The Name of Names

𝕋𝕎𝕆

Ismira tightened the straps on her satchel, which was currently strapped to her horse. The beast shifted, and Ismira ran a hand over its muzzle to sooth it. In one fluid motion, she mounted, looking back at her parents, who stood close together, watching her.

"I'll be back in a few days." Ismira siad, a twinge of guilt playing at her.

Roran nodded once, and Katrina attempted a smile. "Then be safe. Alright?"

Ismira smiled. "Of course. I can defend myself." She opened a palm, whispering, "Brisingr." A flame appeared out of thin air, and then extinguished as Ismira released the spell. Magic always made her blood sing. Without it, she was merely breathing. Not feeling, not living.

With a twitch of the reins, Ismira guided the horse to face away from the house. With a slight press of her knees, the horse increased its pace to a slow trot, following the road that lead out of Carvahall. The gates were already open, allowing her to pass under them. The guards overhead watched her, not speaking a word.

The road snaked on in front of her, and she touched the side of her jacket, where a map was, to reassure herself it was there. She urged her horse to go slightly faster. The scenery scrolling was nothing new, at least not yet. In other trips she had seen this.

Gil'ead, though, was somewhere she had never been. Hopefully, it would hold more interesting things than the libraries of Carvahall and the surrounding towns. She smiled at the journey ahead, refraining from urging her horse faster. No need to hurry.

It was nearly nightfall when she reached the city halfway through to Gil'ead, Daret. Leading her horse towards a sign depicting a cut loaf of bread, she dismounted. A stable boy came out, and she handed the reins off to him, stepping through the coarse wooden door.

The usual smells and feelings that accompany taverns and inns hit her, but she kept walking. She had been in worse taverns then this. The ale and sweat permeated the room, and her lip lifted in distaste. Just because there were worse places didn't mean that she enjoyed this.

She stepped up to the counter, where a thin man was pouring glasses of ale for a group of men who had just walked in before her, from the looks of it. While he was pouring, Ismira took a moment to look at the men waiting.

They were definitely a group of mercenaries of some sort. The tattooes laced all over them eliminated "poor farmer" as a possibility of their trade. They were all armed to the teeth, knives lining their belts and across their backs. Only one man carried any other type of weapon: a bow, which was slung across his back.

Ismira immediately noticed that the man with the bow had a different aura than the rest. His hair was buzzed short, and a tattoo of a black dragon, coming up from his neck from where Ismira guessed it continued along his chest or arm. He glanced over at her, and Ismira held his gaze for a moment before looking at the barkeep, who had come to her.

"And what can I help you with?" Unlike most barkeeps, this one had a clean accent, almost sounding proper.

"A meal. And a room." Ismira said, still feeling the gaze of the bowman on her.

"Meal now or up in your room?"

"Now is fine." Ismira glanced over at the mercenary, who met her gaze, and then looked away. Something about him... intrigued her. What is your story? She wanted to ask. What brings you here?

The barkeep moved through the back door to what Ismira presumed was the kitchen, yelling something inaudible. Ismira tapped her foot quietly, stealing glances at the group beside her. All of them made quite the sight, and she only wondered if the barkeep was all that happy to have them here in his tavern.

She made a quick search around the room, noting the mostly empty tables. Whether that was from their presence or just from bad business couldn't be gleaned. Even if it was from them, Ismira noted, from the amount of ale they were drinking, it was possible the innkeeper was making up for the lack of customers just for the price of alcohol.

The barkeep returned minutes later, with a plate laden with food. He set it down in front of Ismira. "Anything to drink?"

"Just water." She certainly didn't want any less of herself about her.

He nodded, grabbing a glass cup and pouring cloudy liquid into it. Setting it in front of her, he moved away to other customers who had just entered. Ismira took one glance at the water, and decided she might be sick if she drank it.

Instead, she turned to the food. A slice of bread and meat, and a small mound of peas. She started eating, occasionally feeling the man with the bow watching her. Finally, she reached out with her mind, brushing against his hard enough that he should notice. Whether he would actually know what it was didn't really matter.

He stiffened visibly in his seat, and Ismira looked over at him, her emerald eyes catching his. One of her eyes lazily closed in a wink, and she turned back to her food. Magic users were dangerous to common people, even mercenaries. It surprised her greatly, then, when he stood up, moving over two seats to be next to her.

"That ability is dangerous, you know." He said under his breath, but somehow the feeling behind the words contradicted it.

"Not if you can control it right." She said back, glancing over at him. This close, she could see the intense detail on the dragon, and how a puff of smoke had been inked out of its mouth, curling around the man's ear. A single earring pierced it, gleaming dully in the low light.

A smile twitched at the corner of the man's mouth as he dipped his head. "Or," he added, "Not if you can use it right."

"Define right."

The man's eyebrow cocked. "And how would you do that?"

Ismira paused. "The concept of the end game. And the best option for it."

"That's not the typical answer you hear." He smiled. "But then it doesn't seem like you're the most typical farmer's daughter."

Ismira didn't need to ask how he knew that. Her clothes made it pretty obvious. Homespun, all of them. Brown trousers and a long sleeve red tunic. Plain and cheap. Farmer's clothes. Her cheeks twinged a faint pink, and she took another bite of food.

They sat in silence, neither willing to break it. One of the man's companions though, fully intoxicated, suddenly bellowed out. "Long should the king have lived."

The room went stone cold.

The bowman flinched, and moved back over to his original seat. He leaned over to his companion, murmuring words that Ismira couldn't hear. His lips, however, she could read. Those aren't words for here. Her brows furrowed.

The drunk stared at him for a moment, not comprehending.

"I think it's time you went to bed, yeah?" The man with the bow said, this time louder. When the drunk didn't move, he answered his own question. "Yeah."

Finally, he did, apparently aware enough of his senses to stumble up the stairs to his own room. Or to collapse outside of it, whichever happened first.

This time it was Ismira who changed seats, leaving behind her plate of food. The man looked over at her.

"You're Galbatorix supporters," She breathed.

"The king is dead. Can't really be supporters of a dead man." He took a swig of his ale.

"But you can support his ideas." There had been rumors of groups who were convinced the mad King was in the right. That the current rein, that of Queen Nasuada, was not greater than the one it had followed. Ismira had searched for more word of them, but nothing. And now...

"I keep my opinions to myself. Dangerous opinions can land you in a cell underground faster than the Kingkiller could light his sword on fire." One of the man's hands dropped from leaning on the table.

"Maybe dangerous opinions could find a table where they could... talk?" The man met her eyes, and Ismira didn't drop her gaze.

A faint smile lifted the corner of his mouth. "Maybe they could."