by Jayne Castel
Men dressed as black-pelted wolves sat near the water, pounding on calf-skin drums, while folk danced around the Altar of Umbra in the center of the square, leaping and clapping in time with the drums.
Lilia paused, her gaze remaining on the wolves. A chill feathered down her spine. She wished Neasa had sent Dain down here instead. She knew she was looking upon men in costumes, yet the sight made her uneasy—reminded her of things she wanted to forget.
Her gaze shifted to the altar. She’d heard it said that every settlement, no matter how small, upon the Isle of Orin and within the Four Kingdoms of Serran beyond, had an Altar of Umbra. Shingle Ford’s altar loomed over its market square. Here too, the towering obsidian obelisk, with ancient runes carved into its gleaming sides, cast a long shadow. The altar was a reminder of darker times, of five-hundred years earlier when Valgarth, The Shadow King, had ruled Serran. In those days, folk had made regular sacrifices at the altars. They left criminals, the old, and the sick tied to the altar at night to keep his servants—creatures of his making that stalked the night—at bay.
Things were different these days. Winter Blood was a night of fun and feasting. Still the obelisk, its black, smooth-surfaced bulk out of place amongst the yellow-hued stone of Port Needle, just added to Lilia uneasiness.
After the fall of The Shadow King, folk had tried to pull the altars down, but had discovered them rooted to the earth. Since then, many believed that to try and harm the obelisks would bring doom upon them. Meanwhile, Valgarth’s shadow creatures—on which the Winter Blood costumes were based—still lurked in the dark places of the world.
Weaving her way through the dancers, Lilia approached the altar with her basket. Folk had already started laying out offerings: jugs of mead, breads, cheeses, and flagons of apple brandy. Next to these, Lilia placed the basket Moon Cakes.
In the center of the square, the Nightgenga howled and rushed, hands grasping, at two girls who had dressed up as pricked-eared brownies. They ran squealing while the crowd roared with laughter.
Lilia didn’t share their merriment. Her own discomfort aside, she’d never liked this aspect of Winter Blood. She didn’t think it was wise to poke fun at creatures that still stalked the darkness
Lilia pulled her mantle close about her and turned away from the Altar of Umbra. She needed to get back to her kitchen.
An excited crowd piled into The Grey Anchor. Lilia entered the inn to find men and women shrugging off heavy cloaks and warming their hands before the roaring hearth, their faces flushed with cold. Neasa had decorated the common room, hanging sprigs of holly and ivy from the smoke-blackened beams. The scent of clove candles hung heavily in the air. Ailin welcomed patrons into his inn, and then took orders for mulled cider, ale, and supper.
Inside the kitchen, Lilia shrugged off her fur mantle and hung it up on its hook by the scullery door. The aroma of mutton pies she and Dain had finished baking earlier lay heavy in the air. Pots, platters, and baskets of food covered every work surface. It gave her a sense of satisfaction to see all of it waiting for her. With Dain’s help, she’d managed to get everything done.
Lilia rolled up her sleeves and put on her apron—she had cider to mull. Dain entered the kitchen after her, greeting Lilia cheerfully before disappearing into the cellar to fetch another barrel of cider.
Meanwhile, Lilia set to heating honey and spices in a huge cast-iron pot.
In the common room beyond, a woman began singing. Her voice, deep and sultry, echoed across the inn. The song was familiar, but the beauty of her voice caused the fine hair on Lilia’s arms to prickle. Abandoning her pot, she crossed to the kitchen door and peered out.
A woman stood upon a podium in the far corner of the room. Tall, with proud bearing, the scop wasn’t dressed like a local woman—in layers of skirts and a fitted bodice—but in a long belted tunic, leggings, and leather hunting boots that molded to her calves. On her hands she wore leather, fingerless gloves; and her thick blonde hair was unbound, falling over her broad shoulders in untamed waves.
She looked around a decade older than Lilia—in her early thirties—her strong features composed as she sang.
On Winter Blood
The mist does flood
In from the silent sea
Folk all meet
While shadows creep
Yet, not a soul does flee.
