” He grinned, held up the coin, nodded his thanks, and was gone.
Closing the door behind the other man, Gaav turned and leaned against it heavily. Suddenly he was extremely tired. He’d been up early that morning in order to get to the town soon after sunrise and had pushed himself that last few miles. He sighed. It wasn’t easy being human; there were times he missed being able to teleport from here to there in a blink of an eye. He still had a lot of his power, but power always attracted what Mazoku happened to be in the area. And he had to avoid that at all costs. So he lived as a human, using his power only to do such things as lighting fires, defending himself or the sealing spell he’d used on the cabinet. Small things that wouldn’t attract much attention.
Leaning against the door, he eyed the pallet and pondered whether to lay down and sleep or go get something to eat. Finally hunger won out over fatigue. So, grabbing up his sword, he exited his room, sealed it with the same spell he used on the cabinet, then made his way downstairs, through the common room and out into the street.
The inn was already attracting a good-sized crowd, but he didn’t really care. Fortunately, his size (as well as the size of his sword) was a deterrent to others bothering him, and he used that to his advantage. He ducked under the low lintel and entered the inn, let his eyes adjust to the darkness for a moment before heading over to a table near the wall that was as yet unoccupied. Laying his sword across the table, he sat down and looked around. Like the inn, it was neat and clean. Good. If the food was good, he’d be spending a lot of time here and he liked things orderly. His mouth twisted into a half-smirk. Surprising that the Dragon of Chaos would prefer order to chaos.
He sat, positioning himself with his back to the wall, as a serving girl approached him. She had a tankard in her hand that she set on the table in front of him. “Is there anything else you’d like? Food? We’ve got roast beef on the menu tonight.”
He nodded as he picked up the tankard. “That’ll be good,” he said as he peered into it. Inside was a rich, foamy liquid so dark he couldn’t see the bottom of the tankard. Smiling, he took a sip. Savoring the rich, yeasty flavor, he nodded. This was real beer, not the donkey piss they tried to pass off as beer in some parts of the country.
The girl returned after just a few minutes with a good sized haunch of meat, a bowl of boiled potatoes, half a loaf of bread and a small bowl containing butter. “Nice,” he said as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a few coins to pay the girl. He drained the tankard and handed that to her, too. “Bring me more of this,” he said as he picked up the knife and started slicing up the meat and bread.
“Yes sir,” she said and went off to get him more beer.
He ate his meal in silence, not really paying any attention to the people coming and going. There were more of the former than the latter and soon the tavern’s main room was close to overflowing. A couple of times a group of men approached his table like they were going to join him, but a glare quickly changed their minds.
As he was mopping up the last of the juices from the meat with his bread when he heard a familiar voice. “You!”
He looked up and into brilliant green eyes in a face framed by scarlet hair. “So they didn’t catch you.” He stuffed the last of the bread into his mouth. “Too bad,” he said around the bread.
Her eyes narrowed at him. “Bastard. They weren’t chasing me! They were chasing the other bastard that assaulted me. Thanks to you, he got away.”
“Lucky him,” he muttered, giving her a nasty grin. “What did he do? Cop a feel?” He laughed at her outraged expression.
“You pig,” she growled as her fingers clenched and unclenched at her side. He could tell she was itching to slap him. She even raised her hand to do so.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warned. His voice had gone deep and menacing and all trace of humor was gone.
She clenched her fingers into claws but she eventually lowered her hand. “Go to hell,” she said before turning on her heel and stalking off through the kitchen entrance.
“Been there,” he said softly as he raised his tankard and looked into it. “Nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.” He drained the last of the yeasty liquid before rising to leave.
“You’re not going to leave now, are you?” the serving girl that had brought him his food asked as she stepped between the crowded tables to refill his tankard from a pitcher she carried. “It’s almost time for Zaira to perform.”
“Zaira?” he asked, sitting down again. He wasn’t going to let good beer go to waste.
The girl smiled. “She’s our star attraction. I think you’ll like her. Why don’t you stay?” She gave him a wink and moved away.
