Luneshale Pass fifty-first

Akhtar had busied himself among the people, sliding from person to person with a calm eye. Like a great heron, his long legs pushed through the crowds, easy smile plastered right where it belonged.

He even spoke to the princes he passed, offering them only this one concession and wrinkling his nose at them when their backs were faced from him. He picked his way out of the throng when he felt he’d greeted everyone beyond the pretty blonde foreigner, though he had waved a little at her daughter. The girl had ducked back behind her mother’s leg when he did, but stared at him owlishly around the appendage in such a way he had to laugh to himself.

Oh, to have the eyes of a child again.

His mouth wobbled.

No more of that, Akhtar. The past was meant to die, a knife in its chest. But it didn’t mean he couldn’t indulge in drink to fight the thoughts away. He made a predictable beeline for the cactus fruits, snagging one and carrying it to a side, where he would sit and partake. Ever watchful, even as he enjoyed the scenery. The last time he’d been to a party, he’d wound up watching a horse get murdered.

You could forgive him the eyeballing. Should someone come with a stallion all over again, he was throwing in the towel and returning to being a crazy desert hermit.