The Gods look down
Upon the darkening town
In wait for gifts we bestow
Please them we must
Or we shall lose their trust
And into the darkness we’ll go.
The woman’s voice died away, and Lilia exhaled. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath during the song. Around her, the feasters applauded, their cheers and clapping deafening in the confined space.
“Quite a voice, isn’t it?”
Lilia started as she realized Dain was standing at her side. She had been so entranced by the singing, she had not even noticed he was there.
She nodded, her gaze returning to where the scop was taking a deep draft from her tankard. She’d never seen a woman like her.
4
By the Fireside
“Who is she?”
“Her name’s Ryana,” Dain replied. “I can introduce you, if you like?”
Sudden shyness swamped Lilia. “Maybe later,” she mumbled.
Ignoring Dain’s look of amusement, she turned and hurried back into the kitchen. She’d let him become a little too familiar with her of late. It wasn’t a good idea.
The scop began another song as Lilia got to work mulling cider. This one was a melancholy lament of two lovers, a great battle, and of loss. Lilia’s eyes misted over when the scop sang of the woman’s grief as she cradled her lover’s body in her arms. When the last strains of the song died away, Lilia quickly blinked back tears and sniffed. Songs always made tragic love sound so beautiful.
The song also made her feel a bit sorry for herself. She could never have love. No man would want her. Not if he knew.
Neasa appeared in the kitchen doorway then, her round face flushed and her expression harried. “Is that mulled cider nearly ready?”
Lilia gave her a quick smile. “Aye … it’s on its way.”
Deftly, she began ladling out steaming amber liquid into the tray of empty clay cups next to her. Enough distractions; she needed to focus.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur. A steady stream of pies, stews, roast meat, and vegetables flowed from the kitchen to the common room. Finally, Neasa and Dain carried out the Moon Cakes—soft, eggy, and scented with orange—to the delight of the feasters.
Inside the kitchen Lilia listened to their chorus of approval. She allowed herself a tired smile. It felt as if wet sand filled her legs, and her back ached. Cooking had quickly become a chore, yet it was good to know the cakes were appreciated.
Now that the food had all been served, it was time for her to start cleaning. She was stacking pots to carry out to the scullery when Dain poked his head into the kitchen.
“Stop that,” he said, beckoning to her. “I’ll help you clean up later. Come sit down, have a cup of cider and some food.”
“I really should tidy up first.”
He made an impatient noise. “The pots can wait. Come on.”
Reluctantly, she removed her apron and did as bid. Dain had returned to the fireside, his booted feet up on a settle. The scop, Ryana, sat opposite him, her long legs stretched out in front of her. She cast Lilia a curious look as she approached.
It was late, and the inn had emptied out, save two old men who were playing at dice in the corner. Ailin was standing at the bar washing cups in a bucket of warm, soapy water, while Neasa perched on a stool next to him, sipping at a tankard of ale. The couple chatted together, ignoring Lilia while she took a seat on a stool near the glowing hearth.
A tray of food and drink sat on the low table before her. Truthfully, tiredness had robbed her of appetite, although she was thirst
y. She picked up a cup of ale and took a large gulp.
Dain leaned forward, his gaze catching hers. “Lilia, may I introduce you to Ryana—the mysterious scop who occasionally graces The Grey Anchor with her haunting voice.”
The blonde woman’s mouth quirked at Dain’s flamboyant introduction. “Pleased to meet you, Lilia. Dain tells me you enjoyed my singing?”
“Aye,” Lilia replied shyly. “You have a beautiful voice, so full of emotion.”
Ryana gave a half-smile, acknowledging the compliment with a slight nod. Despite that her voice was raw and moving, the woman herself bordered on aloof. Her eyes were a cool grey-blue, giving nothing of her thoughts away.
“I always enjoy the crowd at The Grey Anchor,” Ryana said finally.
Dain leaned back in his chair and surveyed Ryana with interest. “It’s been a while since your last visit. Where have you been?”
“Traveling the island,” she replied. “Although I stayed in Woody End for most of the autumn—the village has always welcomed me.”
