“That’s quite a trick,” the traveler says, slipping into a seat and sliding out of his cloak. Beside him, a slouched figure casually drops the flashing coin into her pocket without looking up. “Reminds me of a game an old friend used to play with me… well, ON me, really. See --”
He pauses when he notices a filled (and untended) tankard on the table’s surface for the first time. “Do you mind?” he asks. Without waiting for a reply, he lifts the foamy brew and takes a long drink. “Hmm,” he decides approvingly.
He glances again at the woman. The hood of her thick, ash-colored robe sags across the top half of her face, leaving only her mouth and chin visible. The former is drawn into a small, thin smile.
The man puts the mug down and leans against the table. “We were both kids, this friend and I (‘friend’ mostly being a misnomer; the girl was cruelty incarnate in pig-tails). I’d be out around town, running errands, doing chores-- just minding my own business. Then, out of nowhere, a streak of light would flash into my eyes --” he tips his head back, blinking rapidly. “I’d think to myself, ‘Hell, it got an awful lot sunnier all of the sudden.’ So, I’d bend my head all around, trying to shade my eyes.” He cranes his neck to the left and the right as he attempts to evade an offending glare. “But no matter where I look, the damned light is right there, like it’s following me, and I can’t see a thing.”
“I panic and stop whatever I’m doing – and whatever I’m holding,” he pushes out from the table, rising to his feet. He begins to viciously claw at the air with his right hand. “I swat at the light like I can actually wound the damned thing, like I might intimidate it into bothering someone else.” He flails his arms in quick, violent strokes, as if trying to frantically repel a sudden, aggressive gale.
The woman drapes one of her sleeves across her mouth as her shoulders begin to shudder.
Seeing this, her companion intensifies his pantomimed struggle. He is at war now, assaulting the empty space in front of him as if a swarm of imperceptible, marauding hornets have descended upon him.
“Someone put out the torch!” he gasps, his voice edging toward higher, piping octaves as he continues to thrash. “I confess; lock me up; feed me to the wyverns...WHY DOES THE SUN HATE ME?”
The woman pitches forward, her hands dropping to grip the table, and her hood flapping back against her neck. She expels a long burst of laughter. For a quarter of a minute, it gushes through her in pulsing wails. Many of the surrounding patrons, having also taken note of the man’s curious fit-performance, join her, creating a chortling chorus.
Nearby, the hurrying barmaid pauses mid-step. Hearing the sudden amiable uproar, she frowns at the small, flat weapon in her hand and mumbles, “Oh. ‘Course it ain’t the files ‘gain. The ONE time I’m actually ready for the bastards…” Shaking her head, she abruptly spins and scampers back toward the kitchen. “S’all jokes ‘round here, is it? Jus’ wait ‘til the flies’r back and I AIN’T ‘round to--”
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“A few more rounds over here,” a giddy customer beckons through the uproar. She waves the swatter at him dismissively and, still grumbling, vanishes into the kitchen.
As soon as his companion breaks, the performer ceases his routine, relaxes, and re-seats himself, proudly enjoying the response. He chuckles to himself as he raises his mug and salutes the other patrons.
With the spectacle at an end, the surrounding laughter slowly eases, and the other revelers return to their private conversations.
The performer’s grin shifts toward his companion. She has settled down as well, and now dabs the corners of her eyes with the hem of her sleeve.
“And THAT is when I knew I’d won,” the man says, jabbing his mug toward her. “I’d hear THAT laugh, she’d lose control of the coin, and that damned light would finally leave me in peace. Then she’d --”
His companion lurches toward him and throws her arms around his shoulders.
He pauses, grins wanly, and returns the gesture. “-- give me a big hug and we’d call it a draw,” he concludes. “It’s good to see you, too, Chlor.”
* * *
“It’s good to see that some things haven’t changed, Grove” Chlora says after separating. “You can still make me laugh unlike anyone I’ve ever met. And I’m glad you remember our childhood games so well.”
Grove tilts his head slightly and says, “’Games?’ It was fun for you, maybe, but there was a stretch there that I was afraid to leave the house during the day because of you and your damn coin. My sense of humor, majestic as it may be, was born out of self-defense and you always gave me plenty of opportunity to perfect the craft.”
“Yes,” she agrees with a guilty grin. “Though I’d like to believe that my sadism has softened over the years – at least towards those I care for.”
Grove suddenly frowns, gesturing around the inn. “Perhaps not. At least, sadism would seem the most likely explanation for why you’ve invited me to such a… quaint homestead in the middle of nowhere.”
“Yes,” she admits, sobering, “I’m sure it does. Thank you for coming, regardless.”
Grove sighs, staring consideringly into the contents of his mug for a few moments. Finally, he says, “We both know I had no choice.”
“Indeed,” she replies, “we do.”
The two sit in silence for several minutes, listening to the occasional fragments of conversation that reach them through the tavern’s noisy choir. Grove’s lips are pursed as he drums his fingers against the table. Finally, he can wait no longer and blurts, “Why, Chlor? Why here?” He tips his head demonstratively toward the western wall. “Unless our quarry has relocated to the peak of yonder Hill, I don’t understand your summons at all.”
She reaches out her hand, laying her fingers across his, stilling their nervous movement. “Please,” she says, “trust me, Grove; trust that I have a very good reason for it – and for doing so much earlier than previously agreed.”
He glances down at her hand and then raises his eyes until they meet her’s, “I do,” he says, “or I wouldn’t be here – moral compulsion or not.” He slides his hand free, crosses his arms and leans back, “I’m just wondering when that trust may be rewarded with an explanation.”
Chlora turns her attention to the door. Five people stand before it, three with their backs to her. Of the other two, the left-hand individual is child-sized, almost completely occluded by the figures looming before him. The second, paradoxically, stands half a head taller than any of the others, a hulking figure by anyone’s standards.
Chlora grins when she sees the giant, and watches what appears to be a brewing conflict with interest. “Soon, Grove,” she tells him. “I believe it won’t be long now.”