The entire population of Penwich awaited them when they rode into the village. Fifteen gray-haired men and women stood at the fore. Behind them, townspeople of every age gathered, scrubbed clean and turned out looking their best, for the lord’s approach. Children peered out of windows and climbed up balconies, and half a dozen ran shouting from the outskirts of the village when Blaine and his small group rode into sight.
Dawe and the others brought their horses to a halt in front of the group. Blaine’s guards remained at a respectful distance.
An old man with a shock of unruly white hair stepped forward and made a deep bow. “Lord and Lady McFadden,” he said. “Welcome to Penwich. We are honored by your visit. Lady Judith and Sir Dawe have told us much about you.” He gave another low bow. “I am Burnion, senior speaker for Penwich.”
Blaine inclined his head in response. “Greetings, Burnion, and greetings, residents of Penwich.” He hoped that Kestel was the only one able to tell how uncomfortable he was speaking as a lord to his subjects.
“We’re honored that you’ve come to visit,” Burnion said. “And if you will permit, we would like to show what we have accomplished.”
Kestel smiled at the reference to ‘Sir Dawe,’ and Blaine was certain Dawe would take a ribbing for it in private, later.
“Sir Dawe has told me much about how hard you’ve worked,” Blaine replied. “I would very much like to see the improvements you’ve made.”
Burnion led them on a walk through the village and its fields, narrating the progress. Fields were planted, livestock grazed behind newly split fences, barns and homes showed recent patching. At each place they stopped, someone from the village presented Blaine with a gift: dried meat, a tanned hide, a wooden statue of Charrot made by a local wood-carver, a pair of iron tongs from the village forge. Dawe must have expected the tribute, because he had a basket at the ready and instructed one of the guards to carry the gifts after Blaine inspected them and praised their workmanship.
Blaine knew how to play his part. The villagers were struggling, and could ill afford the gifts, humble as they were. Yet the village needed its pride, and his acknowledgment validated what had been done, and would likely increase their cooperation. So he smiled and thanked them, and silently promised himself to make certain that Dawe received equivalent supplies to replace what was being given.
The women of the village were curious about Kestel, hanging back a few steps to watch her, speaking in hushed tones to each other. They were not used to seeing a woman in tunic and trews like a man, and her appearance—and her reputation—was likely to give the villagers something to talk about for a long time.
A woman with short gray hair came forward and made an awkward curtsy to Kestel. She looked to be in her middle years. Kestel bet she was one of the village ‘wise women,’ who presided over births and burials, weddings and ceremonies, often wielding significant but quiet power.
“My Lady Kestel,” the woman said. “I am Merian, head of the weavers. I offer a gift for you, from the women of Penwich.” In her arms was a neat bundle of wool cloth, which she presented proudly. “Made from the wool of our own sheep, dyed, spun, and woven here. May it keep you warm in the winter.”
Kestel’s smile was sincere. “Thank you,” she said, accepting the gift and looking it over closely, remarking on the evenness of the dye and the careful weaving. The women beamed with pride. “Your work is very well done.”
As Burnion led them around the village, most of the residents followed a short distance behind. A few villagers hung back. They said nothing and made no move to disrupt, yet they stood apart, and their expressions were skeptical, if not exactly unwelcoming. Blaine exchanged a glance with Dawe, who gave a nod of acknowledgment.
Burnion led them to the largest building in the town, an old barn that still showed signs of hardship. “I apologize that we have no finer place to receive you, but our people wanted to hear what you have to say, and this was the only building large enough.”
“I welcome having them stay,” Blaine replied. Villagers standing toward the back craned their necks for a better look at their lord and his new wife. None of these villagers were likely to have ever seen their lord, either Blaine or his father, except at a distance, and perhaps not even then. Blaine was also well aware that even in a village like Penwich, stories of his crime, exile, and role in restoring the magic were probably well known and oft repeated. Some might even have heard rumors of Kestel’s exploits before her exile. No wonder they’re so anxious to have a look at their convict lord and his assassin-courtesan wife, Blaine thought.
