In a small inn beside a river that coursed through a land of desolate rock dwelled the heir to a broken throne.
People who knew Trèleris called him Trel for short - it was a lot easier to say. Conversely, people who didn’t know him simply called him ‘the tall guy’ - a name that would, even with no other information, allow one to pick him out of a crowd with ease.
Beyond his height, the young innkeeper was unassuming. He had brown hair that he kept just a little long in the back, brown eyes, and a face that was usually clean-shaven. He wore simple clothing and spoke with a northern accent that was subtle enough most people didn’t notice it. His father had been Assarian, and Trel had inherited a few of those unique pronunciations from him, though he had grown up in Auriéme.
Rain poured outside as Trel made his rounds of the common room, checking on his guests. He had a full dozen that day, sitting in small groups as they ate, chatted, played a game of darts, or dried their cloaks by the fire. Trel went from group to group, ensuring that everything was to their liking, before heading back to his counter. He passed an order to Ziêrre, the cook, for a couple more bowls of stew for the Arrdainians, then took inventory of his remaining rooms. One, Two, Four, and Six were occupied, leaving Three and Five open. The White Rider could house a few more guests yet, if they came.
Trel whistled to himself, ignoring the pain as his sleeve chafed his left shoulder, and reorganized his counter again; he still hadn’t found the right spot for the inkwell, and he wasn’t convinced that this time turned out any better. But before he could attempt fixing it, the door swung open, and a damp wind heralded the arrival of a lone, cloaked figure, holding a red leather case in its hand, a small bag slung over its shoulder, and a thin sword sheathed at its side.
“Bonjour!” Trel said. “And welcome to The White Rider. What can we do you for this, uh, fine evening?”
“Yeah,” a feminine voice said from within the hood. “It really is fine, isn’t it?” She sounded completely serious.
Trel cocked an eyebrow. “If you like rain, I suppose.”
She stepped up to the counter and lowered her hood, revealing the face of a young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties. She wasn’t bad-looking, but nothing to write home about either; just a few points sub-average. She shook out her blonde tresses and replied happily, “As a matter of fact, I do. Also, who named this place?”
“I did,” Trel said with a hint of pride.
“Cool name,” the woman said. “Also, wow, you’re tall. Anyway, I didn’t actually answer your question. I’d like a room for the night and, for right now, just about anything warm and wet.”
“We have a pot of stew simmering right now,” Trel told her. “I’ll have the cook serve you a bowl immediately. That’ll be three sovereigns.”
“For the stew?” the woman asked, frowning slightly. A sovereign was worth ten marks, and three would be an exorbitant price for a single bowl of stew.
“It’s a package deal,” Trel clarified. “Dinner, bed, and breakfast. Three for three.”
The woman blinked. “That’s cheap. First it was expensive, but now it’s cheap!”
Trel shrugged. “It gets us business.”
She laughed and pulled three pewter coins from a pouch at her waist. She laid them on the counter and said, “I bet it does.”
Trel took the coins and nodded toward the common room. “There’s plenty of seats in there if you want to find a spot while I get your food.”
“That would be awesome,” she said, turning to go. Then, suddenly, she spun around. “My name’s Aranèle, by the way. Don’t know if you have to write that down on a ledger or something. But regardless, it’s customary to tell people you meet your name. So it’s Aranèle.”
Trel smiled. “A pleasure. I’m Trèleris, but you can call me Trel.”
“Cool name,” Aranèle told him again. “Nice to meet you, Trel.” Then she turned and half-skipped into the common room.
Trel watched her go with a raised eyebrow. He got strange guests sometimes; apparently he had a new one for the list now.
He shrugged, wrote her name down on the ledger, and ducked into the kitchen to pass on her order, then returned to rearranging his counter. This time, he had to leave off halfway through as two more guests arrived. One was a few good inches shorter than Trel - tall by normal person standards - and broad-shouldered, wearing a deep blue cloak. He didn’t lower the hood, but his much smaller companion lowered his, revealing a thin face and close-cropped black hair and mustache. He eyed Trel through a pair of pince-nez as the two approached the counter, taking in the younger man’s height.
“Welcome to The White Rider,” Trel told them. “What can we get you this fine evening?”
The big man scoffed softly.
The smaller man shifted uncomfortably. “Er, yes. Lodging. For the night.” His voice was on the shrill side and somewhat lacking in volume, as well as thickly accented.
“Sure thing,” Trel said. “We’ve got one room left. Will that be all?”
