Thread of Ash and Fire

Ch. 19: On The Road Again

Ryne yanked the stirrup tighter.

Sunshine spilled over Stillwater Castle, shattering on the turrets in candy-coloured shards of pink and yellow. His horse — Fang — stamped his hoof on the frozen ground, snorting out a breath of warm air. Ryne patted the creature's mane. His horse, he knew, had a general aversion to waking up before dawn, but they'd had no choice in the matter; they had a lot of ground to cover before they reached Lucerna.

Still.

It would all be worth it, Ryne thought. The tavern — The Sword and Crown — was Eris's favourite drinking haunt. And if they could find someone that knew his cousin well... if they could ply the person with drink and get him to talk...

Ryne flexed his frozen fingers.

It would be worth it. All of it would be worth it, to watch Eris suffer.

"Risky," a voice called.

Ryne turned. Isaac strode across the lawn; he was dressed in a rumpled white shirt and a large overcoat, his tails flapping in the breeze.

"The waistcoat," Isaac clarified, nodding at Ryne's chest. "I'm surprised you'd take one of your favourites to a dirty inn."

Ryne looked down. The green brocade waistcoat was indeed one of his favourites, although he hadn't realized that Isaac had been paying attention. Isaac viewed clothing much like he viewed bathing: a necessary evil.

"Don't be ridiculous," Ryne said. "I'd never stay in a dirty inn."

He turned back to the stirrup. Isaac shifted a basket in his arms. It could have contained apple turnovers, severed hands, or hedgehogs, Ryne thought; anything was possible, where Isaac was concerned.

"Eris will have spies everywhere," Isaac said. "You'll need to be discrete."

"I know," Ryne said. "But the plan is—"

Isaac held the basket out. "Do you want a muffin? Before you're on the road again?"

Ryne paused. Strange, he thought; Isaac had spent the last few years poring over maps and reports of nightweaver activity, supply lists and weather patterns. He couldn't recall a time when Isaac hadn't demanded to know the exact details of a plan. But perhaps the war had changed him. They all carried ghosts on their backs.

"I'm not hungry," Ryne said, dropping the stirrup. "But thank-you." He paused. "You're prepared for your journey?"

Isaac nodded. "We'll leave at midday."

He ran a hand over his face. His grey eyes were bloodshot, and he was gripping the basket with enough force to break the braided handle.

"What's wrong?" Ryne asked.

Isaac paused. "What do you mean?"

"You look terrible," Ryne said bluntly.

Isaac gave him the ghost of a smile. "I don't know if you've heard, but there was a war going on. And I was imprisoned for several months."

Ryne crossed his arms. "Where were you the other night?"

Isaac blinked. "What?"

"I knocked on your door," Ryne said. "On the first night that the refugees arrived. You weren't there."

He'd gone by to borrow a quill, only to find the room empty. Isaac's things — a sword, the Webb family seal, a half-eaten sandwich — were scattered about, but there'd been no sign of him. Ryne had asked around, but nobody had seen Isaac since dinner.