The Halo Of Vakh (BOOK 1)

REST OUR SOULS

He might work hard and give all his dedication to what he did but he would rather sit on a soft couch like the one his Sama had, and lounge away while watching others work. Andrew grunted and put down the glass in his hand on the counter and gave it a glare as if all his problems rested on that single moulded utensil. He cursed the steward under his breath. There could be all the chores in the world to do in the manor. Hadn't he taken up the job to wait on his hands and knees for the Master Partan and be rewarded with small scraps of information? He huffed and looked around the inn, observing the lodgers mill about the place.

A few of them headed towards the counter every now and then, tipping their copper and gold in front of him, leaving him to count the money. The poor metal became the outlet for his anger and frustration. He tried not to think about the raid. It crept up on him every time he stopped and he would push it down with an invisible hand.

A hand in my heart.

He snorted and a man turned to look at him. Andrew gave him the creepiest smile he could muster to put together.

Look away. Nothing to see here.

What irritated him even more was that just then a boy arrived to settle in one of the wooden stools lining the corner and put his head in his hands, covering his ears. Why did it have to be Andrew? Why had the steward sent him to take over his son's duties on the busiest of days? His patience was wearing thin.

"Move over to the back," he snapped at the newcomer and the boy flinched as if Andrew had screamed like a banshee. He hoped he never did that. Banshees were horrifying. He still remembered the one he had met. He shuddered and continued. "That seat's for the special guests. The steward would have my skin if he found out I let a commoner sit in there. Move!"

Now that he had said it, the words sounded sniffy and rude. He didn't care. The boy looked up at him and glared at him, brown eyes burning. He folded his arms down at the counter, leaving his hair to stick up where his fingers had carded through them. He seemed to be around his age. Andrew was not going to deal with anyone even if it was someone like him.

He's nothing like you. You won't glare at someone doing their job.

"Can I get a jar of milk?" his gaze turned tired. "I'd walk to the farm but my leg's injured."

Andrew raised his brows, and some of his aggravation melted slightly.

"The fire," the boy said, rolling a hand in front of his face as he explained and Andrew cursed under his breath.

Stupid curiosity. Stupid lad with his need to explain.

He turned around abruptly, heading to the kitchens and trying not to look at the fire hissing beneath a black pot. He was sure he was going to develop the same fear as Lysander; the terror of fire. He snorted once again, before pouring out some milk in a pitcher and moving back outside. The boy still sat there holding his head and glaring at two men who were guffawing nearby.

"Move over you two," he said, his words acting like a whip. "Back to your seats or I'll make you pay double. Shoo!"

The boy looked at him gratefully before dropping two copper coins on the counter. As he extended his arms to take the pitcher, Andrew saw a scar extending from behind his ear and down his neck and disappearing into his high collared tunic like a jagged break in the ground.

"Was that from the fire?" he asked and the boy shook his head, darkness clouding his features. Andrew hesitated before asking, "Were there any casualties?"

"No."

"Injuries?"

The boy nodded towards his leg. "Got a small burn as I was trying to get someone out."