45 Engraved In One's Heart And Carved On One's Bones 2/2

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銘心刻骨
Míng xīn kè gǔ.
Engraved in one's heart and carved on one's bones.
To remember a benefactor as long as one lives.

*~*~*~*~*~*

The following day Dunya brought Zakhar to another dull, dusty outpost town. The only difference from all the ones previously is that they had somehow reached the edge of the plains. Mountains, great forested mountains, rose suddenly behind the town, like protective elder siblings peering down on a younger brother.

The town had most amenities, a small market, a black smith, a scribe's office, and a worn down inn that a sign out front proclaimed 'The Lone Pine'.

This'll be my last stop, Zakhar decided.

As he was riding into the town he saw a few traders who knew what a good horse looked like, judging by their own mounts. They would recognize what a valuable horse Dunya was, and take good care of her. He would sell her tomorrow. And then head into the mountains on foot to... to...

Zakhar stabled Dunya himself at the inn, unsaddling her, cleaning her hooves, then rubbing her down and covering her carefully with her thick rug.

"Make sure she gets the best feed you have, and plenty of it," Zakhar said, flipping a coin to the stable boy. The boy nodded his shaggy head.

Inside the inn was much more welcoming than the tavern he had been in the day before. A merry fire burned in the hearth, crackling with fresh pine logs. The tables and benches were clean, and polished with age, rather than grease, and the patrons sat at them looked respectable, if poor.

Behind the bar was a selection of different drinks, some in bottles, some in barrels. There was also a pretty barmaid. At least, the twinkle in her spry eye was pretty, and her kind, motherly smile.

"What can I get you, young'un?" The old woman cackled amicably, wrinkles around her eyes crinkling.

"Food and a room for the night, please. And a bottle of your best drink. By best I mean strongest."

The woman fished under the bar and drew out a clear bottle of amber liquid sealed with red wax. "Half a this'll lay your horse out."

"I'll have the whole bottle."

Zakhar paid for his room and his drink, and went up the narrow stairs to his room.

Inside it was similarly cheerful to downstairs. A crackling fire in a hearth, polished wood furniture, and a small bed with a patchwork quilt thrown across it.

Zakhar stripped off his jacket, hung his saddle bags over a chair, and then threw himself across the quilt, bottle still in hand.

Rolling onto his back, he peeled off a ribbon of wax, and uncorked the bottle.

One sip and the liquid burned all the way down to his gut. Two or three sips later the world dulled, and all Zakhar could see was the blurry light of the fire dancing on the ceiling above his head.

But the feelings didn't dull. Zakhar took another swig, but they were still there. Zakhar felt so many things. Fear, sadness. Longing. But mostly he felt guilt.

Ao's face, angry and hurt, swam into his mind. How could I have made her so unhappy?

"Sanli was right... I shouldn't have gotten so close," Zakhar took a long swig.

He had gotten carried away, by the comfort Ao gave. Now he had memories to warm him. But what had Ao gotten in return?

About half the bottle later, there was a knock at the door. Zakhar opened it, after missing the doorknob several times, and looked up and down the hallway. No one was there.

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