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“Just one drink, before you go.” Sten had responded to Alistair’s request with a single nod; Alistair hadn’t really been certain whether to expect him, but here he was, walking into the dockside tavern, silently examining the room before joining Alistair at the bar and signaling the bartender for a glass.
“Is this an appropriate place for a king?” Sten took the pint of ale he had been handed and sipped from it.
Alistair shrugged. “I suppose I’ll have to start worrying about that soon enough. But as long as I can get away with being a simple man, I will.”
Sten nodded, and they drank together in silence, leaning against the bar together, Alistair taking the occasional quick glance at Sten’s impassive expression. When his glass was empty, Sten rested it lightly on the bar, then turned to face Alistair. “You are not the man I thought, when we first met,” he said. “But you are not only a fine warrior, you will make a fine king.” He raised his chin. “The next time we meet, it may be on a battlefield. Most likely, not on the same side.”
“I know,” Alistair said. “I’ll pray it doesn’t come to that, but if it does…” He spread his hands wide. “I have a duty to my countrymen. As you do, to yours.”
“And so we understand each other.” Sten lifted his pack to his shoulder — his sword was already on his back — and lowered his head. “Fare well, basalit-an.”
“And you, my friend.” Alistair lifted his hand to his chest in salute and did not move until Sten was gone, through the door and out of sight. Then he signaled the bartender for another drink, and sat down alone.