There were more travelers at the inn during these journeying months. Dwarven smiths, occasionally an elf, many humans, and more kender than anyone cared to think about, generally kept Slegart and his barmaids busy from morning until late, late at night.
But this evening was quiet. It was a soft, fragrant summer evening. The twilight lingered on in hues of purple and gold. The birds had sung their night songs and were now murmuring sleepily to their young. Even the old trees of Wayreth seemed to have been lulled into forgetting their guardian duties and slumbered drowsily at their posts. On this evening, the inn itself was quiet, too.
It was too quiet, so two strangers thought as they approached the inn. Dressed in rich clothing, their faces were covered with silken scarves — an unusual thing in such warm weather. Only their black eyes were visible and, exchanging grim glances, they quickened their steps, shoving open the wooden plank door and stepping inside.
Slegart sat behind the bar, wiping out a mug with a dirty rag. He had been wiping out that same mug for an hour now and would probably have gone on wiping it for the next hour had not two incidents occurring simultaneously interrupted him — the entry of the two muffled strangers through the front door and the arrival of the servant girl, running breathlessly down the stairs.
"Your pardon, gentlemen both," Slegart said, rising slowly to his feet and holding up his hand to check one of the strangers in his speech. Turning to the servant, he said gruffly, "Well?"
The girl shook her head.
Slegart's shoulders slumped. "Aye," he muttered.
"Well, p'rhaps it's better so."
The two strangers glanced at each other.
"And the babe?" Slegart asked.
At this, the servant girl burst into tears.
"What?" Slegart asked, astonished. "Not the babe, too?"
"No!" the servant girl managed to gasp between sobs. "The baby's fine. Listen — " A faint cry came from overhead. "You can hear 'er now. But… but — oh!" The girl covered her face with her hands. "It's dreadful! I've never seen anything so frightening — »
At this, one of the strangers nodded, and the other stepped forward.
"Pardon me, innkeep," the stranger said in a cultivated voice with an unusual accent. "But some terrible tragedy appears to have happened here. Perhaps it would be better if we continued on — »
"No, no," Slegard said hastily, the thought of losing money bringing him to himself. "There, Lizzie, either dry your tears and help, or go have your cry out in the kitchen."
Burying her face in her apron, Lizzie ran off into the kitchen, setting the door swinging behind her.
Slegart led the two strangers to a table. "A sad thing," said the innkeeper, shaking his head.
"Might we inquire — " ventured the stranger casually, though an astute observer would have noticed he was unusually tense and nervous, as was his companion.
"Nothin' for you gentlemen to concern yourselves with," Slegart said. "Just one of the serving girls died in childbirth."
One of the strangers reached out involuntarily, grasping hold of his companion's arm with a tight grip. The companion gave him a warning glance.
"This is indeed sad news. We're very sorry to hear it," said the stranger in a voice he was obviously keeping under tight control. "Was she — was she kin of yours? Pardon me for asking, but you seem upset — »
"I am that, gentlemen," Slegard said bluntly. "And no, she warn't no kin of mine. Came to me in the dead 'o winter, half-starved, and begging for work. Somethin' familiar about her there was, but just as I start to think on it — " he put his hand to his head — "I get this queer feelin'… 'Cause of that, I was of a mind to turn her away, but" — he glanced upstairs — "you know what women are. Cook took to her right off, fussin' over 'er and such like. I got to admit," Slegart added solemnly, "I'm not one fer gettin' attached to people. But she was as pretty a critter as I've seen in all my born days. A hard worker, too. Never complained. Quite a favorite she was with all of us."
At this, one of the strangers lowered his head. The other put his hand over his companion's.
"Well," said Slegart more briskly, "I can offer you gentlemen cold meat and ale, but you won't get no hot food this night. Cook's that upset. And now" — the innkeeper glanced at the still-swinging kitchen door with a sigh — "from what Lizzie says, it seems like there's somethin' wrong with the babe — »
The stranger made a sudden, swift movement with his hand, and old Slegart froze in place, his mouth open in the act of speaking, his body half-turned, one hand raised. The kitchen door stopped in mid-swing. The servant girl's muffled cries from the kitchen ceased. A drop of ale, falling from the spigot, hung suspended in the air between spigot and floor.
Rising to their feet, the two strangers moved swiftly up the stairs amid the enchanted silence. Hastily, they opened every door in the inn, peering inside every room, searching. Finally, coming to a small room at the very end of the hall, one of the strangers opened the door, looked inside, and beckoned to his companion.
A large, matronly woman — presumably Cook — was halted in the act of brushing out the beautiful hair of a pale, cold figure lying upon the bed. Tears glistened on the cook's kindly face. It had obviously been her work-worn hands that had composed the body for its final rest. The girl's eyes were shut, the cold, dead fingers folded across the breast, a small bunch of roses held in their unfeeling grasp. A candle shed its soft light upon the young face whose incredible beauty was enhanced by a sweet, wistful smile upon the ashen lips.
"Amberyl!" cried one of the strangers brokenly, sinking down upon the bed and taking the cold hands in his. Coming up behind him, the other stranger laid a hand upon his companion's shoulder.
"I'm truly sorry, Keryl."
"We should have come sooner!" Keryl muttered, stroking the girl's hand.
"We came as quickly as we could," his companion said gently. "As quickly as she wanted us."
"She sent us the message — »
" — only when she knew she was dying," said the companion.
"Why?" Keryl cried brokenly, his gaze going to Amberyl's peaceful face. "Why did she choose to die among
.. among these humans?" He gestured toward the cook.
"I don't suppose we will ever know," said his companion softly. "Although I can guess," he added, but it was in an undertone, spoken only to himself and not to his distraught friend. Turning away, he walked over to a cradle that had been hastily constructed out of a wood box. Whispering a word, he lifted the enchantment from the baby, who drew a breath and began whimpering.
"The child?" the stranger said, starting up from the bed. "Is her baby all right? What the servant girl said…" There was fear in his voice. "It isn't, it isn't dea-" He couldn't go on.
"No," said his friend in mystified tones. "It is not what you fear. The servant girl said she'd never seen anything more frightening. But the baby seems fine — Ah!" The stranger gasped in awe. Holding the baby in his arms, he turned toward his friend. "Look, Keryl! Look at the child's eyes!"
The young man bent over the crying baby, gently stroking the tiny cheek with his finger. The baby turned its head, opening its large eyes as it searched instinctively for nourishment, love, and warmth.
"The eyes are… gold!" Keryl whispered. "Burning gold as the sun! Nothing like this has ever occurred in OUR people… I wonder — »