Rianor Sudrath awoke long before sunrise.
The rhythmic snoring of Roland still drifted from the adjacent mattress. Rianor slowly sat up. Instantly, every bruise from last night's beating throbbed with a dull ache. Fortunately, no bones were broken.
He stepped out of the room, closing the heavy oak door behind him with utmost care, and walked down the dim corridor toward the washroom at the end of the hallway.
The water in the antique tin basin was ice-cold. Rianor stared at his reflection on the still surface. Swollen purple bruises stood out. A split eyebrow bore the crust of dried blood, and his lip was jaggedly cut.
Decidedly inelegant.
Rianor splashed his face with the freezing water. The biting chill helped numb the throbbing pain.
