The Olorians chose to bury the courier, freeing Shade and Seril up to leave Coelera. Once out of the town, Shade set a quick pace, as fast as he thought Seril could stay on horseback for. The kid definitely wasn’t up to a shouting conversation while clinging to his horse.

But Seril’s old chestnut couldn’t keep up that pace forever, so Shade took pity on the mare and slowed after a while.

“You’d bury someone?” Seril asked after he caught his breath.

The mare was still blowing. At least the boy seemed in decent shape. He wasn’t too confident on the horse, but he wasn’t a physical wreck.

He’d need a new horse, though, if he was going to survive.

“You know that’s what the religion of Olorvas requires, do you not?” Shade asked. Seril was young enough that he’d grown in up an Evendar occupied by Olor. His parents may have raised him—secretly—in the light of the Lady, but Olorian religion was impossible to ignore these days.

Or escape.

“Yes, but it’s wrong.” Seril swallowed like he wanted to vomit. “To leave someone unburnt and rotting is to let them wander, lost and alone, for eternity.”

Unbidden, an image rose in Shade’s mind, of an unburnt body on an unlit bier—Don’t think of that now. He pushed it aside as hard as he could, forcing himself to focus on the here and now, not the pain rising like acid in his throat.

“It’s never wrong to respect someone else’s beliefs. Doing so is what separates us from the Olorians. They’d bury us, despite what we believe. We will be better than that.”

“Is that…what Night Riders do?”

“Yes. We also find buried Evendarians, where we can, and burn them.”

“Oh.” Seril looked down at his white-knuckled hands, which clutched the reins just a little too hard. “I just thought it was about fighting Olorians.”

“We fight when and where we can. But we also help those who need it, when they need it. A Night Rider is never too proud to help however they’re needed,” Shade replied, “But worry you not. There is plenty of fighting.”

Seril’s smile was a fragile and nervous thing, the wide-eyed expression of a boy who’d never left home. “I want to be Warrior. I’ll fight however I can.”

“Warrior it is.”

A day’s ride brought them to Median, the very town Shade left those former slaves in less than a week earlier. Had it only been nine days? It felt like a lifetime. Coming here was risky; the other venatores were still out there, and they might circle back. But Shade judged that unlikely.

Besides, Median was the closest town to Coelera, and Seril—now Warrior—was not ready to weather a night on the road. And Shade still wanted that bath.

The Blue Horse usually had hot water, and Rhona Mus was one of the hospitia owners who Night Riders could trust more than most. Maybe with Warrior to watch his back, he’d finally get clean.

Shade glanced at the boy while they dismounted, watched his knees try to buckle, and watched him try to hide a yawn.

Or not.

Flipping a coin to the stableboy, Shade handed Vic over, grabbed his saddlebags, and gestured for Warrior to follow him. The boy trailed him on wobbly legs, clutching his cloak around himself like it was freezing out.

The Blue Horse was a larger-than-usual hospitia, comprised of three long, one-story buildings arranged in a horseshoe. The center courtyard lay behind a low wall and housed the bar, tables, and general revelry. In a time where Olorians claimed most successful businesses years ago, it remained Evendarian owned—mostly because Rhona straight-up paid tribute to Median’s Olorian overlords.

Median was a more corrupt town than most these days. The Olorians in charge were more interested in money than hard work, which left room for Evendarians to keep their property…at a price. It wasn’t kind, but it led to fewer physical abuses than you saw in many towns, so Night Riders generally didn’t interfere.

“The usual table, gentlemen?” One of Rhona’s waiters darted forward to greet them. He was a tiny man, with sparkling green eyes and carefully coifed hair, wearing an expression that said he was also there to cater to certain Olorian tastes.

Bile rose in his throat; Shade pushed it down. He could not save people from their own choices.

“Yes,” he replied, watching Seril—Warrior—look around with wide eyes.

The Blue Horse’s courtyard area was three times the size of the dining room at the Pocket. It was segregated, too; Rhona kept the Olorians to the front right, by the entertainment, and the Evendarians to the left. A fountain separated the two areas, bubbling with surprising energy.

Shade wondered who she bribed to keep that thing working.

“There’s already someone there,” the waiter said. “A friend of yours?”

“One can hope.”

“Another Night Rider?” Damn, it was hard to think of the kid as Warrior when he wiggled with excitement.

Shade shot him a glare; the boy’s eyes went wide. “If not, we have a problem.”

“Right. The Pocket always leaves a table open. They do that here, too?” At least he wasn’t stupid.

“They do.”

As they weaved through the tables at the waiter’s back, Shade let his eyes sweep over the crowd. The Olorians were raucous, cheering on the dancers—who, Shade noted, were behind a low barrier, probably to keep anyone from getting too handsy. Not that it would stop a determined Olorian, but Rhona had to try.

The Evendarians were quieter, mainly keeping to themselves. Some played at dice. But most ignored the cheering Olorians.

Much the same as in Median, then. Good.

The waiter dodged around a big man carrying dishes, allowing Shade a straight line of sight to the Night Riders’ normal table. There was a cloaked figure seated there, but his hood wasn’t up. Sharp blue eyes watched everything, framed by wrinkles in a hawklike face. His hair was steel gray, trending towards white, but he had the look of someone who could tear you to pieces, no matter what his age.

“Veracity,” Shade said, stopping at the table with Warrior on his heels.

“Shade.” The other Night Rider grinned. “You might be the only one who bothers to call me that nowadays. Everyone else gave up.”

“You might be the only one who ignores the damned rules.”

Veracity—Nelemart Ash, a former senior centurion in the Evendarian Army, of Ash’s Army fame and one of the most wanted men in Evendar—shrugged. “It’s not like they don’t already hate me. It makes me warm and fuzzy inside every time I think about Nydein’s reaction to me not being dead.”