“Food,” the big man grumbled. His voice was deep and powerful, bearing the same account as his companion. Trel didn’t recognize it. He also kept his hooded face turned at a slight angle that prevented Trel from seeing his features, though Trel couldn’t tell if it was intentional or if he was just glaring at his companion.
“I’ll have the chef bring you some stew. Or we can whip something else up for you, if you’d prefer.”
“No,” the small man murmured. “Stew… will be good. Yes. I’m allergic to garlic.”
Trel frowned. “To what?”
“Never mind,” the big man said. Then, to the smaller man, he growled, “Sie haben hier keine Knoblauch, Narr!”
The small man went red. “Er, yes. Of course. Er… where are tables?”
Trel pointed, and the small man scurried off.
“That will be four sovereigns,” Trel told the big man in blue.
The man didn’t turn his face, which seemed to Trel to mean that there was something he was hiding in that hood. Unfortunately, that wasn’t his business, so he let it slide.
“We search,” the big man said. “Search for criminal. Young girl, black and red hair, blue eyes. Pretty. Feisty. Can change appearance. See her, you tell us, hmm?”
“The what?” Trel asked blankly. “‘Change appearance’? Like, disguises?”
“Said what I said,” the man grunted, slapping a pair of uncut gemstones onto the counter. “Four sovereigns.”
With that, he turned to stomp off toward the common room.
“Uh, can I have a name?” Trel asked him.
“Schmetterlingsjäger,” the man said. Then, before Trel could ask how it was spelled, or if he was even serious, he was gone.
Trel gaped for a moment, then wrote down the best approximation of the name that he could. He was about to head to the kitchen and order the new arrivals’ stew when Aranèle emerged from the common room, holding an empty bowl and nearly yelling, “Did you give me a discount?!”
“Huh?” Trel asked, bewildered.
“This stew!” she exclaimed. “There is no way that something this good is normally this cheap! Come on, tell me! What’s up?”
Trel blinked. Sure, Ziêrre was a good cook, but he wasn’t that good. But he asked, “You liked it then?”
“Liked it? I licked the bowl! See?” She turned it so that he could see the inside, which was pristine.
“I’m glad,” Trel told her. “I’ll pass your compliments to the chef. Want another one?”
“Do I ever!” she exclaimed. “Is that another three sovereigns?” Her eyes twinkled in amusement.
Trel chuckled. “No, but you forfeit a pillow tonight,” he joked.
“Take the mattress,” Aranèle said. “I need more stew.”
“I’ll see it done,” Trel told her. “In all seriousness, though, I don’t charge for refills.”
“Perfect,” Aranèle replied. “I actually wanted that mattress.” She spotted the gemstones on the counter, the ones that Schmetterlingsjäger had left, and her jaw dropped. “Dude! Are these real? Did creepy cloak guy leave these?” Without waiting for an answer, she picked up one of the stones and examined it in the light. “Wow. Wow. Yeah, these are real. And they’re big. I should have brought some of these to pay my tab. Then I could buy your whole pot of stew.”
“So you’re a gem appraiser?” Trel asked her.
“I’m an everything appraiser,” Aranèle replied, setting the stone down. “And that is an emerald if I’ve ever seen one. Anyway, better let you get back to your job.”
“Probably,” Trel agreed good-naturedly.
She turned and whistled her way back into the common room, and Trel ducked back into the kitchen. Dodging Ziêrre’s assistants, he found the man himself standing next to a cauldron, stirring its contents with a very long spoon. Ziêrre had a stocky build that was some combination of big bones, muscle, and a few too many helpings of his own cooking, and the only hair on his head - accounting for eyebrows - was a mustache that was waxed into a pair of keen points.
“Ziêrre,” Trel challenged. “One of our guests is obsessed with your stew. Have you been cheating again?”
“It is not cheating, patron,” Ziêrre insisted. “No more than the addition of salt or bacon is ‘cheating’.”
“Runeshards are definitely cheating,” Trel replied. “What are you going to do when it wears off?”
“You wound me, patron,” Ziêrre said. “This is not one of my Runeforged spoons.”
“Plural?” Trel asked incredulously. “You have multiple enchanted spoons?”
“Of course,” Ziêrre replied. “They are well worth the sovereigns. A single Saran Runeshard may make a hundred bowls of stew magnifique. However, I tend to save them for special occasions. Today is not one of those, so I use something nearly as good.”
Trel sighed. “I might as well hear it.”
