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one as wretched as this man having a steed such
as the mare, but she said no more about it. Hesitating, he could
feel her appraise him further. “Thank you for the water,” he said.
“I will be a bit longer.”
    “I’ll leave you then. If you do not
eat, you will need to pay before you sleep.” She seemed to indicate
this would be the last of her visits to the room and turned,
pulling the door closed behind her.
    Ravan used the last basin of
steaming water to finish his bath, rinsing thoroughly, finally
washing the remnants of a year’s imprisonment from himself. Rubbing
his skin nearly raw with the fresh towel she’d brought, he reveled
in the decency of cleanliness for the first time in so very
long.
    It was only then that he caught his
dim reflection in the small window of the room. He could barely
make out the almost too lean outline of his body, the grim set to
the jaw. This was a man who’d known hunger—of that there was no
question. The bruises were already beginning to fade. But the eyes,
they were too dark, too deep to see clearly. He shrugged, brushing
it off as a poor reflection. Ravan was what he was, the mercenary
who’d cheated the executioner’s noose and stepped back from death’s
door. And now…he was a free man.
    Leaving the soiled tunic with the
pile of hair, he donned the fresh shift and snatched his trousers
from the sash. He pulled them on and slipped back into his boots
before securing at his waist the belt, sheath, and knife. Then he
ran his fingers through his damp hair, sweeping it back and behind
his ears. If he could have seen his eyes, he would have seen that
they were bright and clear, with all the promise of a good destiny
dancing in them.
    Feeling revived a great deal, he
unraveled the spool of linen, pulling a good length of it around
the footboard post. Meticulously, he twisted and at the same time
twined the two long threads, coiling them around each other before,
in the end, creating loops for either end. He lacked the wax to
finish the string properly, so he spit upon it until he had the
fibers just so. Finally, and because he’d done it so many times
before, Ravan created a good bowstring that would serve him well
enough.
    Reaching for the bow that was
leaning dysfunctional in the corner, he looped the string on one
end of it—the one by his foot. Stepping through the ‘V’ he created,
he bent the bow around the back of his leg, pulling hard, arcing
the weapon so that he could hook the other loop end of the string
to it. The bow was bent as it should be, the string taut and
strong.
    Holding it at arm’s length, it
warmed him somewhere deep within to have a functional bow again.
Next, he must find a suitable sword, but for now this would
suffice. Pulling on the bow, he tested the tensile strength of it
before he was ultimately satisfied.
    “Good,” he murmured aloud to
himself.
    Returning the bow to the corner with
the scabbard of arrows, he coiled the remainder of the linen
carefully back onto the spool. Then he decided he was very nearly
starved and that it was time to head downstairs for a meal. At
first it worried him, to leave his bow and arrows in the room, for
he was not given a key. Apparently the only one with a key was the
girl, and all rooms could be barred from within when the patrons
retired. But then he realized there was no obvious exit other than
the front of the inn, and so any who might try to steal from him
would have to pass him in the main room. It seemed reasonably
secure, and he did not wish to appear armed. So the bow remained
behind, and he left with only his blade strapped at his
side.
    Satisfied, down the hall he went,
descending next the narrow flight of stairs. As he approached the
common room, he was overcome again with an unfamiliar feeling. He
was a free man—free to choose his path, free to choose his dinner,
free to choose his death. This prompted a true smile, bittersweet
though it was, from the face of the mercenary.
    The man who