He shrugged. He at least had to finish his beer. It couldn’t hurt anything, could it? So he settled back to wait for this Zaira to show up.
He didn’t have to wait long.
There was a curtained opening near the entrance to the kitchen. Presently, three musicians stepped from behind the curtain and sat down close by. The crowd cheered and stomped their feet or banged their tankards on the table as they appeared and started chanting, “Zaira!” over and over.
After just a few moments of this, the musicians started playing. The tune was strange and alien sounding to Gaav’s ears; the beat and melody were something primal and reached in deep to pull at something very human inside of him. Something he hadn’t been aware of until the music awakened it. He wasn’t sure he was comfortable with it or not, but didn’t have time to ponder that as the “main attraction” appeared through the curtained opening. Gaav swore under his breath as the red-haired terror from earlier sidled through and began to undulate through the crowd. There were whistles of appreciation as she moved her body in time with the music and in the most interesting ways. Her long red hair formed a fiery halo around her as she moved, making her movements seem even more fluid and unnaturally graceful. Her costume also drew a great deal of admiration as it consisted mainly of a skimpy top covering her breasts and long skirts that rode low on her hips, leaving a great deal of pale skin left bare.
Gaav noticed all this only in passing. When he had seen enough (which only took about five seconds), he grabbed up his sword and got to his feet, noisily shoving the bench back against the wall. The dancer’s emerald eyes met his steel blue ones and though her smile never slipped, he didn’t need to be Mazoku to feel the waves of hatred radiating from her. He flashed her a grin that had “cocky bastard” written all over it, gave her a mocking salute, then stalked out of the tavern to head back to the inn to get some sleep.
For the next few days, Gaav explored the city, familiarizing himself with the surroundings, exploring the limits of his new territory. It wasn’t large enough to be a threat to anyone, nor did it have much strategic importance. Situated on a minor waterway some hundred leagues inland, it wasn’t an important port of call anywhere. Basically, it was a boring little city that managed to eek out a meager living on the edge of a great desert. It was warm and the weather pleasant since they were on the waterway. But other than that, it had little else going for it. The ideal spot for someone who didn’t want to be found by any that might be looking for him. Someone like himself. Boring, dull as hell, but quiet and—most importantly—free of Mazoku.
He made the rounds, visited different taverns, learned his way around the city. Learned where the best food and beer was to be had; learned where the mercenaries gathered to exchange tales and news. Learned where he could go to get in a good round of sword practice; learned the quiet places where one could go to be alone. Learned where one could go to hide in time of need. He listened to the men talk, stored and filed that information, and forgot nothing. It was a survival instinct; one of these days a useless bit of information could mean the difference between life and death. And if nothing else, it gave him something to occupy the long, hot hours of the day.
During these days, he wandered late into the evening, or stayed out drinking beer with new acquaintances, spinning his own tall tales of past battles (leaving out a few facts, like the fact that he’d once been a Mazoku Dark Lord) and returned to the inn after the tavern and common room had closed for the night. Some nights, he just found himself wandering deserted streets in the dark, lost in his own deep thoughts. These nights he would head for the back stairs to the inn as his key did not fit the door to the common room. The back stairs were located across from an alleyway that was thick with shadows. Not that shadows frightened him; quite the contrary, the shadows held no fear for him. There wasn’t much that did frighten him. However, one night as he approached the door to the inn, waves of bitter fear and cloying panic accosted his vestigial Mazoku senses.
Brought up short by the sheer strength of these emotions he once relished, he swung around, scanning the area for the source. A noise drew his attention to the alleyway. Voices: A man’s—low and threatening; a woman’s—high and frightened. The sound of a scuffle and a sharp exclamation of pain.
Before he knew what he was doing, he’d drawn his sword and crossed to the alleyway. “Who’s there?” he called as he stepped into the entrance, filling it with his bulk. He could feel two people in the darkness ahead of him. Humans.
“Help—“ The plea turned into a sharp yelp of pain after what suspiciously sounded like an open hand striking soft flesh. Then quiet again.