Dawe traded nods and smiles with a number of the villagers as they walked to the front. As Dawe looked over the group, he paused, just for a second, when his gaze fell on a man in his middle years sitting in the back of the room.
“What’s the matter?” Blaine asked under his breath.
“Just spotted someone I’ve never seen before. That’s odd. I thought by now I’d met everyone in Penwich.”
Dawe took the chance to murmur a question to Burnion when they reached the front. “Says he’s a hedge witch who showed up not long after my last visit. Made himself useful curing sick cows, and they let him stay.”
“Something wrong with that?”
Dawe shook his head, but his expression was still thoughtful. “No, just surprised. We don’t get a lot of strangers through here.”
Two mismatched, carved wooden chairs sat in the middle of the barn floor behind a battered wooden worktable. Burnion escorted Blaine and Kestel to their seats.
Dawe stood to Blaine’s right, and two of the guards took up places directly behind Blaine and Kestel, while the other guards stood at a discreet distance. Their presence was not missed by the villagers, who nudged each other and nodded toward the soldiers and their swords.
Burnion clapped his hands, and a line of women bearing food came from the shadows.
“Sir Dawe let it be known that we were not to do anything that might run us short, and that m’lord would be most displeased if that were to happen,” Burnion said, glancing from Dawe to Blaine as if to confirm.
Blaine nodded. “Sir Dawe is correct. We would not have you go hungry just to honor us. You have made us very welcome already.”
Burnion puffed with pride. “Thank you, m’lord. You are most gracious. But you have come a distance to meet with us, and we would not want to be poor hosts. So if you will permit, a humble offering to you and to Sir Dawe, from what has been raised so far this year. Our women will be honored if you would dine with us. And of course,” he added, “we have provisions for your guards as well.”
When Blaine nodded once more, the women began to set one dish after another on the table in front of Blaine and Kestel. A vegetable stew’s thin broth tasted of herbs from kitchen gardens. Fresh-baked bread, still warm enough to melt butter, filled a basket. Village-brewed ale flowed to fill their tankards, and another basket of honey cakes finished the bounty.
Kestel lifted each dish in turn, inhaling their aromas with deep appreciation. Only Blaine and Dawe knew that she was using her well-honed senses as an assassin to check for poison. “These smell wonderful,” she said, putting the small cakes back on the table as she finished. “Your cooks have presented a noble feast. We appreciate sharing your table.”
I never got to see Kestel operate at court, Blaine thought. And I know she didn’t come from noble blood. But she plays her part as if she were born to it. I hope I do as well.
As they ate, a small group of ragged children filed forward and shyly assembled into a line. On Burnion’s nod, they sang a song popular before the Cataclysm. Blaine, Kestel, and Dawe clapped appreciatively when the children finished, and the blushing singers ran for the shelter of their parents’ arms.
Next came a group of pretty young women carrying bundles of freshly cut flowers. Smiling and blushing, eyes downcast and self-conscious, the women heaped the flowers on the table and made a deep, practiced curtsy before backing away to join th
e crowd once more.
“I warned you,” Dawe murmured to Blaine under his breath. Blaine felt himself growing impatient with the ritual, wishing they could get to the matter at hand. Did King Merrill feel like this? Blaine wondered. Gods above, everywhere he went, people carried on with gifts and ceremony. How did he manage without grinding his teeth down to nothing?
Finally, half a dozen musicians assembled with homemade flutes and drums to play several songs popular before Blaine’s exile. The minstrels carried a tune well and played with enthusiasm. Blaine, Kestel, and Dawe clapped lavishly when they finished.
By this time, Blaine, Kestel, and Dawe had finished eating. Two men stepped up to move the table so that Blaine and Kestel sat facing the villagers, who had taken seats on the barn floor.
For most of a candlemark, Burnion, Merian, and Jocus, of the village elders, recounted the village’s challenges and successes. Blaine heard them out, listening intently and asking questions. He had come prepared to pledge them what few additional resources he could spare, and while both men and material were scarce, Burnion and the others were grateful for the extra help.
