Civilians called these gatherings lunatic’s banquets, but they were wrong. These celebrations only happened when the moon was thin and its influence as weak as it ever became—and these “banquets” were always one thrown chair from becoming bar brawls. Taverns throughout the city boiled over with guardsmen, runners, and panicked serving staff. They celebrated the waning of the moon—aware that tomorrow, the moon might be full and evil might walk.
Daline sat still within this chaos; she answered no conversation, accepted no drinks, and ignored every slap across the back and gesture to toast. She had her eyes locked on the sliver of moon visible through the window. She didn’t notice another runner leave the table until the shutters cut off the moon.
“Henrik?” She couldn’t hear herself over the tavern’s roar. She repeated herself after the man—built like an oak tree, but still one of the best runners they had—waded through the crowd back to her.
“Daline,” he said. When he sat back down, the woman realized that the other runners had put down their cups, had stopped their conversations, and were looking at her. Henrik fetched a small box from the coat slung over his chair. Daline stared at him, but her traitorous hands accepted the box when Henrik offered it to her. She pulled off the lid and shook aside some of the wood shavings filling it.
A fine-worked leather... necklace, wide and short. In the center, a pendant of worked silver depicting the crescent moon.
“A collar?” she said.
“A collar!” said one of the guardsmen from the next table. His companions broke into laughter. “Another dog? Really!” Daline’s head snapped to the side to stare at them; her chair slammed down on the floor as she stood. Her nostrils flared. Daline turned, then, on Henrik. She raised the collar to throw it back in his face.
He hadn’t moved; none of the other runners had reacted to the guardsmen’s catcalls. Daline’s eyes fell on the silver symbol at Henrik’s throat. Her gaze skipped from bared neck to bared neck; more runners at this table had collars than didn’t. She lowered her arm.
“We know,” Henrik said. Daline clenched her fingers on the collar.
“Thank you,” she said through gritted teeth. The silver burned against her skin.
Daline sat still within this chaos; she answered no conversation, accepted no drinks, and ignored every slap across the back and gesture to toast. She had her eyes locked on the sliver of moon visible through the window. She didn’t notice another runner leave the table until the shutters cut off the moon.
“Henrik?” She couldn’t hear herself over the tavern’s roar. She repeated herself after the man—built like an oak tree, but still one of the best runners they had—waded through the crowd back to her.
“Daline,” he said. When he sat back down, the woman realized that the other runners had put down their cups, had stopped their conversations, and were looking at her. Henrik fetched a small box from the coat slung over his chair. Daline stared at him, but her traitorous hands accepted the box when Henrik offered it to her. She pulled off the lid and shook aside some of the wood shavings filling it.
A fine-worked leather... necklace, wide and short. In the center, a pendant of worked silver depicting the crescent moon.
“A collar?” she said.
“A collar!” said one of the guardsmen from the next table. His companions broke into laughter. “Another dog? Really!” Daline’s head snapped to the side to stare at them; her chair slammed down on the floor as she stood. Her nostrils flared. Daline turned, then, on Henrik. She raised the collar to throw it back in his face.
He hadn’t moved; none of the other runners had reacted to the guardsmen’s catcalls. Daline’s eyes fell on the silver symbol at Henrik’s throat. Her gaze skipped from bared neck to bared neck; more runners at this table had collars than didn’t. She lowered her arm.
“We know,” Henrik said. Daline clenched her fingers on the collar.
“Thank you,” she said through gritted teeth. The silver burned against her skin.
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