There was a movement in the shadows. Gaav slipped into a ready stance, holding his sword in front of him. A word summoned a ball of dazzlingly bright wizard light. It flared to fill the alleyway, the strong, actinic light casting stark shadows in the corners. A thuggish looking man with rough features had a smaller figure (presumably the woman) pinned against the wall. She was dressed in a black cloak and her face was hidden by the deep cowl.
The man squinted in the light, trying to see past the glowing ball at the intruder. When he could see again, he snarled, “This isn’t none of your business, mate. I’d advise ya to make yourself scarce—before ya get hurt.” His voice was low and menacing and he fingered a vicious looking blade in one hand, while he held the woman pinned against the wall with the other.
Gaav hefted his sword and casually rested it on his shoulder, swinging it as if it weighed a fraction of its twenty pounds. “I really don’t think I have anything to worry about. But perhaps you should leave—before you get hurt. And let go of the woman.”
“Go find your own woman,” the other man snarled. “This one is mine! I paid for her—“ He got no further as the woman suddenly lashed out with her foot and caught him on the knee. He staggered, dropped his knife with a clang, but kept his hold on her.
“I am not a whore!” she shouted at him.
The thug turned on her, his face red with rage. “You’re a fucking Pari half-breed, that’s what you are! And fucking’s all you’re good for!” He slammed her up against the bricks with one hand and struck her across the face with the other. “Now, I gave you a bunch of gold and I expect to get something for my money.” With a quick jerk, he ripped her cloak and bent to cover her mouth roughly with his. She screamed and beat at him with her hands but could not dislodge him.
With one smooth motion, Gaav transferred his sword to his left hand, grabbed the guy’s shoulder, and spun him around, pulling him away from the woman. She slid to the ground and went still.
“Hey!” the assailant shouted. He got his bearings and swung a meaty fist at Gaav, but the taller man caught it in the palm of his hand. With a snarl, he crushed the man’s hand. As the other guy gasped in pain, Gaav caught him by the arm and sent him spinning into the wall hard enough leave an impression in the bricks. The man’s head bounced back with a sickening crunch of bone, his eyes rolled up into his head and he slid to the ground to lie bonelessly in a heap. A trail of thick, red blood mixed with drool trickled out of the corner of his mouth. Disgusted, Gaav prodded the downed man with his foot. He could hear him breathing, but he was out for the moment. Only then did the ex-Mazoku turn to the woman.
If he expected to find her huddled in on herself and weeping with fear, he was sorely disappointed. She was huddled at the bottom of the wall, clutching her torn cloak around her, but she was watching him closely. When she saw her attacker was really out cold, she scrambled to her feet, crossed the alley, searched through the man’s clothing and found his purse. This disappeared into her cloak before she stood and kicked the lowlife savagely in the groin. Despite himself, Gaav grimaced, especially when she continued to do so.
“Bastard,” she muttered as she turned to look up at Gaav. He was surprised to see emerald eyes sparkling angrily at him. Several long locks of fiery hair escaped the hood of her cloak.
“Oh. It’s you,” he said in renewed disgust as he sheathed his sword. “This happen often? Seems you mentioned something about being assaulted when we first met.”
She glared at him. “Fuck off,” she said bluntly. “I don’t have to tell you anything.” However, he could see she was trembling.
“Fine way to talk to someone who’s just saved you.” He reached out to take her chin in his hand and tilt her face up to the light; a dark blotch forming over her cheekbone marred her features. “That’s going to be a nasty bruise.”
She jerked her chin out of his hand and backed away. “It’ll heal. It always does. Now get out of my way.”
He held up his hands and stepped aside, clearing the way for her. “Fine. Be that way.” He watched her brush angrily past him before calling out, “Hey! You could at least say thank you!”
To his surprise, she stopped, turned and came back to glare up at him again. “Like I said, fuck off. If it weren’t for men like you and him—“
“Hey!” he interrupted her angrily. “Don’t put me in the same category as this pissant.”
“If it weren’t for men,” she started over, making it clear that she felt all men belonged in the same category, “I wouldn’t have to put up with this sort of treatment. So why should I thank you? It’ll just happen again some other time and you’ll be off feeling good about yourself because one time you happened to be around to help. Well, you take your feeling good and think about that. And I hope it sours the beer in your stomach.” With that, she turned on her toe and stalked off into the darkness, went to the door that led to the back stairs of the inn, yanked it open, then let it slam behind her.
