Shadows of Myth - Rachel Lee

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visitor of years past. Perhaps he would get a chance this time to ply him with questions about his travels. This was clearly an adventure of some kind, too, and Tom had no intention of being cut out of it.

      Sara nodded her permission, and Tom followed her to the kitchen.

      Nanue Manoison tried vainly to recapture the attention of his audience, but he failed. It was as if, with the arrival of the strangers, worry had crept in, as well. People exchanged uneasy glances, and a pall seemed to settle over the room.

      Little by little, the local residents drifted away, leaving the public room occupied only by trappers and traders.

      Outside, the cheerful decorations blew dismally in the breath of the icy wind, and the last of the party lanterns flickered out.

      Sara Deepwell had some knowledge of tending the sick. Over her short years, she’d been called upon many times to help when someone was injured or ill, most likely because her mother had been a healer and Sara had learned at her side. Many of the skills remained, and there was little in a sickroom that could shock her or cause her fear.

      But as she entered the room of the mysterious woman, what she saw did shock her. Her dad had lit the fire, and by its light she could see that the woman’s ragged wrap was stained with blood. And she could see the pallor of the child clutched in her arms, a child who was plainly dead, who had a bandage around her throat.

      “Great Theriel,” she murmured. Behind her, she heard Tom stumble slightly beneath his burden of a cauldron of hot water.

      “Just set it over here by the fire, Tom,” she said briskly, as if there were nothing of note occurring.

      Tom complied, then at her gesture left the room.

      Slowly, Sara approached the bed. The child was already frozen, as cold as the ice upon the winter river. But the woman, who still breathed shallowly, was hardly much warmer.

      Bending, Sara tried to take the dead child from the woman’s arms. At once her eyes flew open, eyes the color of a midsummer’s morn, and a sound of protest escaped her.

      “Let me,” Sara said gently, almost crooning. “Let me. I’ll take care of her. I promise I’ll take care of her.”

      Some kind of understanding seemed to creep into those blue eyes, and the woman’s hold on the child relaxed.

      Gently Sara picked up the corpse, and just as gently carried it from the room. A small, thin child, no older that seven. Gods have mercy on them all, when someone would kill a child of this age.

      Outside, she passed the body to a nervous Tom. “She will need a coffin, Tom. See to it.”

      He looked as if he might be ill, but he stiffened and nodded.

      “And treat the child as gently as if she were your own. Her mother would want it that way. Get one of the women to clean her up and dress her.”

      Again Tom nodded, then headed for the stairs.

      Back in the strange woman’s room, Sara found her patient had lapsed into some kind of fevered dream, muttering words and sounds that made no sense. She threw a few more logs on the fire, knowing her patient would need every bit of heat she could get.

      Then, tenderly, with care and concern, Sara undressed the woman and washed her with towels dipped in hot water, chafing her skin as she did so to bring back the blood.

      When she was done, her patient looked rosier and healthier. All the dried blood was gone, and the rags had been tossed upon the fire.

      Gently Sara drew the blankets up to the woman’s chin and took her hand. “You’re going to be all right,” she crooned. “Everything will be fine, you’ll see.”

      But she wasn’t sure she believed her own words. With dread in her heart, Sara Deepwell went downstairs to make sure the child was being properly tended.

      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

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