Hadrian sat on a patch of grass, putting his back against a rock, and opened his own food sack. He had lots of apples rolling around the bottom, cheap and plentiful around this time of year. They didn’t have them in Calis and he’d bought a half dozen. He bit into one and fished out a chunk of cheese to go with it.
“What was that you slept on last night?” Royce asked.
Hadrian thought of saying “the ground,” then realized what he was getting at. “Canvas I coated in pitch. In the Gur Em everything is wet. You lay out a blanket and it will soak through. The pitch keeps the water out. This isn’t a jungle but I remember dew getting my bedding soaked just the same.”
Royce was nodding. “Interesting. Hadn’t thought of that. Good idea. Teach you that in the military?”
“No.” Hadrian shrugged. “Just got tired of sleeping soaked, and I was on a dock one day watching a sailor paint the top of his hat with pitch. Said he was waterproofing it. That gave me the idea.”
“Clever,” Royce said. There was a note of surprise as he peered at Hadrian through squinting eyes.
“I can make you one if you like. Just need to get another piece of canvas and find some pitch.”
“That’s okay. I’ll manage.”
“Not a lot of trouble and it can be tricky to get right. Too little pitch and the water still gets in. Too much and it will crack when you roll it. Water gets in the cracks and-”
“I’ll be fine.”
“No, really, I can show you-”
“I don’t need your help,” Royce growled. He reached back and pulled up his hood, which had been down most of the day.
There was no further conversation. They ate, mounted, and moved on.
Clouds rolled through, large gray things. A curtain of rain swept the horizon to the west but never came at them. Looking behind him, Hadrian realized what Dancer had known for some time-they had been slowly climbing for miles. Visibility was impressive. He couldn’t ever recall seeing so far. Whole forests looked like bushes, and the mountains that had appeared so grim and imposing the day before were tiny things. The tower continued to grow. Less blue, less hazy, the once-featureless column was made of blocks. Battlements ringed the top and were made of a different material, something bright like chalk-marble maybe. The whole thing had likely been dressed in the white stone-the whole castle perhaps-but the pretty material would have been scavenged. Hadrian had seen such things in Old Calis. Great fortresses gutted, the once-noble edifices used for field walls to corral sheep. The higher stone would have been too difficult to get. As pretty as the white slabs were, they weren’t worth dying for. The effect was dramatic-a gray tower with a white … crown.
Hadrian laughed to himself.
Royce turned to look.
“Crown Tower,” he said, pointing. “I get it now.”
Royce rolled his eyes.
The village of Iberton hugged the shore of a narrow lake that disappeared into foothills of yellowing grass. Dozens of boats bobbed at piers that jutted into the water like gapped teeth. Houses were small, quaint things of stacked stone with plastered uppers. Each one blew smoke from chimneys and sported a garden of ripe vegetables. Children ran across the docks while a pair of black dogs chased. After almost two days of Hadrian listening to the wind, their laughter was musical.
Beyond the lake, beyond the foothills to the north, the real mountains began. Snow-capped teeth rising jagged against the sky. Past them lay Trent, a whole different country. They had come to the ceiling of Avryn. The tower was just up the road and loomed over everything, except the mountains. It felt as if they had climbed a tall ladder and had reached the top rung. The view was impressive, but it was an uneasy perch.
Royce veered off the broad way to the narrow track leading to the village and dismounted before a small building with a signboard that was no more than a picture of a frothy tankard. Although it was growing late, it was much darker inside, and at first all Hadrian saw was the flicker of lanterns that hung from roof beams. He stopped at the entrance to grant his eyes a chance to adjust, but Royce continued forward, moving to a little table between a small stone hearth and the windows.
“How ya doing?” The man behind the bar greeted him with a big smile. He extended his hand and Hadrian had to take a couple quick steps to meet him. The proprietor had a firm grip and a wholesome way of looking him in the eye. “I’m Dougan. Who might you be?”
“Hadrian.”
“Nice to meet you, Hadrian. What can I get you?”
“Um…” He looked over at Royce, who was lost in the recesses of his hood again. “Beer.”
The bartender looked regretful. “Sorry, lad. We don’t offer beer. Beer is what you get in any shoddy tavern on any dusty road where they have barrels delivered by wagon after weeks of travel in the hot sun. This is Iberton. You’ll need to be more specific.”
All three of the other patrons seated at the rail nodded and looked his way with pitiable expressions. Each was an older gentleman, the sort he’d expect to find drinking while the sun was still shining. “I’m sorry. I’m not following. What do you offer?”
“Ale, and lots of it-the finest in Ghent.”
“The finest anywhere,” said the oldest of the rail’s crew. He wore a lengthy gray beard that nestled on the bar and a tattered traveling cloak that was torn and mended with various colored threads. “And I should know-I’ve been there.” He raised his mug. The rest imitated him, each taking a swallow, and the mugs all hit the wood again with a singular thud.
“I’ll have an ale, then,” Hadrian said with a smile.
Again the doleful looks.
“What kind?” Dougan asked, this time leaning over and resting his elbows on the counter. He jerked his head toward the walls where panel-painted advertisements hung. Each had some rendering of a mug, glass, or tankard spilling over and phrases such as A Taste of Summer’s Morn, Barley’s Banquet, Bittersweet to the Last.
The walls were covered and Hadrian just stared.
“Where you from?” Dougan asked, still looking up at him with that warm, cheerful smile.
“Rhenydd,” he said. Hintindar was too small for anyone to know.
“Ah … down south. First time up this way, then?”
Hadrian nodded. He was still looking at what he realized was the tavern’s menu scattered over the walls. Some were beautiful, lovely paintings of the lake or masterfully carved in bas-relief. Others were crudely chiseled or written on bark with charcoal.
“Okay, this here’s a barley town,” Dougan explained. “That’s what everyone does. They grow barley.”
“And fish.” This time it was the fat gent nearest the door. He wore a priest’s frock and spoke with his hands. He made a casting motion and added, “Lots of good fishing here, if that’s what you’re after.”
“I thought Ghent was big on sheep and wool?” Hadrian said.
“Oh, there’s plenty of that too,” Dougan said. “And if it’s a fine woolen tunic or cloak you want, I know the perfect place. But if it’s ale you’re after, you need walk no farther. Now, many people grow barley, and most of them who do make their own ale. This here is the perfect place for that. Barley farms and that lake out there provide the best ingredients in Elan. Just walk out and scoop up a bucket of water, and you’ll see that it’s crystal clear. We don’t even have a well. There’s no need. So all the big farms hereabouts have their own brands like Bittersweet and Summer’s Morn. Those are from farms up on the north shore, whereas Barley’s Banquet and Old Marbury are from the south.” Dougan pointed up at the shelf that ran near the ceiling that was lined in oversized, metal mugs. Writing was etched on each but was too far and too small for Hadrian to read. “Them’s the trophies handed out each year, and there’s a grand competition for the first place. So you can see Iberton takes its ale seriously.”