Chapter Fourteen: Brotherhood
In the end, the bartender didn’t give Lilith liquor; he slid her a cup of hot milk, steam curling like morning mist.
Litt and Lilith, two little ones, hugged warm cups and plopped onto the bar stools, twin lanterns—one crimson, one sapphire—lifting to the man behind the counter.
Nidhogg ordered a soda water; the Black Dragon didn’t sit, just leaned on the pillar like a pine trunk, eyes closed, sipping ice like sleet against glass.
“You’re saying you got this token from ‘Mother’?” The bartender fished out another glass, polished it till it caught light like river-water, then glanced up at Lilith.
“Yeah. I told you the truth. If you don’t believe me, ask your ‘Mother.’ We’ve been away from Lamter so long she’s surely reconnected with you.” Lilith drank her milk with beer-bravado, slammed it down like thunder on ice, and jabbed a finger at him like a tipsy sparrow puffing up.
“You put something in the milk?” Nidhogg hooked an arm under Lilith, steady as a stone ridge, shook her head, and slid the hot cup aside. “She’s not the type to get drunk on milk.”
“How could I spike a guest’s drink? Don’t insult my craft!” The bartender’s tone snapped like dry twigs. “You didn’t order alcohol. By rights I should toss you all out. Don’t get cocky.”
“In a place like this, how much booze could there be anyway? Get real.” Nidhogg pressed Lilith’s temples, firm as a healer’s thumbs; the Little White Dragon squealed, ripples spreading through the tavern like a pebble in a pond, until even the corner patron looked up—then Nidhogg let her go.
Cleared up, the Little White Dragon switched to an iced soda matching Nidhogg’s; she chose to forget the awkward flare, sipped cool bubbles like snow blanketing a coal, letting them hide her blush.
“‘Mother’ told me this token buys me a favor. I want to know if that still counts.” Lilith set the token by his hand, swallowed the last of her soda like a bell note, planted her feet on the stool’s rung, and braced the table, voice steady as a drum.
“I’m not asking for something pricey. I want one piece of information—about what’s hidden deep in this city. Don’t tell me what it is; just tell me how to reach it. Is this token worth that?”
“For that level of request, you don’t need ‘Mother’s’ token. Any regular can buy it for two or three drinks.” He looped the token on his chest like a pendant, took her empty glass, and set down a pale-pink fizzy drink, soft as peach blossom.
“No alcohol. Relax and drink.” He winked, playful as a sparrow, pushing the glass her way.
Lilith tested it, lips brushing the fizz like a wave crest—peach soda. Not bad at all.
“Your ask is easy. For ‘Mother’s’ sake, we’ll tell you what lies in the city’s depths. But you’ll pay a price.” He pointed to the door like a cave mouth behind him. “Go there, drink a cup, and you’ll get everything you should get.”
“The price is a drink?” Lilith asked, wary as a cat under rain.
“If you want to call that thing a drink.” He shrugged, shoulders loose as reeds in wind. “No alcohol, but it’s not a pleasant brew. Go have a cup—then you’ll know it all.”
“Fine.” Lilith hopped down; the Little White Dragon sprang like a swallow over a wall, pushed open the door, and vanished without a backward glance into the dark.
“You’re not worried?” The bartender flicked a look at Nidhogg, now sitting where Lilith had been. The Black Dragon dragged Lilith’s soda over, mixed it with her own, two half-moons becoming one dull pool.
“Not worried. The kid’s sharp now; you won’t trip her.” Nidhogg took a sip, frowned as if biting nettles. “Tastes bad.”
“Then don’t mix them, tasteless brute.” The bartender snorted like a kettle venting and went back to his duel with glass and cloth, metal singing like rain.
Lilith pushed through the back door. The room beyond was dim, shadowed like a well; she felt along the wall, found a cord, and tugged. Light flared—an old kerosene lamp trembled like a firefly, swaying from the ceiling, just like the ones in backcountry farmhouses.
The room was small, barely enough for one table the size of the Little White Dragon; sure enough, a wood table sat in the center like a raft in a pond.
She slid through the gap by the wall like a mouse through a crack and took the seat. On the table rested a stone basin—big as three faces, heavy as a millstone. Glass jars lay scattered like dew-drops around it, and a sharp déjà vu pricked her.
“Meditation Basin?”
She tilted her head, unstoppered a jar. Blue smoke drifted out like river mist, drew a bright arc in the air like a crescent, and poured into the basin, turning into milky liquid, moonlight pooled at the bottom—almost drinkable by the look.
“Figures,” Lilith muttered, half amused, half weary. She blinked, then sank her face into the basin like diving into a clear lake.
Not liquid—memory, a tide of old days. It wrapped Lilith like a current, and the Little White Dragon stepped into a past carved like rings in a tree. There, she would learn everything she craved.
