Dried sweat was crusted against the back of Ren’s neck and made his forehead feel crinkly when he raised his eyebrows. He wrung out the washcloth he had used to scrub his face with and gave it another go, this time rubbing his throat, his shoulders, the front of his scalp. He was sore, exhausted, and starving. With a muster of energy, he tossed the damp cloth onto a wall-mounted hook near the wash basin and strode away.
In the wide dining hall where the magicians that came and went from the Isle dined, he was greeted by the warm smell of fresh bread and honey, as well as his brother Lerran’s perpetually scowling face. Ren slumped down in the chair across the long table from his brother and rested his head in his hands. “They’re working us to the bone.”
“And I can’t get to sleep for more than a few hours each night,” Lerran replied. “Because of this damned headache.”
Renado sighed. “What do you think of that magician, Gravagan?” They had not seen him since their meeting.
“What does it matter?” Lerran asked. He lifted a wet mug to his lips and took another drink, spilling more drips down its side. It was late in the afternoon, late enough for him to be here, drinking himself into a stupor. Normally, Tass prevented it, but Ren’s sister-in-law was growing moodier by the day it seemed. “He’s not telling us everything.”
“Without a doubt.” Renado nodded, and looked around. There were no servants on the Isle of Dusk, unless their masters were mages who brought them temporarily. He tapped the table and bobbed his head toward the kitchen when Lerran peered at him over the top of his mug. With a shrug, Ren went to find food.
When he returned to the table a few minutes later, Ren found his brother in the same shape. He dipped a broken piece of bread into a jam jar he had taken from the pantry and smiled as he took a bite. “At least they feed us well,” he said.
Lerran chuckled and raised his cup. “Here, here,” he said. A magician seated four chairs to his right gave him a disapproving frown. He glanced back to Ren and muttered, “You know Pralla—the woman we met earlier today?”
“Yes,” Ren said, “She was visiting the Isle from the Eye of Maga, right?”
Lerran nodded slowly. “I was speaking with Telan after that. Apparently, Pralla might be another option for healing my remaining symptoms. Or rather, her connections back home.”
“The healing waters of Maga are real?” Ren asked.
His brother nodded slowly. “But Telan wasn’t certain if Pralla would still be a part of that anymore. New regime there. New regime gods-be-damned everywhere.”
Renado took another bite of his bread and felt the energy started to return. The jam must have had some sugar in it. He washed the bite down with some of the honey mead he had smelled earlier and rolled his sore shoulders. One of the fighters training in the yard cried out, but the clack of sparring weapons continued.
If Pralla needed help securing that option of healing, Ren would need to be ready. We’re really in this, he realized, as soon as that consideration had crossed his mind. We prove ourselves if we kill Axar, and these are the allies we need.
Lerran took another glug of his rum and smiled weakly as someone passing by.
Ren ran a hand through his drying hair and leaned forward. “You said it was my decision,” he told his drunk brother. Lerran had been sober when they’d had the first half of this conversation, yesterday. “And I’ve made it. Let’s do as Gravagan suggested—I’ll accept a Journeying spell to carry me and my team to Ith. The more secure, and hopefully the faster, way.”
“Alright,” his brother mumbled. “But tell me again tomorrow.”
With a chuckle and a dab of bread into the berry jam once more, Ren patted his brother’s forearm and said, “Of course.”