Shadows of Myth. Rachel Lee

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      In the public room, all attention had fixed on Archer—or Master Blackcloak, as some called him. His two companions had disappeared into their room, unknown and unknowable, but Archer had joined the small group of men still remaining around the fire. He ordered a tankard of Bandylegs’ finest and put his booted feet up on a bench.

      “A caravan was attacked,” he said in answer to the questions. “Slaughtered, every man, woman and child. The only survivor I found is the woman I brought in.”

      “Who would do such a thing?” Nanue marveled. Traders and caravans were rarely attacked, for while they carried much wealth, they also traveled heavily guarded by stout men. It had been a very long time, a time almost out of memory, since anyone could recall such a thing.

      “And to kill everyone,” muttered Tyne, who was seated across the room. “Thieves need only to steal a packhorse or wagon. They don’t need to kill everyone.”

      “These weren’t thieves,” said Archer.

      A collective gasp rose. “How can you know that?” Nanue demanded.

      “Because all their goods still lay there. Bags of rice and wheat and dried meats. All of it lying there, cast about thither and yon, much ruined by blood and gore.”

      The silence that filled the room was now profound, broken only by the pop and crackle from the fireplace. The chill night wind seemed to creep into the room, even as it moaned around the corners of the inn. It was as if the fire had ceased to cast light and warmth.

      “Tomorrow,” Archer said, his voice heavy with something that sent chills along the spines of the perceptive, “I will return to the caravan. I will seek for some sign of the attackers, and for some sign of where they went after. I welcome any who care to join me.”

      “Join you?” asked Red Boatman, stiffening on his bench. “Why should we want to tangle with such things?”

      “Because you might be able to recover some wheat, meat and rice. Unless I mistake what I saw in your fields, you’ll have some use for it before this winter is done.”

      A few ayes rippled around the room.

      “But to steal from the dead…” Tyne sounded troubled.

      “They have no more use for it,” Archer replied. “’Twere better if it saved the children of Whitewater.”

      A stirring in the room, then silence. A log in the fire popped loudly.

      Archer put his feet to the floor and leaned forward, scanning every face in the room. “Mark me, there is evil afoot. Evil beyond any seen in your memory. Look to your larders and look to your weapons. For none will remain untouched.”

      Then he rose and strode from the room, his cloak swirling about him, opening just enough to reveal an intricately worked leather scabbard and the pommel of a sword. It seemed a ruby winked in the firelight.

      No one moved until his footsteps died away.

      “Who is he?” Nanue asked. “Should you trust him?”

      “Aye,” said Bandylegs, who’d been listening from behind the bar. “I’d trust him with my life, I would. None know anything about him, but he’s been passing through these many years, and never a bit of trouble come with him.”

      “Trouble has come with him this time,” Tyne responded darkly. “Much trouble indeed.”

      Bandylegs shook his head. “Next you’ll be telling me he brought the winter. Enough, Tyne. The man is right. If there’s food up there we can use, we need to get it for our families. Beyond that, I plan to stay safe behind these walls until spring.”

      A murmur of agreement answered him. It seemed the matter was settled. Once again tankards needed filling, and life settled back into it comfortable course.

      If Evil were afoot, it wasn’t afoot in Whitewater.

      Yet.

      4

      Firelight flickered over the dark wooden walls of the room. Sara lay on the settle, curled into a ball beneath a blanket, watching her charge sleep. The woman’s color had become more natural now, and her breathing had finally settled into an easy, regular rhythm.

      She thought she ought to sleep herself, now that it appeared the woman was going to be fine. But it was already approaching dawn, almost time to get up and rekindle the cook fires for baking bread. Almost time to go roll, knead and punch the dough, and set it to rise for breakfast.

      But not yet. For now she could lie on this settle and watch the light of the flames dance on the walls like creatures out of myth. The cold wind keened noisily, and the curtains over the windows stirred a little but kept the draft out. Those curtains had been made and mended by generations of Deepwell women, including her mother. She imagined that if she closed her eyes and touched the fabric she might be able to sense all the hands that had touched them and tended them.

      She sighed lightly and closed her eyes. She was so weary, far too weary for someone of her years. She was only twenty, but already life had become an endless grind of sameness. She loved her father, yes, and loved the inn, but the sameness of it all was not suited to someone so young. Then there was Tom. Sometimes he made her heart smile. Sometimes she looked at him and saw her future laid out in an endless progression of days all the same.

      She shook her head sternly, trying to brush away the thought. Such as she were not made for great adventures. She was made to run the inn in her father’s stead, and provide ale and food and shelter to all who needed it, to someday bear children of her own and raise them to the same solid life.

      The faint, sparkling dreams that sometimes tried to take hold of her were just that: dreams. She was blessed with a good life, and she knew she should be grateful for it.

      There was a light knock at the door. Rising, she cast aside the blanket and crept to the door to answer it.

      Her father stood outside, and in his arms he held a familiar white bundle topped by boots of the finest, softest white leather.

      “She’ll be needing something to wear,” he said gruffly.