Uachi pushed open the door of the ale house, his left hand on his dagger as he edged across the threshold. Within, the music and the nauseating sounds of frivolity were far worse. There were people crowded around tables, talking loudly over plates of food and mugs of ale. He stood for a moment, casting an eye over the place and wondering whether he had made a mistake in coming inside.
A woman in a dun dress and a splotched apron walked by him, carrying a mug of ale in one hand and a plate of roasted meat in the other. The scent of the food caught Uachi's nostrils, and he glanced toward the open cook fire at one end of the room, where a whole hog was being roasted on a spit. His stomach gave an angry, insistent twist.
Be there useful information here or not, he could at least fill his stomach. He could not remember the last time he'd had a proper meal.
There were hardly any empty seats, and loud laughter and arguments issued from nearly every table—all but one. Toward the back of the room in a corner, a single man sat at a table alone, his head lowered as he nursed a mug of ale.
Weighing his options in an instant, Uachi started toward the stranger. He did not relish the thought of inserting himself into one of the chaotic conversations at the crowded tables. The lithe man looked younger than Uachi's age of eight and twenty summers. At his side hung a slender sword.
Uachi pulled out the chair across from the stranger. "Do you mind company?" he asked, unshouldering his pack. He had noted immediately that this man wore no marke. While he was used now to living among the Starborn, he did not expect to be welcome, but whether the stranger would deny him a seat outright or not was worth asking.
The man looked up with a guarded expression. He gave Uachi a once-over, and his gaze lingered on Uachi's left cheek. After a moment, he said, "Not especially."
Dropping into the seat across from the man, Uachi flexed his toes in his sturdy boots. He let his pack fall to rest underneath the table. To be off his feet was a relief, and he was exhausted. The thought of heading back out into the night and resuming his journey was not a welcome one.
Uachi took a moment to observe the man before him. He was uncommonly handsome, with fine features that bordered on feminine. His eyes were of a strange color Uachi could not pinpoint in the low light of the ale hall—perhaps brown, perhaps green—but it was the stranger's hair that was the oddest of all. It was red. Uachi had met people with russet hair before, like Aun, the healer from Hanpe, but this man's hair was like nothing he had ever seen, and where it fell across his brow, it was as if his face were licked by tongues of fire.
There was something else, too: along the man's jaw was the shadow of an ugly bruise, fresh and purple. The man was gazing down into his ale cup, but, as if he sensed Uachi's eyes upon him, he cut his glance up with a challenge in the set of his mouth. "See something you like?" he asked.
"What can I get you?" asked a new voice, interrupting Uachi's reaction to the question.
Uachi looked up to see the woman in the apron standing at his side. He said, "Ale and a slice of yon pig."
The serving woman's cool gaze skated over Uachi's face and snagged, like the flame-haired stranger's had, on his marke. She raised her brows expectantly. Uachi waited, uncertain what she wanted of him. At last, she gave him an irritated sigh and said, "Well, ink-cheek? Show me your coin!"
With a frown, Uachi slid a hand into his purse and produced a coin, debating as he did whether he'd be set upon if he rose up and smacked this woman across her naked face. He held it up between two gloved fingers, and the woman clicked her tongue and snatched it away. Then she turned on her heel and strode off, pausing to exchange loud conversation with another patron awaiting service. By the smile she wore when she cursed at him, Uachi got the feeling she was better pleased exchanging insults with the unmarked man than she'd been to wait upon Uachi.
"You aren't from these parts," the stranger said.
"Perhaps not," Uachi said.
"Everyone knows the Arcborn pay before they're served, when they're served at all." With a knowing smirk, he cocked his head at Uachi. "You stink of foreigner's folly."
Uachi should have known the insults and ill treatment of his kind would not stop at the northern Narrian border. He measured the stranger with a glance, trying to determine if this man meant him ill will, too. Finding nothing but dry amusement in his face, Uachi snorted. "And they treat foreigners unkindly here, do they?"
"More unkindly than most of their own."
"If a knock to the jaw is the welcome they reserve for their own kind, then, I'll be careful indeed." Uachi nodded at the stranger's face.
The red-head shifted his jaw to the left and to the right, as if reminding himself of the bruise. "Better men fight with their minds," he said in a sullen undertone.
"Oh, aye," said Uachi. "I'll be sure to remember that next time I'm in a brawl. Stab him with a witty remark before he stabs me with his dagger. Sound advice." He looked up as the serving woman came back to the table. She dropped a plate of steaming pork and a frothing mug of ale in front of him, showing little interest in keeping the food and drink their containers, and Uachi frowned as a splash of ale wet the sleeve of his tunic.
Before he could give her a piece of his mind, she snapped, "You? More?"
She was addressing the other man. He gave her a smile and said, in a smooth tone dripping with vinegar, "No, my sweet lady. I have had more than enough of your gracious service."
The woman's brows drew together in a scowl. "Faelán bál," she muttered, turning away.
"She makes your name sound like a curse," Uachi observed around a mouthful of steaming pork. It was too hot to eat, but he was too hungry to wait.
The man was glowering after the woman. At Uachi's words, he spat on the floor at the side of the table. "That's because it is a curse, not my name," he said. He turned is attention to Uachi with a dark look. "You really must be a foreigner."
