"So you tell me." Edwan was by her side, though she hadn't actually seen him move. "So you told me."
Together, they listened to shallow waves lapping at the beach. Teesha did not know how to respond. She loved Edwan, but he lived in the past, as did most spirits among the living, barely able to grasp the present. And she knew what he wanted. It was always what he wanted. He was the hungry one now, and with no true life to live, memories were all he had.
But it drained her so much, depressed her to do this for him. Every time he needed, and she relented, for the next five or six nights, it destroyed her ability to live only in the delicious present.
"No, Edwan," she said tiredly.
"Please, Teesha. Just once more," he promised—again.
"There isn't enough time before sunrise."
"We have hours."
The desperation in his voice hurt her. Teesha dropped her chin to her knees and stared out to where the water disappeared into the dark.
Poor Edwan. He deserved so much better, but this had to stop. Perhaps if she showed him the sharpest of memories, played out to the end, he might be able to accept their current existence—her new existence.
She closed her eyes, hoping he'd someday forgive her for this, and reached out to him with her mind, reached back…
* * *
High in the north above Stravina, snow fell from the sky more days of the year than not, and it seemed the clouds continuously covered the sun. Day or night made little difference, but Teesha hardly cared. In her tightly tied apron and favorite red dress, she served up mugs of ale to thirsty patrons and travelers at the inn. The place was always warm with a burning hearth, and she had a smile for whoever came through the door. But that special smile, as welcome as a break in the clouds when she could see the sun, was only for her young husband, working somberly behind the bar, making sure all was right and not one guest had to wait for an ordered drink.
Edwan seldom smiled back at her, but she knew he loved her fiercely. His father was a twisted, violent man, and his mother had died of fever when he was just a child. He had lived in poverty and servitude. That was all Edwan could remember of childhood, until he left home at seventeen, traveled through two cities, found a job tending bar, and then met Teesha, his first taste of kindness and affection.
At sixteen, Teesha had already received several marriage proposals, but she'd always declined. There was just something not quite right with the suitor—too old, too young, too frivolous, too dour… too something. She felt the need to wait for someone else. When Edwan walked through the tavern door, with his dark yellow hair, wide cheekbones, and haunted eyes, she knew he was her other half. After five years of marriage, he still rarely spoke to anyone but her.
To him, the world was a hostile place, and safety only rested in Teesha's arms.
To her, the world was songs and spiced turnips and serving ale to guests—who had long ago become close friends— and spending warm nights under a feather quilt with Edwan.
It was a good time in life, but a short one.
The first time Lord Corische opened the inn's door, he remained standing outside and would not enter. The cold breeze blowing openly into the common room was enough to set everyone to cursing, and Teesha ran to shut the door.
"May I come in?" he asked, but his voice was demanding, as if he knew the answer and was merely impatient to hear it.
"Of course, please," she answered, mildly surprised, as the tavern was open to all.
When he and a companion entered, and Teesha could finally shut the door, everyone settled down again. A few people turned to look in curiosity, then a few more, as the first curious ones did not turn back to their food again.
Nothing about Lord Corische himself stood out as unusual. Not his chainmail vest and pieces of plate over padded armor, for soldiers and mercenaries were seen often enough. He was neither handsome or ugly, large or small. His only true distinguishing features were a smooth, completely bald head and a small white scar over his left eye. But he was not alone, and it was not Lord Corische the tavern guests stared at in any case. It was his companion.