33
FARES
The little room at the roadside inn is plain:
Two thin, straw-stuffed mattresses, low to the ground. One peeling nightstand between them.
Nothing else.
The Trusty Mare, it’s called. Fares doesn’t think patrons stay here long. There are no comforts, no dresser or drapes, and the facilities are shared – a dark, stinking cubby fixed with a brass chamber pot at the far end of the hall.
Fares doesn’t care about that.
He curls his body around Tomas, sharing his bed, while Hayden stokes the fire.
“We’ll keep him warm,” she said, “till the doctor arrives.”
Now the little room is blazing hot, but Fares says nothing about it. He keeps a scratchy quilt tucked over Tomas, who is shivering and pale, with a fat lip and fluttering lashes.
“Will you pray with me?” Fares says. He’s
