Some time later Caewen roused. She blinked, looked about, and discovered that the old man had been true to his word. Although Seath was not anywhere in view within the thatched hovel, Caewen’s sword, cloak and other belongings were in a neat pile on the same thick-set table where earlier the herbman had been preparing his nostrums. She felt well enough to get out of bed and check her belongings. The coin purse, when she picked it up, felt lighter and she was certain that some of the silvers were missing. However, she couldn’t prove it and decided against doing more than shrugging and accepting that the Croft-Ward had taken a toll.
Sleepily, she said, “Fetch?”
He answered, “Tsch. I’m still here. In the box. You’re finally awake? Is it dark yet? Can I come out of this accursed little thing?”
She could see sunlight peeping through cracks in the shutters. “Still some daylight. Not quite mid-afternoon, at a guess. Still, this place doesn’t let in a lot of sunlight. There’re shadowy nooks you can hide in.”
Fetch muttered, almost inaudibly. “Hmth, hrm, tsch. Too risky. Don’t want to get cut in half by an errant slant of light if someone throws open the shutters.”
She returned to the bed and lay awake for long enough to feel the seconds stretch. She was able to take in the room: rafters with herbs and flowers hanging–many of them red and gold, she noted–some old smoke-blacked copper pots, a jumble of furniture that looked as if the pieces had all been made by a dozen different carpenters over a hundred years. The only really unusual things–which until now she had not noticed at all–were two brightly coloured skins hanging on one wall. One skin was a bright burnt yellow-orange, whilst the other was a sort of scarlet and burgundy dapple. Both were scaled, but the scales were long, almost to the point of looking like sharp feathers, and both of the otherwise rather serpentine skins had decorative scales at the tips of their tails that had eye patterns on them, much as a peafowl has. Both showed the remnants of wings, too, though those were rather shrivelled and damaged. Presumably, the wings were delicate and didn’t dry out well. She didn’t recognise the skins, beyond noting their vaguely draconic characteristics. She thought of the little dragon-things in her dream, and the painting of the dragonet stealing grapes on the inn’s signboard. Eventually, Caewen exhausted her interest in the skins, and her attention wandered back to the snail-slow movement of the light upon the floor.
The patch of light had moved about a foot when the door opened, and the old man, Seath, hobbled in. He smiled at her, said, “You’re looking better,” and eased himself onto a seat. “That’s good,” he sighed. “Weary old me. Dust and blight. Been out to the road this afternoon, past where the boys found you. Found three dead men being pecked at by crows. That your work, was it? You didn’t mention it.”
“Yes. Honestly, I simply forgot. Everything is a bit foggy from before the arrow grazed my face.”
“Hm. Well, the Croft-Ward wants to talk to you. He is the representative of Our Lady, Queen Vanteag. You should probably come outside, if you can, and see some things, and hear some things.”
Caewen raised herself into a sitting position. Everything hurt but she was able to stand now, easily enough. “Should I pull on boots?”
He stood too. “No, we’re just stepping out onto the threshold.” He went and opened the door, and Caewen crossed the floor, uncertainly, but without falling. Once she arrived, she leaned against the doorframe and peered outside. He pointed. “Now, cast your eyes over there.”
She did and what she saw was a looming mass of a tower-keep that stood over a small town. They were on a main street under the towering shadow. But the keep was not standing guard. It was a blackened, split and smoke-stained wreck. Guttered by fire. Walls brought down by heat of flames or maybe rams and hurled stones. Caewen was no student of war-engineering: she couldn’t be certain, and maybe it did not matter. “What happened? Why do you have a burned keep and an unburnt town? It looks like an attack.”
“It was,” he answered. “Welcome to Habliment, westernmost hamlet of beautiful Heathre, and chiefmost town of the West Haistering. As for the ruins, well, yes, strange matter that. Our Croft-Ward, Toyst, has already got it into his head to try and involve you. I just want to make sure you know how things stand before you have to face any of his questions. That was the keep of the Rawns of Rawnhall. The Rawns have been lords of the West Haistering for longstanding years out of memory. Now, our last and most recent Lord Rawn inherited when his father and mother and one sister were all carried away by the summer plague. He was twelve. Got sick too, but survived when all the rest of his family did not. It left him a sad thing, melancholy… withdrawn, moody, brooding, but never worse than that, mostly. But then, for no obvious reason that any can tell, a few months ago, he raised arms against the Queen of Heathre.” He gave a weak sort of shuffle of the shoulders. “And for no good reason. He didn’t have enough loyal men to win a fight. It was like a madness consumed him. The lords of the North and East Haisterings and the Queen’s own guard put down the rebellion. A good number of our young lads died, though the town itself didn’t side with the mad lord, so we were spared.”
“And the lord? This Rawn of Rawnhall?”
“Fled. He’s gone up into the forests and is hiding with brigands somewhere. He’s deep in the woods and no tracker nor forester nor even a poacher’s been able to find his bolt-hole.”
“And I guess his sigil is a red swan on a grey field.”
“It is.”
See looked over the ruins. Charred and half-burnt timbers jutted like gleaming black fingers into the air. “I don’t see why your Croft-Ward thinks I’ll have any interest in this. I was attacked, but I’m only passing through.”
“Ah. About that.” He looked uncomfortable. “The Croft-Ward has it in his power to turn you back from Heathre. He’s been muttering something more or less to that end. I wouldn’t put it past him to demand some undertaking in return for a writ of passage.”
