"To Murtagh!" called Erikkin, the bartender, raising a glass to the Rider before passing it to one of the numerous men in the bar.
"To Silver Hand!" the men echoed, raising their drinks in unison. They took long swallows, before slamming their cups back on the wooden tables. Many a drink sloshed out of their mugs.
"And to his young friend," said another, tipping his drink at Rune.
Rune giggled and brought a hand up to cover her smile. She brushed her hair away from her eyes with the other. It had been plaited into a thick braid by Murtagh for her journey, and she had been decked in a scullery maid's dress.
The dress had belonged to Rune's old chamber maid. But after the young woman had forgotten to dust Rune's room, she had never seen her again.
Murtagh brought a large mug to his lips, sipping at the frothy liquid inside. He grinned at Rune. "Erikkin! Another mug for this here lass!"
Erikkin poured the glass, before sending the waitress, a girl only about Rune's age with mousy brown hair, forward with the drink.
She set it on the table, one hand on her hip. Rune picked it up as the attendant girl scurried away.
Rune brought it to her lips carefully, hesitating before taking a big swallow.
"Ugh!" she cried, spitting it on the floor with a fowl expression. Around them, the men in the bar laughed.
"First drink, eh' fair lady?"
Rune wiped her mouth, spitting again. "What is that vile stuff?" she asked, coughing.
"Mead," Murtagh replied with a laugh. "Thorn loves it." He turned to Erikkin, "Perhaps some water then," he ordered.
The same serving girl delivered the water, and Rune took a huge gulp of it. She downed the water without even taking a breath.
Murtagh laughed again, patting Rune on the back. "That'll do, dove."
Rune stood up. "Murtagh, do you think we could…well, I've things I wanted to get done tonight and…"
Erikkin let out his booming laugh. "You needn't worry, lass. You'll have plenty of time to lay your Silver Hand later."
Rune was about to correct him, after all, he was saying…Her? Murtagh? Not a chance! But Murtagh gave her a face. Let it go. After all, Erikkin was only saying what he thought was true.
Rune shivered dramatically, making a disgusted face at Erikkin's proposal. Murtagh laughed, picking her up and swinging her over his shoulder. He set her back down in her chair, giving her a kiss on the cheek. "Plenty of time, dove. I thought you wanted to get out. What with your father…"
Rune opened her mouth the protest, but she realized that nothing Murtagh was saying was giving her away. After all, normal girls had fathers too, right?
She and Murtagh had agreed that there were to be no references on their midnight escapade to who she really was. This could prove dangerous for her. The king had enemies everywhere.
"To Freedom!" cried one of the men, raising a fist to the castle, which sat on the hill to the east. He took a deep swig of his drink.
"To Uru'baen!"
"And to the swine who rules it!"
Rune thought this seemed like some sort of tradition. Did they mock her father's name every night?
"May the Varden throw his kingdom to the dogs, and may he burn in Andlát with his vile Ra'zac!"
Rune leaned in to Murtagh. "Do they know what they are saying?" she asked, knowing that andlát meant simply death in the Ancient Language.
"None of them speak the old tongue, Rune," Murtagh whispered back. "To them, andlát means a place of torment."
Rune nodded. From her meager studies of the Ancient Language, she could barely tell the difference between seithr and slytha, but andlát was one word she knew well. She knew it well—because she was afraid of it.
"Why do they hate my father, Murtagh?" she asked quietly.
Murtagh looked at the ground. "I'm afraid that's a story for another time, dove."
Rune nodded, then stood up. If this was the real world—a mixture of mead, sweaty men, and cursing the name of her sire, then it was hardly all she had hoped for. Without glancing back, Rune fled.