A Flame in Hali Read Online Free PDF

layers of his clothing. His thoughts cleared, pain pushing back the craving for an instant. The desire for drink receded a fraction and an even deeper craving came roaring up in his belly, the crushing urgency to find—to destroy—
    Kill . . . K-k-kill ... The syllable fractured like the clacking pincers of a Dry Towns scorpion.
    Crying out, he crumpled against the wall. Though he tore at his face with his hands or covered his ears or drank an ocean of ale, he could not shut out the silent, insistent demand.
    Escape was impossible. It always had been. What a fool he had been, to think it might be otherwise.
    Despair raced through him, wave after wave so deep he could not contain it. How long he lay there, half propped against the crude wall, half sprawled in the muck of the gutter, he could not tell.
    Eventually, his thoughts began to stir, along with renewed thirst.
    Drink—drink would ease the noose around his soul. Just this once. Not enough to get stinking drunk, just to take the edge off so he could think straight.
    A couple of hours mucking out stalls at one of the poorer stables and the sale of his bundle of filthy clothes brought him enough to buy a pitcher of ale, the cheapest he could find.
    In the ale house, Eduin found a rickety table jammed against a corner that smelled of mildew. At the bar, men quaffed their drinks and laughed, telling coarse stories. He was content to be left alone.
    He drank quickly at first, as he usually did. The first gulps scoured his throat as they went down. He closed his eyes, waiting for the familiar warmth to seep into his belly. Another gulp, and then another. Soon he no longer tasted the stuff; his throat seemed to open up and draw it in. Relief spread through him, a softening of the driving need. Sighing, he poured the last of the pitcher into his tankard and downed it.
    He staggered only a little as he went up to the bar for another. One of the men was telling a story about a drunken farmer and his long-suffering chervine . Eduin found himself laughing, a chuckle that shook his body, rolling through him. Someone slapped him on the back. “Another round for this fine fellow.”
    Eduin accepted another full tankard and lifted it in salute. It flowed down his throat like honey. Someone began a song, others stamping or clapping their hands with the beat.
    “Here’s to the man who drinks good ale
And treats his friends as well, oh!
Here’s to the man who drinks good ale
For he’s a carefree fellow . . .”
    Eduin slapped down the last of his earnings for another pitcher. One song rolled into the next. He retreated to his corner, content to hum along from the shadows. The world went swimmy except for the blessed stillness inside. Slumping against the wall, he cradled the pitcher. It sloshed reassuringly and then it did not slosh at all. He tipped it over. In his doubling sight, it seemed to be empty.
    That did not matter, it was enough to simply sit here . . . to lie here, on the floor, wedged in between table leg and wall, his body curled around a knot of blissful silence.
    Voices reached him, but he waved them away, Let me sleep. They went away for a time, then returned, more annoying and insistent than before.
    “On your feet, friend . . .” The voice—voices—had a peculiar echoing quality. “Closing time. Do you have a place to go?”
    Then he was upright, hard hands digging into his armpits, the world tilting and whirling about him. His legs moved beneath him as if they belonged to someone else.
    “Lea’ me alone . . .” So warm, so still.
    “I’ll take care of him.” The voice was ale-roughened but familiar—the man who’d bought the round of drinks.
    “How ’bout another?” Eduin asked.
    “Better take him to the King’s shelters,” the man said, placing a hand on Eduin’s shoulder. “Out of the cold, just the place—”
    No! There would be Comyn youth serving as cadets, City Guard everywhere. He’d be recognized—
    Eduin jerked away. “Don’