doubt that he could, like the Kier, make a person incredibly uncomfortable simply by watching out of eyes which seemed to take in everything and give nothing back.
Resentment swelled, and she decided to put off conversation. Flipping the comb onto his tumbled blankets, she slung her satchel across her shoulder and went out to order them breakfast. A handful of the Decians' coins stopped the innkeep's complaints, and a few more were sufficient to arrange for the Ibisian to be carried down later.
In a foul mood which seemed likely to only get blacker, Medair checked the sparse midday crowd for potential trouble, then took up a tray to the Ibisian. He was sorting his tangled hair into a slightly less haphazard braid, but there was far too much of it for him to hope for more. She certainly wasn't going to groom him.
Putting the tray within his reach, Medair retired to her own bed, taking up a bowl containing steamed grain and slivers of meat. Chewing a brown shred, she watched him pick a long string of dark green out of the snarled braid and drop it to the floor.
"Water weed," he said, the soft voice neutral rather than wry this time. That only made it worse, even more like Ieskar's. "I am sure there is a reason for that." He gave up on his hair and took up the second bowl in a hand which shook, his every action exuding a fragile dignity.
"Horse trough," Medair explained, and found herself abruptly amused. Already she could see that the man was used to command and comfort both. Most adepts were, and this one – there were surely few people who could manage to be at so bedraggled a disadvantage and still appear in charge of his situation. Those grey eyes flashed up to meet hers, then he returned his attention to eating, apparently requiring all his concentration to not drop the bowl. The bruise she had given him stood out shockingly against that white skin.
A part of her wanted to fling out of the room again, to get away, to not have to deal with this at all. But the geas removed running away from her choices. Trying to force herself out of her sullen temper, Medair finished her own bowl while he was still only halfway through his. She had only once been spell shocked, and had been among friends while she recovered. That weakling helplessness would be hard to bear for an Ibisian adept, especially when health and safety depended on a total stranger who had no reason to be kind about things like dropped bowls of stew or the necessity of relieving neglected bladders. She was almost as glad as he must have been that she'd slept while he attended the chamber pot.
And he would only have had a few disjointed moments of consciousness since the fire. Waking to be fed and to geas her, and next on the road when she'd hit him. Now here. She wondered if he was surprised to still be alive.
Two men from the stables had been given the job of carrying him down, and she was relieved to see them before the Ibisian had quite finished his meal. She hardly felt inclined to small talk. The stablemen were no more enthusiastic and made little concession to Ibisian dignity as they got him to his horse. All that loosely braided hair swung as he struggled to remain in the saddle, and his face was particularly expressionless. Not at all used to being heaved about like a sack of rotted potatoes, or being unable to fend for himself. She kept a sharp eye on him as they rode out of the town, wondering how long it would be before he fell off.
"Ebbsy," he said, correctly identifying the town as they left it. It hadn't been a question, so she didn't bother to reply, only just controlling her reaction to that damnable voice. "We will need to press hard to reach Thrence today," he added.
Medair slowed her dun and looked at him. Grey eyes swung to meet hers and she noted that he was ready for an argument. And here she had been wondering how far she dared press him for speed, her mind on five men in
Resentment swelled, and she decided to put off conversation. Flipping the comb onto his tumbled blankets, she slung her satchel across her shoulder and went out to order them breakfast. A handful of the Decians' coins stopped the innkeep's complaints, and a few more were sufficient to arrange for the Ibisian to be carried down later.
In a foul mood which seemed likely to only get blacker, Medair checked the sparse midday crowd for potential trouble, then took up a tray to the Ibisian. He was sorting his tangled hair into a slightly less haphazard braid, but there was far too much of it for him to hope for more. She certainly wasn't going to groom him.
Putting the tray within his reach, Medair retired to her own bed, taking up a bowl containing steamed grain and slivers of meat. Chewing a brown shred, she watched him pick a long string of dark green out of the snarled braid and drop it to the floor.
"Water weed," he said, the soft voice neutral rather than wry this time. That only made it worse, even more like Ieskar's. "I am sure there is a reason for that." He gave up on his hair and took up the second bowl in a hand which shook, his every action exuding a fragile dignity.
"Horse trough," Medair explained, and found herself abruptly amused. Already she could see that the man was used to command and comfort both. Most adepts were, and this one – there were surely few people who could manage to be at so bedraggled a disadvantage and still appear in charge of his situation. Those grey eyes flashed up to meet hers, then he returned his attention to eating, apparently requiring all his concentration to not drop the bowl. The bruise she had given him stood out shockingly against that white skin.
A part of her wanted to fling out of the room again, to get away, to not have to deal with this at all. But the geas removed running away from her choices. Trying to force herself out of her sullen temper, Medair finished her own bowl while he was still only halfway through his. She had only once been spell shocked, and had been among friends while she recovered. That weakling helplessness would be hard to bear for an Ibisian adept, especially when health and safety depended on a total stranger who had no reason to be kind about things like dropped bowls of stew or the necessity of relieving neglected bladders. She was almost as glad as he must have been that she'd slept while he attended the chamber pot.
And he would only have had a few disjointed moments of consciousness since the fire. Waking to be fed and to geas her, and next on the road when she'd hit him. Now here. She wondered if he was surprised to still be alive.
Two men from the stables had been given the job of carrying him down, and she was relieved to see them before the Ibisian had quite finished his meal. She hardly felt inclined to small talk. The stablemen were no more enthusiastic and made little concession to Ibisian dignity as they got him to his horse. All that loosely braided hair swung as he struggled to remain in the saddle, and his face was particularly expressionless. Not at all used to being heaved about like a sack of rotted potatoes, or being unable to fend for himself. She kept a sharp eye on him as they rode out of the town, wondering how long it would be before he fell off.
"Ebbsy," he said, correctly identifying the town as they left it. It hadn't been a question, so she didn't bother to reply, only just controlling her reaction to that damnable voice. "We will need to press hard to reach Thrence today," he added.
Medair slowed her dun and looked at him. Grey eyes swung to meet hers and she noted that he was ready for an argument. And here she had been wondering how far she dared press him for speed, her mind on five men in
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