Elle smiled.
Minser fiddled with a bronze medallion he wore on his chest. Elle could not see it clearly but caught a glimpse of an engraved flower.
“Is that a religious symbol, Minser? Did you turn holy man while you were away?”
She was jesting, but Minser responded with seriousness. “This?” He withdrew the symbol from under the tent of his shirt. It featured a rose and sun-Amaunator’s symbol. “A bit, milady, I’ll admit. I picked this up. . in a place of hope. A few months ago.”
Elle touched his hand, his fingers like overstuffed sausages. “I’ve been thinking a lot about hope recently. I’m glad you’re here, Minser.”
“As am I,” he said, and put the symbol back under his shirt.
Minser pulled up on the reins when Gray pulled the wagon to the village commons. A railed, wood-planked deck sat under the canopy of an elm. Seats made from old stumps sat here and there. The sounding bell hung from a post near the deck.
As they debarked from the wagon, Elle said, “You can share my dinner, if you’d like. And our shed is still waterproof, if you’d like to sleep in it rather than the wagon. There’s a spot for Gray beside it. Keep him out of the rain.”
Minser doffed his weathered, wide-brimmed hat and affected as much of a bow as his girth allowed.
“You remain, as always, gracious as a queen. It is a bit cramped in the wagon. It’ll do in a pinch, but I admit your shed sounds appealing.”
She smiled, nodded.
“And for your hospitality, you shall have your choice of cookware from my offerings. I have some fine kettles I acquired in Daerlun.”
“Thank you, Minser.”
Minser made a show of looking about. “So where, pray tell, is your king? And what sort of monarch allows his queen to walk about unescorted in such weather?”
Elle’s voice dropped and she looked off to the plains. “Gerak is off on a hunt.”
Minser recoiled. “In this? Is he mad?”
“I think possibly, yes.”
Minser chuckled. “Well, I’m sure he’s fine. I hope he returns before I move on.”
“He’ll return tomorrow or the next day.”
Elle heard doors opening, the voices over the rain. At least some of her neighbors must have seen Minser arrive. They’d want to hear his stories and see what wonders his cart held.
“I’ll set the table in two hours,” she said. “Meanwhile, announce yourself so all know you’re here. Not even the rain will keep them away.”
Minser’s mouth formed a smile in the thicket of his moustache. Elle noticed the wrinkles around his eyes. He stepped onto the deck-the planks creaked ominously under his weight-and rang the bell three times, the peals loud in the quiet.
“Ho, Fairelm! Ho! Minser the Seller has returned, with wares from as far west as Arabel and tales from the other side of the world!”
More shutters and doors were thrown open. Elle heard the exclamations of children and the happy chatter of her neighbors as they emerged from their cottages and went out to greet Minser. It had been so long since Fairelm had seen a traveler, Minser’s appearance might as well have been a festival.
Elle smiled as she walked back to her cottage. Minser’s arrival in the village always heralded a good day or three, full of stories, interesting wares, and excellent beer. She was glad Gerak would return soon. He, too, would be pleased to see Minser.
After checking on her stew, she gathered all the extra blankets they had from the chest near their bed. Tattered and faded from many washes, the blankets had belonged to Gerak’s parents. Minser would not mind their condition. She took a small clay lamp and the blankets to Gerak’s tool shed and made a place on the floor for Minser to sleep. No doubt he had his own bedroll, but he would welcome extra blankets.
She returned to the cottage and lay down for a nap. The baby growing in her drained her of energy. She planned to be idle on Idleday. She fell asleep to the sound of laughter, Minser’s voice spinning a tale, and the general hubbub of the gathering. It was as if Minser had brought the village back to life, back to hope.
A hand on his shoulder awakened Vasen.
Darkness.
The fire was mere embers and Byrne had extinguished the light from his shield. Quiet.
The rain had stopped. He had no way to tell the time, to know how long he’d been asleep. Where were the pilgrims? How was Noll doing? He was still groggy from sleep, and had trouble orienting himself. He was vaguely aware of shadows crawling over his flesh.
Orsin’s tattooed face loomed over him, lit only by the faint glow of the fire’s embers. Concern showed in the deva’s opalescent eyes.
“What?”
The deva held an inked finger to his mouth for silence. Vasen came fully awake as Orsin nodded at something beyond the cave mouth.
Noll coughed, the sound loud in the quiet of the cave. Orsin’s grip on Vasen’s shoulder tightened at the sound.
“Quiet that boy!” someone hissed from Vasen’s right.
The pilgrims were crowded into the rear of the cave, some hugging one another, others holding eating knives in their hands. One of them had produced a truncheon from somewhere. All of them wore expressions of fear. Noll lay covered in blankets near the wall, still lost in fever, muttering incoherently, but his color had returned. Elora stroked her son’s head, whispered softly to comfort him. She alone seemed unconcerned with what lay outside the cave’s mouth.
Vasen lifted himself on an elbow, trying to move quietly in his armor, and saw that Byrne, Eldris, and Nald crouched near the cave opening, hugging the wall and looking out.
Noll coughed again, summoning sharp intakes of breath from the pilgrims. Vasen saw Eldris’s jaw clench as he chewed on his own tension. Nald’s hand opened and closed over the hilt of his bare sword. Vasen stood, pulled Orsin close, and whispered in his ear.
“What is it?”
“Shadovar,” Orsin said.
The word flooded Vasen with adrenaline, pulled thick gouts of darkness from his skin. He crept toward the cave mouth with Orsin. Behind them, more coughs from Noll. Ordinarily the coughs would have been a good thing, indicative of the boy clearing his lungs. But at the moment the sound put them all at risk.
Elora tried to cover his mouth, but the boy, still incoherent, jerked his head to the side and cried out.
“That boy will get us all killed!” said one of the pilgrims, a man whose name Vasen could not recall.
Vasen turned and glared at him, pointed a finger leaking darkness at the man’s face.
The man’s mouth clamped shut and shame anchored his eyes to the floor.
Eldris held out Vasen’s sword. Vasen took it, hugged the walls of the cave near his men, and peered out across the river. Orsin stood beside him. The cave’s shadows engulfed them both, as thick as ink.
A veserab stood on the far side of the river, its head lowered to the stream to drink. Its cylindrical, serpentine body was twice as long as a man was tall, much of it coiled on the riverbank. From its sides sprouted membranous wings as large as sails. The dark gray hide, fixed with an elaborate saddle and harness, faded to a pale blue on its chest and underside. Its face resembled an open sore, a pink mass of flesh in the center of which was a rictus of fangs. To Vasen, the creature seemed an impossible a mix of lamprey, bat, and serpent. Its eyes looked like flecks of obsidian. A tongue as long as Vasen’s forearm extended from the gash of its mouth to slurp at the water. A single Shadovar kneeled at the water’s edge beside the veserab, filling his waterskin. Thick, viscous strands of shadow spiraled lazily around his form. Vasen’s eyes fell to his own skin, where similar shadows swirled.
A gray tabard marked with the heraldry of Netheril covered the Shadovar’s ornate armor. The thick plates featured vicious spikes at shoulders, gauntlets, knees, and elbows. Bald, gaunt, and with skin the color of old vellum, the Shadovar looked more like a corpse than a man. His eyes glowed red in the darkness.