He stared after her in the sudden quiet. “I was wrong about her,” he said conversationally to the unconscious man at his feet. “She’s not a bitch. She’s a bitch queen.” Then he, too, left the alley and headed for the inn. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, he climbed the stairs to the second floor where his room was located. He was tired and looking forward to some sleep. He reached the landing, turned the corner and had just taken a step into the long corridor when a movement at the other end made him stop. A flash of red hair in the torchlight made him scowl. They stared at each other for a moment before they both started forward.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, stopping at the door across from his. “You heard what I told that other bastard: I’m not a whore. Don’t think you can come in here and—“
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he growled dangerously. “You’re not my type. I don’t like bitch queens and I don’t like you.” He pulled out his key and held it in front of her face. “I happen to live here.” He turned and inserted the key in the lock of his door.
“You can’t!” she cried.
“I can and I do. Why can’t I?”
“Because I live here!” She pushed open the door across from his. “You’re just going to have to find someplace else to live. Sorry.” She stepped inside and was about to push her door shut when his heavy hand forced it open again.
“Excuse me?” he asked, unable to believe what he’d just heard. “Why should I have to find someplace else to live? If you don’t like me that much, why don’t you move?”
“Because,” she snarled. “I was here first. Now remove your hand or I shall call the landlord.”
He took a deep breath as he felt control of the conversation slipping away. “Look, why are you so pissy?”
“I am not pissy!”
“You are. Ever since the moment we met. You ran me down in the street then yelled at me when it was your fault.”
“And you called me a bitch.”
“And you called me a bastard. I think we’re even.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “All right, I’ll tell you: You walked out on my performance. No one walks out on me. It made me look bad.” She gave him an evil look. “Derry, the owner of the tavern, demanded a higher percentage of my tips after you did that. He already gets nearly half of them, and now, because of you, I get even less.”
“So you’re mad at me for making you look bad.” He put a hand on his face and scrubbed it tiredly. “Look, I think you really need to get over yourself—“
“And I think you need to get your hand off my door before you get hurt.”
Her jerked his hand away. “Fine. It’s off.”
“Good.” She slammed the door in his face, sending him staggering backwards as it caught him on the nose.
“Bitch!” he yelled through the door at her, holding his nose. Damn!
“Bastard!” was her reply—along with the sound of the bolt being driven home.
Fuming, Gaav slapped open his own door just as several doors up and down the corridor opened. He gave them all a glare, stormed into his room and slammed the door behind him, shutting out the angry muttering in the hallway. “Screw you, too,” he muttered, seething with rage. For the briefest of moments, he thought about what he could have done to them if he’d been Mazoku—them and the bitch queen across the hallway—but only for that brief moment. He dismissed those thoughts and instead concentrated on calming himself. “Careful, Gaav,” he muttered as he headed for the wash basin to wash his face. “Get hold of yourself. Anger controls you. Don’t let it.”
He tied back his hair and leaned over the wash basin, staring at his reflection in the water. Unbidden, thoughts of the bitch queen came into his mind. Why had he stopped to help her, anyway? He hadn’t given it a second thought when he’d heard someone in distress; he’d been there with his sword drawn and ready to defend the weaker party. But why? On one hand, he was pleased that he was defying his dark heritage, but on the other…if it meant getting tangled up with a woman like this Zaira, maybe he didn’t want to be any more human than he was. Human emotions were sometimes a pain in the ass.
Sighing, he splashed water on his face as he tried to wash away the weariness. That left him feeling somewhat better—if not less confused, at least not so riled up. He undressed quickly and flopped on his pallet. Damn the woman to Shabranigdu for all he cared. He wasn’t going to think about her any more and that was that. She wasn’t important enough to waste his time and energy on.
And on that thought, he slipped into a dreamless sleep.