So far, so good, Blaine thought. Is that it?
Burnion clapped his hands, and four men dragged two prisoners to the front.
Both of the bound men had been roughed up, with bloody noses, split lips, and eyes purpled and swollen.
“My lord,” Burnion said, a tinge of shame in his voice. “I am sorry to have to bring this matter before you. But we have caught these two men destroying property in the village, a grave matter, given how hard we have worked to rebuild what was damaged.”
“What did they do?” Blaine asked, studying the men. Something about the way they moved was not quite right. Both men fought against the ropes that secured their ankles and wrists. Their eyes were wide and unfocused, and their faces twisted in rage.
“We fought monsters,” one of the men shouted, before Burnion could speak. “Monsters that came out of the ground, out of the trees. Monsters in the cattle, hiding there. Monsters hiding in the fields. We had to stop the monsters. Don’t you see? They’re all around.”
“Monsters in the cows, monsters in people,” the second man chimed in. “Have to stop the monsters.”
Their tirade was cut short as the guards shoved rags in their mouths. Even gagged, they tried to shout through the cloth, struggling against their bonds.
“My lord,” Burnion began. “Teron and Rav are sons of this village. They’ve never caused problems before. They were too young to fight in the war, so they stayed and helped the village during the Bad Year. Then a week ago, they took sick.” Burnion shook his head. “We feared for their lives. They were fevered for three days, before the healer could break the sickness. They seemed to recover. Then last night, they lost their minds.”
“What do you mean?” Blaine asked. “What did they do?”
“They slit the throats of four of my sheep,” one villager man shouted from the audience.
“Killed my best calf,” yelled another.
“Tried to set my shed on fire, after I’d only just built it,” cried a third.
“Knocked down the fences around half of the east field,” a woman put in. “My son saw them, but he couldn’t catch them before they ran away.”
“There were other damages done as well,” Burnion said with a sigh. “They fought us when we tried to stop them. It took quite a fight to capture them. They were brought to me in the middle of the night, and we questioned them until dawn. But all they will say is that they were fighting monsters.”
“Nothing wrong with my cow,” the owner said from where he sat in the crowd.
“My sheep weren’t no monsters, neither.”
“What about my shed? And the fences?”
Blaine and Kestel exchanged a glance. We’ve seen enough monsters ourselves. Could there be something to their stories?
“Has anyone else seen monsters?” Blaine asked.
He looked out over the crowd to see heads shaking. “No, m’lord,” Burnion replied somberly. “We remember the magic beasts. We feared they might have returned. But we found nothing. No footprints, no strange trails through the grass. We set a watch, but there’s been no sign of any monsters at all.”
“Remove the gag from that one,” Blaine said, pointing to the prisoner who spoke first. “I would question him.”
Warily, one of the village men removed Teron’s gag. Blaine’s own guards moved closer, hands on the pommels of their swords. Kestel shifted slightly in her chair, and Blaine was certain she had a weapon at the ready.
“Where are your monsters?” Blaine asked the prisoner.
“All around us,” Teron said, his eyes rolling skyward as his head lolled in a circle. “You can’t see them, but they’re out there. They’re tricky. They hide inside things, where they can’t be found. But Rav and me have special eyes. We can see them even when they hide.” The pupils of his eyes were wide.
“How long have you been able to see monsters?” Kestel asked, leaning forward to study the men more closely.
“Not long,” Teron replied, shifting his attention to Kestel with the intense focus of a rabid dog. “Couldn’t stand to see them for too long. It’s Charrot’s hand on us. We’re his soldiers. Tells us where the monsters are.”
“They’re either drugged or magicked,” Kestel murmured to Blaine. “I’d bet money on it.”
“Could it be the gods speaking to them?” Burnion asked. “M’lord, are they speaking the truth about monsters we can’t see, in our herds and hiding in the rocks and trees?”
Kestel stood up. “Let me examine them,” she said. “I know something of these things.”
“What are you doing?” Blaine murmured.