Dain raised an eyebrow. “And other villages don’t?”
Ryana took a sip of mulled cider and pulled a face. “Some Orin folk aren’t given to trusting mainlanders.”
“Where are you from on the mainland?” Lilia asked, curious. She hadn’t met many folk from across The Wash.
“Rithmar.” Came the woman’s blunt, one-word reply.
“Have you ever visited Shingle Ford on your travels of Orin? I’m from there.”
The scop’s mouth thinned slightly. “Yes, once. A few years ago.”
Lilia frowned. “I don’t remember seeing you.”
“It was a short visit. I didn’t get a warm welcome so I’ve never been back.”
This news didn’t surprise Lilia, although she felt embarrassed that a stranger hadn’t been made to feel welcome in her village. “Folk can be small-minded,” she murmured, staring down at her ale. She thought then at her mother’s repeated warnings over the years. If the folk of Shingle Ford didn’t welcome a woman from the mainland, they would have stoned Lilia to death if they’d learned what she really was.
She’d lived most of her life fearing discovery. She couldn’t let her guard down ever—especially not now she lived in Port Needle.
Lilia glanced up to see Ryana was observing her. The scop smiled. “How long have you been working here?”
“A week.”
Ryana cast a mischievous look in Dain’s direction. “I hope this one hasn’t been making a pest of himself. You’re just his type.”
Lilia’s cheeks caught fire at this, while Dain cast the scop a dark look.
Ryana ignored his glare and laughed, the sound as musical as her singing. “With his face looking like that, I’m not surprised you’re not keen,” she added, her eyes twinkling. She then turned her attention to Dain. “What happened? Did you lose your last fight?”
“You should have seen him a few days ago,” Lilia added. “His nose resembled a blood sausage.”
Dain smirked. “Don’t worry, my opponent looked far worse when I’d finished with him.”
Lilia, who was just taking a sip from her cup, snorted into her ale. “I don’t understand it,” she blurted out, unable to hold her tongue. “What fun can you possibly have beating another man to a pulp?”
Dain met her eye. “It’s not about that … it’s the physical challenge, about testing your limits.”
“But surely there are other ways that don’t include getting your nose broken?”
Dain gave her an incredulous look. “On this rock?”
A sigh from Ryana caused both of them to look her way. “You shouldn’t lament the peace and quiet of this isle,” she said quietly. “For some of us, it’s a haven.”
Lilia gave the scop a searching look, her irritation at Dain forgotten. “Why are you here?” she asked. She was aware the question was blunt but tiredness had emboldened her.
Ryana held her gaze for a moment, before her mouth curved into a wistful half-smile. “I came here seeking peace,” she replied gently, although the look in her eyes told Lilia she would get no more from her, “and I found it.”
It was late when Lilia finally bid Ryana and Dain goodnight. The hearth had burned down to embers, and a chill had settled on the air. Not put off by the lateness of the hour, or the ebbing warmth, her companions poured themselves some more ale and wished her a good sleep.
Yawning, Lilia left the common room, her feet crunching under fresh rushes, and padded down the network of hallways that led to her chamber. It had been her longest day yet in her new job, and she was bone-weary. She didn’t understand how Ryana and Dain weren’t falling asleep in their chairs. Her eyelids felt as if they had weights attached to them.
Inside her room, her breath steamed in the chill air. It was too late to bother lighting the lump of peat in the hearth so Lilia braved the cold. Shivering, she stepped out of her skirts and unlaced her bodice. She then shrugged on her linen nightshirt before diving under the mound of blankets on her sleeping pallet.
Huddled there, waiting for her body heat to warm her blankets, Lilia listened to the stillness of the surrounding night. The folk of Port Needle had finished their reveling and would be sleeping off a surfeit of good food and drink. There would be a slow start the following morning.
Lilia gave another yawn and felt sleep tug at her, drawing her down into its clutches.
I survived my first week, she thought. Maybe I’ll cope after all. Maybe a new life is possible.
