“I am called Niesha.”
It was but half a name, but still a gift to strangers come calling.
“This is Stephen, youngest son of Brynjolf, Baron of Esker, and of the Lady Gemma whose own mother came from far-off Selvarat. Stephen is a singer and a lore-teller,” Devlin said, placing his hand on Stephen’s arm to draw Niesha’s attention to him.
Niesha inclined her head graciously. “Stephen, I bid you welcome to my house.”
Stephen bowed credibly, managing not to look half-drowned.
“And this is Nils Didrik, lieutenant of the Guards in Kingsholm. His father Lars and his mother Brenna are bakers in the royal palace.”
“Nils,” she said. She did not bid him welcome.
“And your name?” she asked.
“My name is Devlin. I can offer you no other, for I am kinless and craft-forsaken. My name holds no power.”
She eyed him steadily. “I know who you are. No one else would travel in such company. You are the one they call General, the one who has sworn to defend our oppressors.”
He could feel Didrik bristle at the insult.
“Yes,” Devlin said. “There they call me Chosen One.”
Niesha nodded. Then she extended both her hands outward, palms facing upward. “Nils, Devlin. I bid you welcome to my house.”
It took him a moment, certain that he had misheard her. Then he bowed low, humbled by her generosity to one who had no means to repay her. “Your kindness does you honor.”
Stephen was warm. Warm and dry, and he luxuriated in the sensation, stretching out his stocking feet toward the low-burning fire. Turf, Devlin had called it, though it looked more like clay bricks than grass. Whatever it was called, it filled the cottage with a cozy warmth. Both his hands were wrapped around a clay mug of hot tea, and he raised it to his lips to take another sip. The taste was bitter, but not unpleasantly so, and he could feel the warmth spreading within him, to match the warmth outside. He sighed with contentment.
It felt almost as if he was dreaming. He remembered riding that day, his fingers and toes going slowly numb from the cold. He had begun to dream about warmth, picturing first his father’s house, then a cozy inn—such as were to be found along the trade routes. Then they had found this cottage. His initial relief had turned to disappointment at the thought that they would be turned away. For though Devlin had spoken in the trade tongue, his words had made no sense. It was as if Devlin and this woman Niesha held some quarrel, except clearly they had never met before.
And then, in an instant, the hostility was gone, and the woman was welcoming them into her house. Her brother was sent to help Devlin and Didrik stable their horses, while Stephen was bustled inside, his sodden cloak and boots stripped off. After being wrapped in a blanket and given a mug of tea, he was told to sit by the fire until he had warmed himself.
When Devlin and Didrik came in, they were made welcome as well, though perhaps with a trifle less enthusiasm.
“There is more tea in the kettle if you want it, Minstrel Stephen,” Niesha said, seeing that he had drained his mug.
“Thank you, I am fine,” Stephen said. “And please, it is just Stephen.”
Niesha nodded, and turned her attention back to the chopping board. Her knife rocked rhythmically back and forth, and a stack of white tubers were reduced into thin strips.
Boots clattered on the wooden staircase and her brother Feilim entered the kitchen. “I’ve made up a pair of pallets in my room for your guests.”
“Good,” Niesha said. “After dinner, we will put the bed down here. It will be warmer for the lore teller.”
Feilim nodded. He was older than his sister, but slighter in build, and clearly he took his orders from her.
Stephen flushed, wondering what he had done to earn such special treatment. Was it because Devlin had named him the son of a Baron? And yet that made no sense, for plainly anyone could see that Devlin outranked him.
“I do not wish to be a burden—”
“It is an honor to have you in my house,” the woman corrected him. For a moment she sounded like his mother, and he resisted the urge to reply “Yes, ma’am.”
He sank back a bit in his chair, trying to ignore Didrik’s grin.
“I’ll want some sausage to fry with these. The lamb, that we traded for from Seanna’s girl Meaghan. It’s in the root cellar,” Niesha said.