* * *
Across the hallway, Zaira leaned heavily against her door, shaking so badly that she could swear the door rattled in time with her. Clutching her cloak around her, she slid to the floor and huddled in on herself. It was all right now; she was safe. She could drop her barriers and allow herself a moment of weakness. She did not weep; the bastards would never make her weep. She’d vowed that so long ago, she couldn’t remember not having that as her code, her watchwords to get her through the day. “Never let them make you cry.” But…the attacker tonight had nearly succeeded. She needed to get a replacement for her dagger; it wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t broken her last one. Unarmed and defenseless, that thug would have gotten what he wanted if that tall stranger hadn’t shown up when he did.
She scowled at the thought of him. How long had he been just across the hall? How long was he going to stay? She hoped he was leaving soon. Even as she thought this, she hugged her knees and thought again how if it hadn’t been for him…
Never. She would not be beholden to a man. So what if he had shown up? She was safe and that was all. There was no need or reason to show him gratitude. None at all.
“Keep telling yourself that, Zaira,” she muttered as she pulled out the little pouch of coins she’d taken from her attacker from inside her cloak. She pulled on the drawstrings and dumped the assorted coins out onto her lap and counted them quickly. Then she pulled her own purse out and did the same. “That’s all?” she said out loud. After she subtracted her daily living expenses—including getting the local healer to heal the bruise on her cheek—it left less than half to go into the box she kept hidden under a loose floorboard.
Sighing, she gathered up the coins, sorted a few of them back into her money purse, and gathered up the rest. She pushed herself up and went to sit on her pallet; she pulled back one corner and pried up the board. Reaching inside, she pulled out a box. Opening the box, she carefully dumped the coins into it, removed a sheet of paper, and did some figuring on it. She stared at the sum for a moment before replacing the paper in the box and putting the box back in the hole. It was going to take forever to save up the amount of gold needed to escape this hellhole.
With a heavy sigh, she patted her pallet back into place and stood. Unfastening her cloak, she got her sewing kit and set about mending the rip in her cloak. At least she knew how to sew; it came in handy when trying to make her wages stretch as far as they could. It also helped bring in a little extra money, too, since she’d made a deal with the owner of the inn to do mending during the days. Anything to get what she could, to find someplace where her kind had never been heard of; someplace so far away none of her kind would ever go. Someplace where she could start over. She paused and looked at the brass bands welded shut around her wrists. And find someone willing to remove these—and pay their price.
She worked until she could barely keep her eyes open, then stood and laid her cloak over the basket on the table. She went to the cabinet and took out her hair brush and set about brushing her hair. As the long, even strokes soothed her, she found her thoughts turning to the tall, red-haired stranger again. Why had he rescued her? It confused her—he confused her. And she didn’t like being confused. Men were the enemy, to be dealt with harshly when they wanted what she wasn’t going to give. Dealt with at an arm’s length only when necessary. But this stranger…He messed up her preconceived ideas about men and their place in the universe. He was the first one who had ever actually done something to help her—outside of those she worked for. They helped only because they were getting something they wanted from her, like more business for his tavern, and more gold from the patrons at the inn. The more she tried to put him out of her mind, the more she found herself thinking about him. He certainly was imposing; he had to stand nearly two feet taller than herself. She’d never seen anyone that tall before. And that hair…Bright as a fire and hanging to just behind his knees. He carried himself with an aura of command and authority that could easily draw men to willingly serve under him, and yet he appeared to be a loner. At least, she hadn’t seen him in any one’s company—
“Damn it!” she exclaimed suddenly, slamming her hairbrush down. “I don’t want to think about him! Come on, Zaira,” she said, pushing her hands through her hair. “Forget him. Get some sleep.” Suiting actions to words, she undressed, hung her costume up on a peg, shrugged her night shift on, and slipped between the covers. She lay on her back and stared up at the ceiling for a few minutes before exhaustion overtook her and she fell asleep. And dreamed of a tall man with long red hair.
Slayers copyright 1991-2000 by Hajime Kanzaka/Rui Araizumi/Kadokawa
Shoten/TV TOKYO/SOFTX/Marubeni.
The other characters copyright Wendy W Lee.