Trail of the Gods_ The Morcyth Saga Book Four - Brian S. Pratt [152]
“You never, EVER, do that again without my permission!” she yells. With the enwrapped bow and quiver under one arm she stands there and glares.
“I was just so worried…” he begins and then trails off. “And when I saw you, I just…”
“Just what?” she asks her demeanor not softening in the slightest.
“Oh, never mind.” Grabbing the reins of his horse, he begins walking dejectedly back to the stables.
“Jiron,” he hears her say, her tone somewhat softer.
Not turning around, he replies, “What?”
“You have my permission,” she says in a soft, caring voice.
He stops in his tracks and glances back to her. She comes forward and takes him in her arms. Pressing her lips to his she begins to give him a kiss. This time, he’s the one who breaks it off. “What’s wrong?” she asks as she looks him in the eyes.
“It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you,” he begins. “But…”
“But what?” she prompts him.
“But my face hurts where you hit me,” he admits.
She just stares at him for a moment and then they both start laughing.
He gives her a hug and then says, “Let’s go up to the room, James is sleeping but I think he’ll want to know you’re back.” With his horse’s reins in one hand, and his other around her waist, they walk back to the inn.
Epilog
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He makes his way down the darkened street on his way to the inn. This far into the Empire, he needs to be extra careful, their agents are everywhere. He has just come from a meeting, that should its agenda be known, would surely mean his death. But he’s played this game far too long to let a little thing like death be an obstacle.
Many people know him by many different names, here he’s simply Kir, a traveling musician who makes his way by playing at various inns. This persona has blonde hair and slightly darker skin than he’d originally been born with, a result of just the right mixture of dyes and other solutions. The overall appearance is that of someone from the southern region of the Empire.
Lately, the other players in the game have begun to suspect him, as the last attempt on his life proves. How many more effective years he may have has yet to be seen, but through his long years as an agent, he’s learned the art of disguise and misdirection well.
With his instrument over his shoulder he continues down the street to his current engagement at the Wallowing Swine. A none too classy establishment, its environment fits in well with what he’s here to accomplish.
As he approaches the inn, several people standing outside the Wallowing Swine wave to him as he draws near. He’s a favorite around these parts, many wonder just what brings him back to this same inn time and again. They’re sure that a singer of his talents would be welcome in any of the finest inns in the city. When asked about it, he just replies that he likes it here.
A slave dressed in the regular slave garb, loin cloth and nothing else, stands at the door and opens it for him. “Thank you,” Kir tells him. The slave gives him a grin as he passes by. Kir is one of the few people who treat slaves decently, most don’t even acknowledge their existence, which has earned him their help in various ways.
The smoke filled common room is crowded, always is on nights he’s performing. He makes his way through the crowded room to the stage, many people call out to him or offer hellos. Returning their greetings, he finally reaches the stage and gets his chair situated just where he likes it.
Next to the chair is a stand where he rests his instrument when not in use. Once everything is set, he leaves the stage and goes over to the bar where one of the slaves has already set out a plate of food for him and a mug of wine. Nothing too much, he can’t afford to stuff himself before a performance. The quality of his music will suffer for it if he does.
This is his last night before he heads out, could be why it’s so packed. Word gets around when he’s here and no one wants to miss out hearing