“I’ll fetch it,” Feilim said, moving toward the door and reaching for his dark woolen cloak. “After I feed the animals. It’s nearly nightfall, so they’ll be expecting me.”
The door opened, and there was a chill draft that reminded him of how glad he was to be indoors and out of the rain. And then the door closed.
“So, tell me, what brings you to my door on this foul day?”
Niesha looked at Stephen, but it was Devlin who replied.
“We are on our way to Kilbaran,” he said. These were the first words he had spoken since entering the cottage.
Niesha shook her head. “These two are strangers, but you should have known better. What made you think to try the old way in such weather?”
“We had need of haste,” Devlin said. He shot a warning glance at Stephen, warning him to say no more.
Stephen caught his eye and nodded, but inside he fumed. Did Devlin think him a child? Stephen knew better than to blurt out their secrets to any chance-met stranger.
“Lucky for you that I took you in. Else you would have spent a wet night on the heath.”
“Your kindness does you honor,” Devlin said.
It was the same phrase that he had used before, and Stephen still did not know what it meant. It was almost as if Devlin was trying his hardest not to actually thank Niesha.
“We are grateful for your hospitality,” Stephen said. Then he added in the Caer tongue, “I am in your debt.”
Niesha chuckled, which was hardly the reaction he expected. “And if I held you to that?”
He wondered what he had actually said. Had his accent been that bad?
“He does not understand,” Devlin said swiftly, rising to his feet, putting himself between Stephen and their hostess.
Niesha turned to face the least welcome of her guests. “He is your friend. And a man of honor, is he not?”
“Of course,” Devlin said. “But he does not know our ways.”
“Then you should teach him. Swiftly. Kilbaran is less than two days journey from my doorstep.”
Now it was Devlin’s turn to flush red.
Niesha dumped the tubers she had been chopping into a pot, then stepped out of the kitchen on some errand of her own.
“What did I say?” Stephen asked. “I meant to say I was in her debt.”
Devlin ran his good hand through his damp hair. “That is what you said.”
“Then why did she laugh?” He felt as if he had stumbled into some bizarre play, where everyone knew their lines except him. He glanced over at Didrik, relieved to see that the lieutenant seemed equally confused.
“A debt of hospitality must be repaid threefold. And in kind,” Devlin explained.
Now this made even less sense. How was he supposed to offer this woman hospitality? She was hardly likely to visit Kingsholm and ask to stay in his rooms over the Singing Fish tavern. Still, what he had, she was welcome to.
“And where is the harm in that?”
“There is no harm done. But any pledge you make binds your family as well. Should one of Niesha’s kin wish to travel to Jorsk, they could claim guest right from your father, or your brothers and sisters.”
“Or your father’s brothers and your mother’s sisters, and indeed from any that you claim as nearkin,” Niesha added.
He jumped, for he had not heard her reenter the kitchen.
“Not that I will hold you to your rash words,” she added.
Stephen swallowed. He imagined trying to explain to his father why it was that a peasant family from Duncaer needed to stay in the baronial manor, and to be treated as honored gu
ests.
Still, a promise was a promise, no matter that he had not understood what it was that he was promising to do. “I stand by my words,” he said.
“A good heart. And a man of honor. Hardly the company I expected you to keep,” she said to Devlin.
“You are neither kin nor Guild Mistress, to question the company I keep. I have no quarrel with you, but if you wish me to leave—”
“No, no need to be so prickly,” she said. “I did not mean to offend. And if you leave, no doubt your friends will insist on following you, and then where would my manners be? Sit now, and make yourself to home. And perhaps, after dinner, the minstrel can tell us tales of Kingsholm. It is a long time since I heard a storyteller speak, and such kindness would more than repay his debt to me.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Stephen said. He wished that he had been able to bring his harp with him, but the instrument was too delicate to survive the winter journey. But he could always sing for her. It wouldn’t be the first time he had sung for his supper.