"We established that. Try to keep up." Uachi lifted his mug and took a swig, then wiped his lips on his forearm. He had not known Narr had its own language; what the serving woman had said certainly did not sound like Penruan. Perhaps it was a dialect, a word from Low Penruan, which he knew was spoken in some regions of Narr. "What's it mean, then?"
"Faerie pig."
Uachi paused with another forkful of meat halfway to his mouth. He looked at the stranger, trying to determine if this was a joke, but the man looked serious. "Faerie...pig?"
"I'd rather you called me Diarmán," he said. He raised his mug to Uachi with a bitter smirk, tapped one finger against his left cheek, and winked at Uachi. "To the lowest among men."
Frowning, Uachi reached for his own mug. He raised it. He took a healthy swallow, catching Diarmán's eye as he did. Their gazes locked for an instant, and then broke. The two men lapsed into silence as Uachi applied himself to his meal, mulling over the childish insult. Faerie pig?
Whatever happened to good old "bastard," "horse's arse," or the ever-useful "whoreson?" And what had this man done to deserve to be insulted, he wondered? He obviously wasn't Arcborn, so he hadn't been born to ignominy.
Uachi did not wish to make himself known to everyone present, but despite their salty exchange, he felt a certain camaraderie with this man, an apparent outcast like himself. He lowered his voice and said, "I'm Uachi."
"Whence do you hail, Uachi?"
"North. And you?"
"Not far from here." Diarmán cast an eye around the room, wearing a frown.
"So you're a local, then? Or are you really a faerie from another world?" Uachi aimed for levity, but he ended up with sarcasm. Thinking of faeries put him in mind of Ealin, whom he had compared to a faerie queen once...back when his life had been simpler. Back when he'd been arrogant enough and stupid enough to believe that he had a claim to happiness.
"Not a foreigner—not so much as you, at least." Diarmán leaned an elbow on the table. "Are you saying you don't believe in the Faelán, Uachi of the North?"
"If that fancy word means 'faerie,' no. Not since I stopped pissing in my swaddling," Uachi replied. He studied Diarmán's face again, seeing there no marke—no blemish other than the bruise. "To the lowest among men. As if you know what it means to be low."
Diarmán's expression clouded for a moment. He shifted in his seat, fixing Uachi with a penetrating look. It unsettled him, and he turned his gaze away, lifting up his ale cup again. As Uachi drank, Diarmán said, "There's a story in that bitter remark."
Uachi plunked his mug onto the table. "Mine or yours?"
"Yours. 'As if you know what it means to be low.' You must have ample reason to say it, although it is a curious thing to meet a man who does not know that this—" And here he tugged his forelock, indicating his brilliant red hair— "is as bold a brand as that pretty tattoo you wear on your cheek, my friend."
"I'm not your friend," Uachi said. He nearly regretted it as soon as the words were out; he did not need a friend, but he needed information, and if the way the serving woman had treated him was any indication of the welcome he was likely to receive here, he doubted the unmarked men in this alehouse would be forthcoming with news. "What can you mean? Ruddy hair isn't uncommon."
"Ah, isn't it?"
"I know half a dozen folk with auburn heads."
"Like mine?"
Uachi fell silent, frowning. Perhaps this man was not well-liked because he was a lunatic. Then again, if Uachi humored him, perhaps he'd be free with what information he had. Pushing his empty plate and mug away, Uachi leaned forward. "You don't try to hide it, if this what you say is true," he said.
Diarmán gave a bitter laugh. "And you, do you go about with a mask on your face to hide your dirty blood?"
Tightening his gloved hands into fists, Uachi leveled a glare at Diarmán. He was reminded of something he should never have forgotten: he did not like people.
"Why are you here, Uachi?" Diarmán asked. "We don't have many Arcborn in Narr. Never have."
"I'm traveling. Searching for someone."
"Who?"
"My daughter." The words were out before Uachi could think. He had toyed with the idea of claiming Uarria was his daughter and Ealin his estranged wife, but had not decided on the lie as a course of action until now.
"Daughter. Has she run off with some field hand?" Diarmán gave Uachi an appraising look. "She can't be old enough, unless you got her on a wench when you were still just a child."
Uarria was not Uachi's daughter, but hearing her spoken about in such a way made him angry. "She isn't. She's seen four summers only. She's with my—wife."
"Then why are you searching?"
Uachi looked down at his hands, surprised to see that the dagger he carried—the one he had taken from Lord Zellar when he was just a boy—was in his hands. "My wife is unwell. I fear she means our daughter harm. She took her away from our home in the North of Penrua. Slipped away in the night without a word to me."
Diarmán's expression had softened. He seemed to be buying Uachi's story, although his eyes passed over the dagger and the bow and quiver Uachi carried on his back with a skeptical gleam. "Why do you think she's come all this way?"
For a moment, Uachi looked at this new acquaintance of his, wondering whether he could be trusted, whether he might be able to offer advice or direction that would help him along his way. In the end, he decided he could take the risk of telling Diarmán more. "Do you know of the mages of Penrua?"
"Who doesn't? I've heard there are some of them making a home for themselves in Aólane, here in Narr."
Perhaps Diarmán would be useful, after all.
Dear readers, I am so grateful that you are patiently following along as I plod through writing this story! I was very excited to post this chapter.
What do you think of our so-called faerie lad, Diarmán?