Dreams of Giants -- Chapter 6, Part 2

The fireplace in the inn flickered with a small flame. It crackled, emitting the potent whiff of burning wood into the air. Miana felt the feeling slowly return to her fingers. She swallowed a mouthful of her wine that sent a shiver down her back. She had paid for a room for the night, and doubted she would have any trouble getting to sleep.

When the door of the inn swung open again, her unease returned as quickly as it had abated. An old man limped in supported by his wooden cane. He was bald with a short gray beard and carried a sack over his shoulder. Was he the rider of the silhouette? If he was, his age had clearly not affected his skill as a rider. Not a few moments ago, he'd seemed still quite a distance from the inn. She shivered from more than just the cold.

The man hadn't looked her way at all, which was a good sign. She might be able to get out of this unnoticed. She eyed her bag that held The Book of Truth wearily. Why had she agreed to this? But she deflected her protests in favor of a more optimistic position: This was the adventure that she had always dreamed about. Wasn't it?

She buried her face in the wine goblet, and ignored her stomach's unease. The knife at her ankle suddenly felt a little heavy. She became aware of its presence once again as she stared over the top of her glass at the man who had entered the inn. Miana hoped she wouldn't have to use it. And if she did, she hoped it would help. The old man still hadn't looked in her direction: a good sign.

And then he turned.

He walked straight across the lobby towards her, limping, with his staff tapping behind him. Miana's hand reached instinctively to her knife.

“Don't take it out,” the man said as she reached for it, somehow knowing what she was about to do .

Miana ignored him, and palmed it, withdrawing it from it's sheath at the base of her leg.

“Kindly replace it in its sheath,” the man said. “If you oblige me, I will be gracious with you. I do not feel comfortable talking with a woman while she wields a knife.”

Miana felt herself falter. The man's voice was strong and penetrating despite his frail appearance. A thin wisp of smoke drifted across the room from a nearby table. Nobody at any of the other tables seemed to have noticed Miana's plight. She slipped her knife back into her boot, hoping that the old man wouldn't be foolish enough to try attack her with so many people around.

“Thank you,” the man said. A warm smile crept onto his face that had previously been devoid of emotion. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down at the empty chair at her table and pulled out a pipe. “I suppose it'd be polite to introduce myself.”

“You could say that,” Miana said cautiously.

“My name,” he said, “is Baduin Quirantino.” He paused as if waiting for response.

“Am I supposed to know who you are?” she asked. This arrogant old fellow acted as though he was the Quirantino who wrote The Chronicles of the Earth itself.

“I would have expected somebody who grew up in The Library of Kavaria to be able to answer that question,” he said simply.

The candle on the center of the table flickered and then died. Miana did not respond. She quickly slid back into her chair. The other tables were still illuminated but very little light reached the table.

“You know who I am,” Quirantino said. And suddenly she knew. She didn't know what brought about the change in her perception, but she was suddenly certain that she was talking to the writer of The Chronicles of the Earth.

“Yes,” she said. “I know who you are. But how do you know who I am? Why have you followed me?”

Quirantino looked her in the eye. “I come to ask a favor.”