pages before her. The image was haunting. That is what the Miriken were hunting when they attacked Cehn. They wanted her. She shook the idea from her head and shut the book with a snap. She was already late to help in the kitchen, and her thoughts were too dark for her taste.
Φ
Arman enjoyed working in the kitchen occasionally. The heat and clatter reminded him of the forge and he could sneak tastes of everything without his mother's reprimands. Tonight was different. When Alea arrived that evening he was toiling at the stove alone.
“Do you need help? Where is your mother?” She tied on an apron as she move to check the bread baking on the hearth.
“Please, if you're not busy. She went to help Mistress Connolin deliver her second child. You remember her – she had the brown cow that ate from your hand.” Arman glanced over. “Pass me the pot over there?”
Alea handed it to him. “Your mother is a midwife as well as a healer?”
“It was her profession before my father died. Healing was just part of it.” He piled plates onto a tray. “I'm going to bring these out, check that soup will you?”
Arman edged his way through the tables, balancing two trays of stew and ale. “Here, Guntar, but this is your last. I'm not carrying you home again.” He scowled at the heavyset farmer. “Your sick ruined my better breeches last time.” He gathered the empty mugs from their table and turned back to the bar. Most of the patrons chose the same tables, only a rare few sitting at the bar itself. It was usually home to the traders passing through. With winter so close the Cockerel rarely had such visitors.
That was not what made Arman stare at the strange man seated at the end of the counter. His fur-lined cloak was tugged up, despite the warmth of the room and he wore a silk wrap around his head. Arman wound through the tables and delivered the empty glasses to the wash barrel, eyes never leaving the man. Noting he had only a glass of water before him, Arman edged over. “Could I interest you in some food, if you're not drinking tonight?” People who do not drink at inns are trouble.
The man glanced up. His eyes were solid black, like those of an animal, and they glittered in the dim light. “I'm looking for someone. But food would make waiting easier I suppose.”
Arman could only stare. The man's milk-pale skin was decorated with a winding tattoo. I'd bet my best work that his headscarf hides a set of horns. “Certainly, sir.” He took the man's request and returned to his duties, but he could barely concentrate. Each time he left the kitchen he checked to make sure the stranger was still there. If he leaves before I can speak to him I will never find him! Finally a lull came as the first wave of patrons tottered off to bed.
Arman removed his apron and slid into the seat beside the pale man. “I know who you are looking for.”
The man's closed expression darkened violently. “I am certain you do not.”
Arman rolled his eyes. “You want the survivors from Cehn. Not just any survivors, but six women with dark hair.”
The man's eyes widened. “Only six?”
Arman's eyes narrowed. “I told you. What do you need to know?”
“I need to know what happened in Cehn, and I need to know where they are now.”
Arman jerked his head towards the upper floor of the house. “Perhaps you would like to speak somewhere else? There is a porch on our third floor. I will meet you there in a few minutes.”
Arman ducked into the kitchen. Alea was adding onions and carrots to the soup. He knew she remembered very little, and what she did recall she wished she could not. One woman's peace of mind is not worth the world. “Milady?”
Alea glanced up. Her eyes were tired, but she smiled.
“I need to speak with you. Upstairs. Now.” He tried to keep the words gentle, but his own nerves lent them a hard edge. He was grateful she did not protest as he led her through the common room. The Laen's guard had already
Φ
Arman enjoyed working in the kitchen occasionally. The heat and clatter reminded him of the forge and he could sneak tastes of everything without his mother's reprimands. Tonight was different. When Alea arrived that evening he was toiling at the stove alone.
“Do you need help? Where is your mother?” She tied on an apron as she move to check the bread baking on the hearth.
“Please, if you're not busy. She went to help Mistress Connolin deliver her second child. You remember her – she had the brown cow that ate from your hand.” Arman glanced over. “Pass me the pot over there?”
Alea handed it to him. “Your mother is a midwife as well as a healer?”
“It was her profession before my father died. Healing was just part of it.” He piled plates onto a tray. “I'm going to bring these out, check that soup will you?”
Arman edged his way through the tables, balancing two trays of stew and ale. “Here, Guntar, but this is your last. I'm not carrying you home again.” He scowled at the heavyset farmer. “Your sick ruined my better breeches last time.” He gathered the empty mugs from their table and turned back to the bar. Most of the patrons chose the same tables, only a rare few sitting at the bar itself. It was usually home to the traders passing through. With winter so close the Cockerel rarely had such visitors.
That was not what made Arman stare at the strange man seated at the end of the counter. His fur-lined cloak was tugged up, despite the warmth of the room and he wore a silk wrap around his head. Arman wound through the tables and delivered the empty glasses to the wash barrel, eyes never leaving the man. Noting he had only a glass of water before him, Arman edged over. “Could I interest you in some food, if you're not drinking tonight?” People who do not drink at inns are trouble.
The man glanced up. His eyes were solid black, like those of an animal, and they glittered in the dim light. “I'm looking for someone. But food would make waiting easier I suppose.”
Arman could only stare. The man's milk-pale skin was decorated with a winding tattoo. I'd bet my best work that his headscarf hides a set of horns. “Certainly, sir.” He took the man's request and returned to his duties, but he could barely concentrate. Each time he left the kitchen he checked to make sure the stranger was still there. If he leaves before I can speak to him I will never find him! Finally a lull came as the first wave of patrons tottered off to bed.
Arman removed his apron and slid into the seat beside the pale man. “I know who you are looking for.”
The man's closed expression darkened violently. “I am certain you do not.”
Arman rolled his eyes. “You want the survivors from Cehn. Not just any survivors, but six women with dark hair.”
The man's eyes widened. “Only six?”
Arman's eyes narrowed. “I told you. What do you need to know?”
“I need to know what happened in Cehn, and I need to know where they are now.”
Arman jerked his head towards the upper floor of the house. “Perhaps you would like to speak somewhere else? There is a porch on our third floor. I will meet you there in a few minutes.”
Arman ducked into the kitchen. Alea was adding onions and carrots to the soup. He knew she remembered very little, and what she did recall she wished she could not. One woman's peace of mind is not worth the world. “Milady?”
Alea glanced up. Her eyes were tired, but she smiled.
“I need to speak with you. Upstairs. Now.” He tried to keep the words gentle, but his own nerves lent them a hard edge. He was grateful she did not protest as he led her through the common room. The Laen's guard had already
Similar Books