“That’s outrageous. I have urgent business.” She paused. There might be spies of the Winter King in any town or hovel. Even if she felt reasonably sure Old Seath was trustworthy, there might be bats under the eaves that were listening and whispering. She wasn’t ready to divulge what she was doing or where she was going. And what would a Croft-Ward of a petty kingdom care anyway? She fumed inside, burning at the thought of the injustice. “I’d have to walk two weeks around to another road. The mountains hereabouts are impassable and thick with wild boggarts and worse creatures.”
“He knows that. Mark me, he knows that. And that is why he thinks he has you up against a corner.” Old Seath tapped his brow. “Our charming Croft-Ward thinks himself a clever codger. He’s seen your sword already and knows its woven with spells. Hell’s High Hall, a child could feel the magic wafting off that thing. It marks you as someone who might do what all the hunters and queen’s rangers cannot — find where our missing lord is.”
“And put an end to him?”
“If it comes to that.”
She considered all this. “Thank you.”
“Hm?”
“Thank you for laying this out. It gives me time to think it over before meeting with your Croft-Ward. What is his name?”
“Toyst.” He nodded. “Seemed fair. I’ve told him you’ve been too sick to talk, which is true, but he’ll be wanting to speak before too long. He is an impatient one.”
They withdrew back into the cottage. Seath closed the door quietly behind them. Caewen eased herself back onto the cot where she had been dozing in and out of awareness the last day. “I meant to ask about the skins,” she said, mostly for something to talk about. Silence with a stranger left her uncomfortable.
“Oh, those are puckle-dragons.” He took a moment to regard them. “Pretty creatures. Long and sinewy, like a serpent but with wings and claws. They are terrifically pretty when they fly–all gleaming and sparkling like they’re covered with gems in the sunlight. But, unfortunately they’re as bad as foxes for the hens. Farmers bring them down with bows whenever they can. Bit of a pity. Pretty things, otherwise.”
“Hasn’t anyone tried to tame them? Sounds like something a rich lord or lady would make a pet of.”
“Folks have done. You can raise them as a pet if you hatch them yourself but no amount of good husbandry will make them breed once they’re raised in a human house. You always have to take wild eggs.” He gave a shrug. “To be honest, they’re a nuisance of a pet anyway. They’re forever bringing home ‘gifts’, like a cat, but it’ll be your neighbour’s chickens or the silverware off a rich man’s table. They like shiny things. They are dragons after all, just rather small ones. They’re cunning and quick little cretins. Good thieves. Makes them a good deal more trouble than they’re worth, all told.”
“Hm,” she said thoughtfully.
“Ah, but also, a word of advice, don’t get too close if you do see a flock. Alone, they’re no more dangerous than a feral dog but in a pack… well… you can imagine, I’m sure. “He knocked some pots together, searched the table and found some oats to cook up for porridge. As he stirred the pot, Caewen smelled the smoke, listened to the noise of the copper-on-wood tapping and let herself breath and relax. If this Croft-Ward was going to force her to run errands she might as well be as rested as she could manage.
The light outside was fading to sunset russets and shadows when a knock rattled the door.
Caewen and her host had empty bowls of porridge in front of them at the table. They had done eating awhile back, but sat and talked idly for a time.
“Who’s there?” said Seath.
“Your Town Croft-Ward,” came a high pitched and nasal voice.
Caewen caught Seath roll his eyes as he eased himself up, then limped to the door and opened it. “Toyst, how are you? Come in, come in.”
“Croft-Ward Toyst, please,” he immediately replied.
The man in the doorframe was short and thin. He had an unusually rounded forehead, a jutting chin and nose and a mop of dishwater blond hair. It gave off a vague impression that some blond creature had crawled up onto his head and died there. Twisting his fingers into knots and smiling too wide, he pushed his way into the room. “Lady,” he said with a lilting flourish, and added, “Madame. Heroine of the Sword. Grace and Glory be unto you, and welcome to our humble hamlet of Habliment.” He waved a hand towards his fur-trimmed chest, “I am the Town Croft-Ward, Toyst, appointee of our Great Lady Queen Vanteag, protector of her interests and those of her daughter, the lovely Princess Saffern. Now, you are?”
“Caewen.”
“Just Caewen?” He seemed confused, and perhaps a little disappointed. “Not Caewen the Bold? Caewen the Sword of Fire? Caewen the Conqueror?”
“Are those Caewens you have heard of?” she asked.
“No.” His face folded up into something of a sneer. “But one can hope, can one not?”
“Hope is all we have sometimes.” She eased herself up. “For instance, I hope to pass through your small kingdom without trouble or harassment, without delay, undue tax, or wanton demand. Much traffic has to pass along the high road this way, and your hamlet and this whole kingdom no doubt rely on keeping good relations with travellers, traders and the like. Perhaps then, I am Caewen the Hopeful?”
“Harummth. Yes.” He flicked the fingers of one hand and twitched them in a small wave.
“Tsssch.” The noise was small, barely a whisper.
Toyst looked about, suddenly. “What was that?”
“What was what?” said Caewen, fixing an innocent smile on her face. Seath said nothing.
“Could have sworn I heard–” A frown. Humph. Well. Anyway. Now, to matters.” Gathering his cape behind him, he sat on the seat where Seath had been a few moments ago.”Now. About that and this, let me see.” He breathed deeply, started one sentence, stopped, started another and gave a shrug. “Ah, I suppose Seath has spoken to you about matters already? He does like the stick his nose in.” He shot an arched look at Seath.
“I have,” the old man said.
“Very good. You are acquainted with our little problem. And it seems to me our problem has also been your problem of late. The Lord Rawn assaulted you… what other travellers on the road might not come away so lucky? I’m sure you would feel terrible, just terrible, ignoring such a plea as ours? Yes. Of course. Now, as to the terms of your passage through our small and humble Kingdom of Heathre…”