celiabreslin

Maleta sighed and speared a chunk of carrot. This place gave her the creeps. Too many hired killers with dark auras. She rolled her stiffening shoulder again.

The door banged open as three men entered with the wind.

“Heyla, Cary,” the tallest one called to the barkeep. “Any hot cider left?”

“Still whining ’bout the cold?” Cary poured three dippers of steaming cider into a tankard and slid it down the bar. “You ain’t even seen cold yet.”

The men in the room laughed, a sound of camaraderie, not mockery.

Maleta stared at the newcomer. His aura shone different from the others, his pure soul blinding gold in the surrounding Darkness. Why was a paladin in a place like this?

His head snapped around. She cursed her curiosity as his piercing cobalt gaze collided with hers. Something shifted in his appearance, a mask of the mind she couldn’t see past, as if her eyes saw one thing and her mind another. Meal or nay, now she’d the information she sought, she should move on.

Too late. He stalked toward her with the fluid swing of a lifelong horseman, tankard cradled in both hands as if warming them. The body of a sinner, on a saint. Her breath caught in her throat as he neared. There were few men who could look her in the eye. She’d reach this man’s chin. Maleta tensed as he stopped on the other side of the table. Unable to tear her gaze from the unwavering intensity of his, she trembled as his scent, like fresh-cut fir boughs with a warm hint of musk, surrounded her. Who was this man? Trouble, in more than the obvious. Why did he single her out?

“Heyla, Shield-Maiden,” he said in a voice as rich and smooth as rare drenieval whiskey. The underlying lethal heat in his voice could rob the unwary of their senses. “I have not seen you here afore.” He held out a hand. “My name is Cianan.”

She eyed that hand, unwilling to touch him, sensing ’twould give him too much knowledge, too much power. Long musician’s fingers with archer’s calluses. Even without their hands touching, the truth of his name pierced the shadows around her soul, the shadows of lies and pretext that were her new identity.

Maleta stared at him, helpless not to. Those eyes drew her in, promising things she couldn’t even comprehend. They weren’t the eyes of a saint. Too blue, too knowing. Long raven hair glinted blue-black in the firelight. Foreign accent, not one she recognized, with a lilt she couldn’t place. Charm she trusted not at all.

She focused on slowing her pounding heart, forced herself to breathe. “What you want?”

His lips quirked in a smile. “Many things, Lady, but I would begin with your name.”

“Why should I be giving that out?”

He just smiled, but his eyes studied her. Watchful. Probing. Aware. Too aware.

Time to end this. “My name and business are mine.” She stood.

He raised a hand. “Nay, finish eating. I shall go. But tell me your name first.”

“Sonja.”

Knowledge of the lie flashed in his eyes, and she curled her fists with impotent fury. Damn paladin. What game was this?

“I bid you a good evening, Sonja.” He dipped his head and returned to his friends at the bar.

So much for rooming overnight here. She downed the rest of her meal, gathered her pack, then fled the tavern. The cold air cleared her head. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been forced to camp out in the open. She didn’t enjoy it, but she’d survive. She always did. Please, Hedda, don’t let him follow.