And later, he would take Devlin aside and insist that he explain what was going on, and what other customs they might run afoul of. Stephen had already made one mistake, and he did not intend to make another.
Supper was an awkward meal. Feilim did not speak unless addressed by his sister, and there was thinly veiled hostility in his gaze. He made it plain that if it had been up to him, he would never have let Devlin and Didrik cross his doorstep. Fortunately, it was his sister’s cottage, and he seemed firmly under her control.
Didrik said little, speaking only to thank Niesha for the meal. But his eyes watched every move carefully, showing how uncomfortable he was in this place.
Devlin had no wish to quarrel, and left Stephen and Niesha to carry the burden of conversation. After the meal, he and Didrik retreated to the front room, unloading their saddlebags and checking their gear to make certain that nothing had been damaged by the rain. Stephen remained in the warmth of the kitchen, entertaining Niesha and Feilim. He sang several of his favorite songs until a fit of coughing overcame him. Devlin heard the sound of someone moving around, then the ringing sound of a glass set hastily down.
No doubt someone had offered Stephen a glass of distilled meadowsweet, and he wondered what the minstrel had thought of the fiery liquid.
He wondered, too, if Stephen realized that it was in his honor that they were being offered the very best that the house had to offer. The best of their food, a glass of the rare meadowsweet. He knew without having to ask that it would be the finest bed in the house that would be moved into the kitchen, so Stephen could be warm on this night.
It had been a long time since Devlin had been privileged to offer such hospitality to another. And an even longer time since he had been the recipient of such a gift. He cast his mind back, trying to remember the last time he had enjoyed the privilege of guest right.
Didrik’s low voice broke into his ruminations.
“Niesha seems pleasant enough, but I do not trust her brother. I think we should set a watch tonight.”
“A watch?” he repeated.
“In case he decides to try and kill us while we sleep,” Didrik elaborated.
“There is no need. Niesha spoke the words of hospitality. We are safe as long as we are under her roof.”
Had they met Feilim anywhere else, the man might well have tried to do the harm even if the odds were against him. There had been something in his eyes when he first caught sight of Didrik’s uniform. Something that spoke of old memories and a loathing for Jorskians that went far beyond the ordinary.
Feilim had smiled grimly as he recounted how a mere two days before he had seen a crimson hawk flying high over the mountains, against the wind. Niesha had changed the subject, but Feilim’s message had been clear. The crimson hawk was part of the old tales, a giant bird whose wingspan was greater than the height of a man. It had not been seen for generations, but legend had it that the return of the hawk would symbolize the end of Jorskian rule in Duncaer.
It was a threat of sorts, and one Devlin understood even if his companions did not. Had they met Feilim along the road, there would have been reason for concern. But for this one night, they need have no fear.
“It is not Niesha I am worried about, but rather her brother,” Didrik hissed. He picked up the dagger he had just polished and thrust it into his belt meaningfully. Pointedly he turned his back on Devlin, as he began to repack the saddlebag.
“I said no,” Devlin snapped. He was tired of this. Since the start of this journey, Didrik had been watching him, questioning Devlin’s judgment, even going against his orders as he had when he arranged the escort. All done in the name of protecting him. More than once Devlin had been tempted to order Didrik back to the capital simply to free himself from the strain.
But each time he had relented, remembering that Didrik’s concern was as much for his friend as it was for the man who bore the title of Chosen One. If Didrik was overcautious, it was as much the result of past experience as it was his character. And for that he could not be blamed. Nor could he be blamed for not understanding the ways of the Caerfolk. If he did not understand what an oath of hospitality meant, it was Devlin’s fault for not explaining.
Devlin reached over and grasped Didrik’s shoulder, forcing him to turn and face him.
“There is no need for your worries,” Devlin said. “This is Duncaer, and the oath of hospitality is sacred. Once Niesha named us as guests, she and her brother became responsible for our safety while under their roof. We could be fugitives from justice, or even murderers who had slain their kinfolk, and still they would not raise a hand against us. We have shelter for the night, and the chance to depart unhindered.”