“Épice Divine,” Ziêrre said proudly. “A wondrous spice blend from Saratèle that can make rocks taste like the fare of kings. I have always wanted to try it with a Runeforged spoon, but have not yet had the opportunity. Now tell me more about this guest. A woman, I assume, with such a refined palate?”
“Yeah,” Trel replied. “She’s the one with the blonde hair. And she wants another bowl.”
Ziêrre smiled. He was absolutely convinced that his cooking would get him a wife someday.
“Serve it with the normal spoon,” Trel warned him. “And I need two more for other guests, pronto.”
Humming to himself, Ziêrre complied, dishing up two bowls and handing them to Trel, and then filling a third bowl for Aranèle. Trel made him swap it for one of the two he’d given him, just to be safe. Ziêrre complied readily, which made Trel question whether the bowls were safe or if Ziêrre had just taken the Runeforged one from him. Well, the three looked about the same, so they weren’t likely to have Saran on them, which would enhance their beauty as well as that of anything put inside them. Trel didn’t think any of the other twenty-eight Runeshards would have the same effect, so he let Ziêrre go, following him with the two bowls for the newer arrivals, together with a small bread basket.
The two of them entered the common room, and Ziêrre immediately went for Aranèle’s table in the corner, launching straight into conversation. The only part of it that Trel could make out was Aranèle’s rather loud exclamation, “Wow! That mustache is pointy!”
Trel shook his head and crossed to the foreigners’ table in the opposite corner. The two were deep in conversation, and they didn’t even seem to notice Trel’s approach, or maybe they simply knew that he couldn’t understand a word they were saying, because they didn’t stop talking.
“- wie sie überhaupt hierher gekommen ist,” the short man was saying. “Dieses Mädchen ist eine Realitätsform; wie ist sie durch die Zeit zurückgereist?”
“Ich habe jahrelang den Schmetterlings gejagt,” Schmetterlingsjäger replied. He still hadn’t lowered his hood. “Ich habe gelernt, dass es eine unmögliche Aufgabe ist, ihre Wege zu verstehen. Zumindest folgt the Executioner einer Form der Logik; sie nicht.”
Trel set the stew and bread down on their table and interjected, “Dinner is served, gentlemen. If you need anything else, please ring the bell and we’ll be with you in a moment.”
“Er, yes,” the short man said, speaking Narish again. “Most appreciated, Trel, thank you.” Then, as if Trel had never been there, he was chatting away in gobbledegook once more.
Something felt off about that encounter, but Trel couldn’t quite put his finger on it, so he went around the room again, checking on his other guests.
Riahn had dried his cloak and was now chattering merrily with the Arrdainians as if they were old friends, which they were not; Riahn was from Alria, the mage-city not twenty miles to the east, in the heart of the kingdom of Auriéme. The three Télnarian brothers were well into their fifth game of darts, and two of them were looking extremely happy about it, while the other was looking more than a little dejected - likely, he wasn’t doing so well.
All in all, everyone seemed happy, including Aranèle, who was alternating between taking bites of stew, laughing at whatever Ziêrre said, and making him laugh with her witty retorts.
Trel slapped Ziêrre on the shoulder as he went by. “Don’t forget to work.”
“Ah, I would never, patron,” Ziêrre said smoothly. “But it would be a shame to end my rabbit-bear story here, non?”
Trel sighed inwardly. He’d heard the rabbit-bear story no less than a dozen times, and though the ending was different with each telling, it was never less ridiculous than the time before.
So he resolved not to be present this time.
He rearranged his counter twice before Ziêrre returned, grinning widely. “I have found her at last, patron!”
“So you said last week,” Trel replied dryly.
“Ah, but this one is different.”
“You said that, too,” Trel told him with a smile.
Ziêrre shrugged. “Perhaps I was not wrong. Perhaps the last one simply did not understand fine Saratèlian cuisine. Do you know, she told me my stew tastes like one she has tasted in Saratèle itself, but better? I have surpassed the chefs in the kingdom of art, patron. I will be demanding a raise.”
“Great,” Trel said. “Tell you what. Spend more of your work hours working, and we’ll talk.”
“Virtuosity cannot be protracted, patron!” Ziêrre replied, appalled. “It is there and gone, like a passing storm! To cling to it is futile; you must simply accept that my art is perfect, and I simply have nothing better to do with my time sometimes than to tell my rabbit-bear story.”
“I can think of things, if you like.”
Ziêrre shook his head. “You are a cruel patron, Trel.” With that, he went back to his kitchen, and Trel realized what had been bothering him since leaving the foreigners’ table.
He’d never told them his name.
