Joratese townsfolk sheltered from the weather here and many were enjoying an afternoon meal. Kihrin forced himself not to stare; Joratese skin colors varied as much as their horses, with similar markings. Everyone wore their hair long and straight—loose or in intricate decorated braids. Some townsfolk shaved the sides of their heads so a single strip remained, mimicking equine manes. And all either sported plain earth-toned attire or bright clothing paired with all the jewelry they owned. Kihrin couldn’t tell if the difference in styles showed rank or fulfilled some other social role, but it seemed independent of gender.

The townsfolk’s return stares were far less polite than his own. All chatter in the area died away.

“Kihrin?”

He turned to see a woman his age, standing by the fire.

Kihrin’s breath caught in his throat.

She was as Joratese as everyone else in the room; she was nothing like anyone else in the room. Everything about her was red—her skin burnt sienna, her eyes ruby. He’d imagined meeting her so often that seeing her in person struck him as ludicrous. A demon prince named Xaltorath had shown her image to Kihrin once, years before. Kihrin had never been able to push her memory away. She defined the meter by which he measured all beauty.

And she was there. She was right there.

Impossible. The idea he’d travel to Jorat and run into his dream woman at the first ale house defied credulity. The Goddess of Luck favored him more literally than most, but there were limits.

So this must be a trick. Bait.

He suddenly felt insulted; it wasn’t even subtle bait.

She gave him a smile that outshone the sun, to his dazzled eyes. “I’m so glad you’re here. Please, join us.” She gestured next to her. A thin, small western Quuros man sat with her, dressed in a priest’s robes and agolé. He looked like someone resigned to being an awkward third wheel.

She stopped smiling as Kihrin again placed a hand on his dagger.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Kihrin said. “I’m Kihrin. And you are?”

The joy drained from her eyes. “You don’t remember me.”

“I’ll repeat myself: we’ve never met.”

The surrounding people started grumbling. A man in the back even stood up. No doubt they felt the need to protect their own from a random outlander.

She turned to the tavern and made a shushing motion. “It’s fine. He’s my guest. Free drinks for the room on my tab.” That earned cheers, with laughter mixed in, as if she’d said something funny. Kihrin added it to his list of reasons to distrust the situation.

“Perhaps you might sit down,” said the priest. “We’ll introduce ourselves and explain matters.”