Didrik shrugged. “And what of guests? Do they also forswear violence toward their hosts?”
“Of course.” The customs of hospitality were among the oldest of their traditions. Only a man with neither heart nor soul would even dream of violating them.
He counted himself lucky that Niesha had welcomed them all. Had he and Didrik been offered the use of the barn, then they might well have needed to sleep with one eye open. As it was, for this night at least, they could rest easy.
He could only hope that their reception in Kilbaran would be half as welcoming.
Nine
KILBARAN WAS SMALLER THAN DEVLIN HAD REMEMBERED. The gray stone buildings nestled close to one another, rarely rising above two stories in height. There were only a few people on the streets, as was to be expected in a place that made its living from the summer traders. But even the few folk that he saw made him uneasy, and Devlin found himself constantly on edge, searching for some unknown threat. He watched them carefully, then felt ashamed as he realized the source of his unease. He was a stranger here, he realized. After nearly two years in exile, he was accustomed to seeing crowds of pale-skinned Jorskians, with their long braids of flaxen hair. And his ear was tuned to the deliberate cadence of their speech. He had forgotten what it was like to be surrounded by folk who bore his own dark hair and whose voices rang with a musical lilt.
It would take time for him to accustom himself to their ways. And then he wondered when he had started thinking of the Caerfolk as “them” and not “us.”
Fortunately few spared him more than a glance as he made his way through the streets of Kilbaran. His gray wool cape was similar to those worn by Jorskian messengers, who were a common enough sight in this border town. With luck he would pass unnoticed and leave before any knew he had even been here. For that reason he had sent Didrik to pay their respects to the commander of the city garrison rather than going himself. Were the Chosen One to call upon the commander, it would turn this into an official visit, with all the attendant fuss.
Stephen had been left behind at the inn, with instructions not to wander off. The inn-wife had been more than pleased to fuss over him, since few from Jorsk ventured to Kilbaran during the dead of winter. In fact the three travelers were her only patrons at the
present.
Devlin tasted the acid tang in the air that meant he had reached the wool dyers’s quarter, which meant that Murchadh’s forge was nearby. He had been to Kilbaran only once before, but the memory was burned into his brain. He turned left and followed the lane into a large open square. Used by the wool traders in the summer, it was deserted now, with only the scarred earth and long watering trough built into the northern wall giving any hint as to its purpose. Across the square was a small stable and a stone building whose double doors stood open even on this chill day. Through the open doors the glow of a firebed could be seen, and smoke curled from the chimneys, indicating the smith was hard at his craft.
Devlin paused outside the doorway, gathering his courage. The last time he had seen Murchadh, they had exchanged angry words. Once he and Murchadh had been friends, but this, too, belonged to his past and the man he had been. Now, all he hoped for was civility. And even that was in doubt.
He took a deep breath, then stepped within the forge. He stood for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the darkened interior, feeling the welcoming warmth against his face. Steel rang as the smith hammered at a long bar of bright copper, flattening it until it was nearly double its original length. Then he put down his hammer, and using a pair of tongs, he carefully picked up the bar and placed it back in the firebed. He pumped the leather bellows until the fire turned from sullen red to bright yellow.
Only then did he acknowledge his visitor. Murchadh stepped away from the firebed and wiped his hands on his leather apron.
“You have need of my service? A horse, perhaps, in need of shoeing?” Murchadh asked in the trade tongue.
Devlin tossed back the hood of his cloak and unfastened it against the heat.
“I have need of your counsel,” he said.
“And why would a messenger come to a smith for counsel?” Murchadh asked, his head tilted to the side as he studied his visitor. Then his eyes widened with shock. “You.”
“Murchadh.”
“Stranger,” Murchadh declared, showing his anger by refusing to speak Devlin’s name. “After all this time, now you dare to show your face? Have your foreign friends tired of you, so you return to lord it over us instead?”
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