Song of Dragons The Complete Trilogy - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,168

a maiden of steel or something like that, and don't mind sleeping outside?"

Gloriae wanted to glare and hurt him, but not today. Today she'd have to be nice, if her plan was to work. She forced herself to smile. She knew that she had a beautiful smile, a smile to melt men's hearts. "I think we've earned a rest."

He nodded and whistled. "All right! Tavern it is. Beer, stew, bread, and a soft bed."

He walked with new vigor, and Gloriae smiled. Soon they approached the town. A score of cottages with thatch roofs nestled in the hills. A temple and tower rose above them, and farms rolled around them. The tavern stood closer to the road, its sign showing a turtledove sitting upon a firkin. Gloriae saw no movement in the windows, and two peasants lay slumped in the yard, drooling. The nightshades had been here too. She and Kyrie entered the tavern, and found the usual scene of soulless travellers.

"Not only nightshades have been here," she said. "Outlaws too."

The soulless were missing shoes and jackets. When she stepped into the pantry, Gloriae saw that most of the food had been taken. Only a handful of turnips, onions, apples, and sausages remained.

"I was hoping for some bread," Kyrie said, "but I'll make do with what we have. We'll cook a stew of it."

Gloriae left the pantry and searched the bar. Luckily, the caskets of ale were attached to the walls; the outlaws had left them. Most of the other drinks had been taken.

"And I was hoping for some wine or spirits," she said, scrunching her lips. "Something stronger than ale."

She could see marks on the floor where barrels of wine must have stood. She rummaged behind the bar and found a small, hidden door. When she swung it open, she smiled.

"Ah, good rye," she said. She lifted a bottle. "In a glass bottle too. These things cost a fortune, you know. Must be good stuff."

"I didn't know you're a drinker," Kyrie said, already eating an apple.

"There are many things you don't know about me. But you'll find them out."

They cooked a stew of turnips, onions, and sausages. Gloriae kept pouring ale into Kyrie's mug, though she drank little herself. They ate well, and then Gloriae opened the bottle of rye. She stood up, solemn, and raised the bottle.

"To Requiem," she said. "May our wings forever find her sky."

Kyrie too stood up. He nodded and repeated the Old Words.

Gloriae feigned a deep draft from the bottle, but only allowed several drops into her mouth. The spirits were strong, so strong they burned. She handed Kyrie the bottle.

"Drink deep," she said. "Drink well. For our home and forefathers."

He nodded and drank deeply. His cheeks flushed, he coughed, and he slammed down the bottle. "Good stuff."

Gloriae realized that she still wore her white cloak, and her armor beneath it. She removed the cloak and placed it on her chair. Her helmet followed. Gloriae shook her hair free, and the golden locks danced. She saw Kyrie staring, and she smiled crookedly.

"Drink, Kyrie," she said. "Drink for Requiem."

"For Requiem," he said and drank again. He passed Gloriae the bottle, and she feigned another draft.

When Kyrie had drunk a third time, Gloriae removed her breastplate. She placed it on a table, and stood before Kyrie in her undershirt. The cloth was thin, white cotton, damp with the sweat of their journey. Gloriae knew it clung to her, that it showed the curve of her breasts. She undid the laces at its top, opening her shirt halfway down her chest, and shook her hair again.

"It feels good to finally take off my armor," she said. She moved near Kyrie, took the bottle from him, and this time she truly did drink. The spirits burned down her throat. She shoved the bottle at Kyrie, placed her hand on his thigh, and told him, "Drink."

He drank, and she played with his hair and whispered into his ear. "It tastes good, doesn't it?"

Kyrie looked at her. His eyes were watery, his cheeks flushed. "Gloriae. What are you doing?"

She trailed her fingers along his thigh, and saw his flush deepen. Smiling crookedly, she brought the bottle to his lips. "Drink, Kyrie. For Requiem."

When the bottle was half empty, Kyrie was wobbling in his chair. "I'm tired," he said.

She nodded. "Me too. Let's find a bed and get some sleep."

She led him upstairs, helping him climb. They found a room, and Gloriae laid him in a bed. It was not yet evening;