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Tavaro leaned back against the wall at the rear of the room, his shoulders resting lightly against the wood. He sipped slowly at his mug of sweet tea, savoring the warm liquid. Last night he’d been hard put to sleep; too many remembrances had ridden in through his opened window, sorrows borne on the cool night wind.
He’d left the inn and walked the better part of the night, sliding through the darkness beneath the trees as silent and as swiftly as an owl. Clouds scudded across the dark sky parting now and then to bring him brief glimpses of the stars. Their silvered light gave him no comfort. Now, in the day’s light, in the warmth of this small, close room, he was glad to be in the presence of the gathered periain, taking comfort in the ebb and flow of the small ordinary moments of their lives. Even in the midst of their present predicament they were so full of vitality.
The Elf’s glance fell on a familiar face; Miribelle Rushybanks, there at the door. He stepped forward and raised his hand in greeting, motioning for her to join him at one of the tables. He sat his mug on the table top and stood waiting for her to cross the room.
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