“Trust me,” she said, and turned her full attention on the prisoner as she stepped down from the small stage.
She pointed to Teron. “Bring him to his feet.” The two village guards grabbed Teron by the shoulders and dragged him to stand. Kestel moved close enough to look the young man in the eyes. As an assassin, Kestel was well versed in poisons and potions. Up close, she could smell Teron’s breath and the odor of his skin, signs that he might have been drugged.
“Are there monsters in you, pretty lady?” Teron asked, watching Kestel with a smile that sent a chill down Blaine’s back. “Let me see. I’m good at killing monsters.”
Teron bucked against his captors, and lunged at Kestel. She blocked him with her left hand as her right moved up from her side, suddenly holding a dagger. But as her hand touched Teron, the man froze. His entire body went rigid, and his eyes focused on Kestel. In his gaze, Blaine saw terror and confusion.
“What’s going on? Why am I tied up? Who are you?” Teron cried out. His eyes lost their too-wide, unfocused look, and the young man’s gaze darted from one person to another, trying to make sense of his situation.
“Tell me about the monsters,” Kestel ordered, keeping her hand on Teron’s chest.
“Monsters? What—”
Rav tore free from his guard and slammed against Kestel, breaking her contact with Teron. Teron gave a strangled cry. His eyes rolled back and he collapsed to the floor. Blaine moved with Rav’s guard to control the prisoner, who was twisting and kicking with all his might. Kestel knelt beside Teron.
“He’s dead,” she said, looking up at Burnion and the guards. “There’s no reason—”
“Let me through. I might be able to help.” The hedge witch scrambled out of the crowd and pushed his way toward the group huddled around the two prisoners. Teron’s guards stepped back to let him closer. By now, Blaine and his guards had gotten Rav subdued and returned him to the control of the two village men who held him.
Kestel moved toward Rav and stretched out her hand to touch him, when suddenly Rav stiffened and screamed, then dropped motionless to the floor.
“They’ve been magicked,” Kestel said loudly, and the crowd exclaimed in dismay.
Blaine saw the hedge witch shift his position,
and dove out of the way as the man’s hand came up, sending a blast of fire toward where Blaine had just been standing.
The blast missed Blaine, but caught one of his guards full in the chest. The guard screamed and dropped to the dirt floor of the barn, rolling back and forth to extinguish the flames.
The young men who had dragged Teron and Rav to the front of the barn rushed the hedge witch. The false healer thrust his right hand out, palm open, and sent a streak of white, cold power toward the young men that hurled them a dozen feet through the air and sent them sprawling into the panicked crowd. The villagers screamed and rushed for the barn door, shoving and pushing to escape.
“Dawe! Get the others out of here!” Blaine shouted, fearing the crowd would trample each other in their rush. Dawe sprinted toward the back of the barn. Burnion shouted orders trying to get the crowd under control. Whatever the hedge witch—or mage, as Blaine suspected—was up to, Blaine wanted him to have as few targets as possible.
Blaine’s second guard grabbed Kestel’s chair and threw it at the hedge witch’s head. The mage barely paid attention, moving his left arm in an arch that brought the chair crashing down to the floor well short of its target, then making a slashing motion that threw the guard against the wall as if he were a rag doll.
“How dare you!” Burnion shouted, shaking off the restraining hand of one of Blaine’s guards and stepping toward the hedge witch. “Colter Hanne, we took you in. Welcomed you to the village. We needed a healer. You could have done well here. How dare you repay us like this?”
In response, Hanne snarled and pushed his right hand forward, sending a streak of fire toward Burnion. The older man dodged faster than Blaine would have thought possible, missing the worst of the blast, though the fire still caught Burnion on the left shoulder and he dropped to the floor, beating his hands against his burning clothing and crying out in surprise and fear.
“Why?” Blaine said, advancing on Hanne with his sword raised, trying to draw his attention from Burnion. Silver glinted as Kestel sent a dagger through the air toward Hanne’s back. The blade stopped in midair and dropped to the ground as if it struck an invisible wall.
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