Regardless of the way she played at anonymity, Vera could feel eyes on her. The mug of ale placed at her table was too big for her to fit her fingers around. The liquid sloshing at the sides was less appealing than she thought it'd be. Martine was going around, getting people's attention. Vera knew she had only a few moments before she had to draw back her hood, announce what the King had said to her and leave the tavern again. She wondered why it was that she wasn't the sort to enjoy a drink or sit at a table, playing cards. It seemed as if Eithne and Cols could turn their concern for Tyrus and what was ahead of them on and off. Vera hadn't doubted their sincerity during the battle, but she felt a brief flash of envy for that talent -- to live a normal life outside of the Rider's uniform or a lady's gown. How did a person remove their mask and not feel it was still covering up the face? How did one wear the clothing that she wore and not feel it was part of the skin?
She flattened her palms against the table and looked right. That she saw Eragos, against the wall by the door, felt more like coincidence than anything else. Vera had tried not to look for him since arriving here if only because that would mean facing him. When her heart was raw, Vera knew she said stupid things. She still hated the thought that he’d had to carry her, for whatever amount of time, and that she hadn’t been able to walk from that battle. The caravan arrived successfully in the City of Tyrus, but her own weakness made her feel that there had been enough failure to sober her for the next few months. She didn’t need to be any more sober than she was…but there was little she could do to control her own fate. Eragos had probably been in pain when he’d carried her. Vera couldn't see his face, only the smoke curling outward from his pipe, but she knew somehow that she had his eyes. She should have tried to smile for him. She hadn’t done that in too long. Instead, Vera looked back down at the table again, listening to people passing and pausing.
It was an odd moment to remember her conversation with Alatáriël, but the thought came into her mind so quickly that she didn’t have the opportunity to trace the root of it.
"Your enemy is not the cult, Vera. But a person powerful and intelligent enough to lead the cult and mislead the Guardsmen.”
If only the Elf had known how very right she was. If only Vera could stand up and say to these people that the threat was gone, that Sisenand would have the situation in hand. Vera did not like the idea of leaving things to hope, but that was all she could do now. She couldn’t speak on the Grey Riders to the villagers. She hadn’t been able to bring the King sufficient proof to present the true threat to him. She wouldn’t be able to bring any more proof to High Lord Arand, that someone was trying to sabotage the White Riders. Vera was stuck, once again, in a position where she knew there was a monster in the dark…and couldn’t take the right aim at it.
Yes. She wished she could drink her ale. She wished she could enjoy the night. But the room had gone quiet, thanks to Martine, and now it was time to stand up.