Riley
The inn was called The White Stag and it was warm and low-ceilinged and smelled of woodsmoke and roasting meat and spilled ale, and under any other circumstances I would have been glad to see it.
I handed my horse to the stable boy and pushed through the door and stood for a moment letting the warmth hit me. The common room was half full — farmers mostly, a couple of merchants by the look of them, a table of men in the far corner who had the loud, loose quality of people several ales deep into their evening.
Donal came in behind me. Then Finn. Then Corbin, who looked around the tavern with the bright-eyed appreciation of a seventeen year old encountering his first proper inn without parental supervision.
“Food first,” Donal said wearily. “Then sleep.”
“I want to ask around,” I s
