So be it, the elf told himself. I’ll go for you, Lanithaine.
Shanhaevel stood a little way from the road, over the shallow grave he had dug for his teacher, studying the pile of rocks that covered the body and marked the site. To leave Lanithaine in this spot, here in the middle of nowhere, had at first seemed wrong, but Shanhaevel then remembered that, most of all, Lanithaine had loved the forest. After that realization, it had seemed like the only thing to do. The elf hung his head for a moment, closed his eyes, and recalled the happy times he had spent with this man, who had taught him of both magic and friendship.
Good-bye, Lanithaine. Rest. I will serve your cause. Only then will I go home. Not before.
Shanhaevel turned and strode away from the grave, pausing at the edge of the trees to listen and peer about one final time, wanting to remember this spot, this moment. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained overcast, and moisture still dripped steadily from the boughs overhead Nodding in poignant satisfaction, the elf drew the hood of the heavy cloak over his head and moved out onto the road.
A few hundred paces up the path Shanhaevel found the horses, standing quietly. Now, with his walking staff once again tied across the saddle, Shanhaevel freed the reins, stepped into the stirrup, and swung up onto his mount. Despite the clouds, Luna, the largest moon had risen. She was nearly full and gave the overcast sky a faint glow, providing enough light for him to ride.
From the highest branches of a nearby tree, the hawk dropped like a rock, then flattened its dive and went gliding silently by. In the open area of the road, it climbed, banked, and turned, returning to circle the elf once before swooping in and coming to rest on his shoulder.
Shanhaevel stroked the creatures neck as the hawk bobbed its head in quick, jerky motions, eyeing him as if he were a morsel of fleeing food. Shanhaevel reached inside another of his many pockets and drew out a strip of dried meat, holding it up. The hawk eyed it for a mere second before darting its head forward to snag the snack. With his avian companion perched upon one shoulder, Shanhaevel began his journey, traveling for the first time without his teacher, his friend.
Riding along the center hump of the road to avoid the bountiful puddles that clustered in the wagon ruts, Shanhaevel took an easy pace, not wanting to be flung into the mud again should his mount stumble.
As he rode, Shanhaevel considered just how he should introduce himself to the people he met, especially this Burne fellow. You don’t want them to dismiss you as a green apprentice, he told himself. You should be cautious. You’re not at home anymore. Don’t trust anyone too quickly or easily. You need something that sounds impressive—subtle but impressive.
Shanhaevel considered his own full name, Shantirel Galanhaevel, which meant “child born of the shadow wood” in his native Elvish. Well, “whelp” is more accurate than “child”, he reminded himself, but I’m certainly never telling anyone that. I can twist it around a little, make it sound more mysterious and powerful.
“I am the spawn of shadows, born of night’s sweet fold,” he said softly, testing the words. “I am Shanhaevel.”
He liked what he heard. It fit his black mood.
3
After nearly an hour of steady riding, Shanhaevel realized the terrain had changed subtly. The trees that had lined the road all day were still there, flanking it as thickly as before, though the underbrush beneath them was now absent, replaced by short grasses. More importantly was the rail fence that cordoned the trees off from the road. It was someone’s farm. As he swept his gaze farther ahead to spy the open pasture there, the elf caught the faint scent of woodsmoke with the barest hint of freshly baked bread. As if on cue, his stomach roiled. The body must eat, Shanhaevel thought, whether I’m interested or not. This must be Hommlet, and even if it isn’t, it’s as far as I’m going tonight. The road crested ahead of him to a low rise, and when he topped it, he spotted the thatched roof of a building peeping over the next ridge. To his left, beyond the split rails of the fence, was the unmistakable uniformity of an orchard, to his right was a sweeping pasture, and beyond it, in the distance, half-hidden by another line of trees, was a stone tower.
Gesturing toward the orchard, Shanhaevel whispered in the hawk’s mind, Go. Rest. Feed. Come again with the sun.
Yes. Food for me. Sleep.
The hawk spread its wings wide, pushed free of Shanhaevel’s shoulder, and flew toward the orchard.
Shanhaevel watched it go for a moment, then turned his attention back to the final step of his journey, eager to get out of the night to someplace warm. As he drew nearer the first building, a well-kept wood-and-plaster farmhouse with a sturdy barn beyond it, Shanhaevel saw lights in its windows and in several others beyond. A dog standing in the doorway of the barn loped halfway to the road, barking at his approach, and was soon joined by a second, both beasts warning the stranger away from their domain. When it became obvious to the pair that the traveler was passing on, they retreated back into the shelter of the barn.
Ahead of him, at what looked to be a crossroads, Shanhaevel could see a larger structure, two stories tall, with light spilling warmly from many of its windows. The smoke from the vast building’s several chimneys carried the unmistakable smell of fresh bread, smoked fowl, and savory seasonings of many types. The elf’s stomach rumbled again as he rode forward through the open gate and into the yard. The glow of two lanterns flanking the door shone brightly upon a large wooden plank displayed prominently overhead. The image—a smiling maiden, showing much of her ample bosom and holding forth a frothy tankard—was painted with no small amount of skill upon the plank, which glistened wetly from the rain and glowed in the light of the twin lanterns.
Shanhaevel untied his staff and tossed it down to the ground, then dismounted and began unbuckling the strap of both his and Lanithaine’s saddlebags. When he had freed them, he flung both over his shoulder. At that moment, a strapping lad of perhaps sixteen years came out of the nearby stable. He walked across the yard to see to the care of the mounts. Shanhaevel dug a silver coin from his pocket and pressed it into the boy’s hand. The young man smiled and took the reins.
“Welcome to Hommlet,” the boy said as he turned to lead the horses to the barn, “and to the Inn of the Welcome Wench. Mistress Gundigoot will have a hot meal, a room, and a bath”—the lad eyed Shanhaevel’s filthy appearance before continuing—“waiting for you inside.”
Grimacing, Shanhaevel nodded and stepped onto the porch and pulled the stout door open, letting both the dull buzz of conversation and the warm glow of lantern- and firelight spill upon him. After so long in the darkness, he had to squint a moment before stepping into the building. There was a pause in the chatter as he entered. Knowing that he was a sight, caked in mud as he was, Shanhaevel stood there for a moment, letting his eyes adjust and take in the place. Most of the patrons realized they were staring and resumed their conversations.
Shanhaevel found himself standing in one corner of a large common room filled with rough-hewn tables and benches. Perhaps a dozen folk sat in various spots, some alone and others together, dining, playing dice, or talking. Several massive tree trunks, their bark dark with smoke and age, supported the ceiling and the second story above. A huge fireplace with a lively, crackling blaze nearly filled the opposite wall, and several patrons, mostly farmers it seemed, had gathered near it to smoke their pipes and laugh.