Warmth suffused her, a sense of achievement. She thought then of her parents. This was the only Winter Blood she’d spent away from them. She imagined their cottage, lit up with lanterns. Her father mulling his pear cider over the hearth while her mother prepared Moon Cakes for the Guising. They’d be tucked up asleep now. Her parents worked hard in the fields, tending the vegetable plots that ran up the hill behind their home—they rose with the dawn and retired early.
A pang of homesickness brought tears to her eyes. She missed them both, but she was glad she had left, proud that she had insisted even when they’d begged her to stay. Despite the risks, she couldn’t hide away from life.
Dain drained his tankard and placed it down on the low table next to him. “Alright, I admit it,” he slurred. “You can out-drink me.”
Opposite him, Ryana laughed. She leaned back against the wall and stretched. Dain cast an appreciative eye down her long legs. Ryana was comely, although her height and force of character intimidated most men. Her piercing gaze could pin you to the spot. He’d seen her quell admirers with just one look. Ardan went red-faced and tongue-tied in the scop’s company; Dain was one of the few younger men who conversed with her easily.
“I already knew that,” she said with a yawn, “although you did your best—as always.”
Dain snorted before rising to his feet and stifling a yawn. “Shadows, I’ll sleep like a badger tonight.” He rubbed a hand over his face, in an effort to sober himself up, and turned to Ryana. “Ma’s made up the same room you had in the summer. How long are you staying this time?”
She shrugged. “As long as the mood strikes me. I think cold weather’s on its way so I might remain a few days this time.”
Dain grinned. “Lilia will like that—you’ve got a devotee there.”
He thought his comment would make Ryana smile, but it didn’t. Instead, she held his gaze, her own unnervingly clear for one who had consumed so much cider. “She’s hiding something.”
Dain’s grin faded. “How do you know that?”
“Instinct.” Ryana’s mouth quirked. “She’s even more guarded than me … I wonder what secret she’s keeping?”
Dain gave her a searching look. Ryana was an enigma, with a past she refused to discuss. “You’re imagining things,” he replied with a yawn. “Lilia comes from a tiny village where nothing ever happens. There aren’t any secrets in a place like Shingle Ford.”
5
The Dark Stranger
The inn�
�s heavy oaken front door swung open, bringing with it a swirling cloud of snow. A tall, cloaked figure entered.
Dain straightened up from wiping tables, his gaze settling upon the stranger. He stood taller than most Orin folk and wore a travel-stained leather cloak with fur edging. The man, who looked to be in his mid-twenties, pushed back his hood, revealing long dark hair, a lean tanned face, aquiline features, and a sharp, dark gaze.
Dain put down his cloth and approached him.
“Good eve.”
The man acknowledged him with a nod and shucked off his snow-dusted cloak. Underneath he wore dark hunting leathers. His mud-splattered boots, which reached mid-calf, were expensively made.
“Do you have any rooms free?”
“Aye. Two bronze talents will get you lodging and meals.”
The newcomer hung up his cloak along the wall to the left of the door, next to the others, and handed Dain a battered leather pack.
“Take this to my chamber. I’ll have a jug of ale when you’re done.”
Dain took the pack, his hackles rising. His father was down in the cellar, organizing the stores or he’d usually deal with guests. This man was around Dain’s age, but he had the air of a lord. Dain didn’t like being treated like a servant.
Grinding his jaw, he took the pack to the guest’s room, giving him the coldest, dampest chamber he could find, at the end of the guest annex. Usually, his mother would light the lump of peat in the hearth so that the guest would retire to a warm room—Dain made a point of forgetting to do so. He returned to the common room to see his father had resurfaced. The dark-haired man now sat with a group of dicers, a jug of ale at his elbow. He was laughing and chatting with them as they took bets for their first game.
Dain’s irritation rose further. This guest had a smile and manners for others, just not for those waiting on him.
Lilia picked up a tray of steaming pies and carried them out of the kitchen. With Neasa in bed with a headache, she would need to help Dain serve the tide of customers that had descended upon The Grey Anchor for supper. The snow had given locals an appetite for hot food and lots of ale to wash it down.