Chapter 2 - Strangers

When Asher and Robert carried the first barrels through the common room, master Wiggins was already filling a pair of mugs with his best brown ale, his own make he always boasted, from one of the casks cracked against one wall. Dan was standing in front of the big fireplace, thumbing his bronze pipe full of tabac from a polished canister the innkeeper always kept on the stone mantel. The fireplace stretched half the length of the big, square room, and the crackling blaze of the hearth vanquished the chill outside.

Asher expected to find the common room empty at that time of the busy day before the Festival, but other than his father and the innkeeper, four more men were inside, including grumpy Ron, sitting in highbacked chairs in front of the fire, mugs in hand and bluegray pipesmoke wreathing their heads. They didn't even talk, peering silently into their ale or tapping their pipestems against their teeth in impatience, as they waited for Dan and Conci to join them. Only one of the four men before the fire, Pedron Orwell, the blacksmith, so much as glanced at the boys as they entered. Master Owell, though, made it more than a glance. The blacksmith's arms were as big as most men's legs, roped with heavy muscle, and he still wore his long leather apron as if he had hurried to the sudden meeting straight from the forge. Asher found himself wondering why'd he give his apprentice half a day off if he was still working. One is not a blacksmith without his apprentice.

"Master Orwell looks as if he ran here straight from the forge." Asher whispered, "How come you're not helping him?"

Rob shrugged, "Smite me if I know. I guess it's because of how long I've worked these past few weeks-" He cut off abruptly as mistress Wiggins bustled out of the kitchen, the aroma of freshbaked bread wafting ahead of her.

The tray in her hands carried some of the crusty loaves for which she was famous around Ivard, as well as plates of pickles and cheese. The food reminded Asher abruptly that he had eaten only an end of bread before leaving the farm that morning. His stomach gave an embarrassing rumble. A slender woman, with her thick braid of graying hair pulled over one shoulder, mistress Wiggins smiled in a motherly fashion that took in both of them. "There is more of this in the kitchen, if you two are hungry, and I never knew boys your age who weren't. Or any other age, for that matter. If you prefer, I'm baking honeycakes this morning."

"Honeycakes," Robert said, smacking his lips.

"After," Asher told him firmly, "or we'll never get done."

A lamp hung over the cellar stairs, just beside the kitchen door, and another made a bright pool in the stonewalled room beneath the inn, banishing all but a little dimness in the further corners. Wooden racks along the walls and across the floor held casks of brandy and cider, and larger barrels of ale and wine.

Then they went back through the common room to get more casks. The six men had their chairs in a tight knot before the fireplace. Those six made for something of a village council. With his back to the fire, Dan was speaking in a low voice, and the others were leaning forward to listen, so intent on his words they would likely not have noticed if a flock of sheep had been driven through. Asher wanted to move closer, to hear what they were talking about, but Rob plucked at his sleeve and gave him a nod towards the outside. With a sigh, Asher followed him out to the cart. On their return to the hallway they found a tray by the top of the steps, and hot honeycakes filling the hall with their sweet aroma. There were two mugs, as well, and a pitcher of steaming mulled cider. Despite his own admonition about waiting until later, Asher found himself making the last two trips between the cart and the cellar while trying to juggle a cask and snacking a honeycake. Setting his final cask in the racks, he wiped crumbs from his mouth while Robert was unburdening himself, when from the stairs, Evan Dangar half fell into the cellar in his haste, his pudgy face shining with eagerness to impart his news. "There are strangers in the village!"

"We know." Asher replied sharply. The years separating Asher and Robert from Evan, who was only ten, were usually more than enough for them to give short shrift to anything he had to say.

"This is going to be the best Spring Festival ever. A gleeman, a lady – who could ask for more? Fireworks, too."

"A gleeman?" Evan said, his voice rising sharply.

"Come on, Asher," Robert went on, ignoring the younger boy. "We're done here."

He bounded up the stairs, with Evan scrambling behind him calling, "Is there really a gleeman, Asher? This isn't like those ghost hounds you told me about, is it? Or the giant frogs?"

Asher paused long enough to turn down the lamp, then hurried after them. It was a neat little trick Asher played on Evan some time ago. Ghost hounds, appearing during summer, preying on unwary children during the night. Poor Evan barely left his house in the summer, not even to play with other youngins. As for giant frogs… that was a trick in a league of its own. Outside, horse and the cart were gone, taken away by the stablemen. Evan stood glaring at them a few paces from the front door of the inn, their cloaks whipping in the wind.

"For the last time," Robert barked, "I am not playing a trick on you. There is a gleeman. Now go away. Asher, will you tell this woolhead I am telling the truth so he'll leave me alone?"

Pulling his cloak together, Asher stepped forward to support his friend, but words died as the hairs stirred on the back of his neck. He felt he was being watched again. It was far from the feeling the hooded rider had given him, but neither was it pleasant, especially so soon after that encounter. A quick look about the green showed him only what he had seen before – children playing, people preparing for the Festival, and no one more than glancing in his direction. Bustle and childish shouts filled the side streets. All was as it should be. Except he was being watched.

Then something led him to turn around, to raise his eyes. On the edge of the inn's tile roof perched a large raven, swaying a little in the gusting wind from the mountains. Its head was cocked to one side, and one beady, black eye was focused on him, he thought. A side of its head was shining white, as if there was no… skin, only bone. He swallowed, and suddenly anger flickered in him, hot and sharp.

"I am tired of being stared at," Asher growled, and stepped up beside Rob, one of his hands darted for rocks. A stone flew true, but the raven stepped aside as the stones whistled through the space where it had been. Fluffing its wings, Asher could swear they looked bony, it cocked its head again, unafraid, giving no sign that anything had happened.

Asher stared at the bird in consternation. "Did you ever see a raven do that?" he asked quietly.

Robert shook his head without looking away from the raven. "Never. Nor any other bird, either."

"A vile bird," came a woman's voice from behind them, melodious despite echoes of distaste, "to be mistrusted in the best of times."

With a shrill cry, the raven launched itself into the air so violently that two black feathers drifted down from the roof's edge. Asher's gaze fell at the woman who had spoken. She, too, had been watching the raven, but now she turned back, and her green eyes met his. He could only stare. She was the lady Robert was talking about. And she was his sister.

"Good morning, mistress… ah… lady Moira." Robert said, his face growing hot and red.

"Good morning, lady Moira." Asher echoed somewhat more smoothly, with a hint of sarcasm.

She smiled, and Asher found himself wondering if she knew he recognized her. He knew she was smiling at all of them, but it seemed meant for him alone. She had recognized him, otherwise, why would she approach them. A daughter of a king, the princess, approaching to measure up her bastard brother.

"You know my name," she said, sounding delighted. Your name, Asher thought with spite. And a fake one, at that. All he could do was play along. "But you must call me Moira, not lady. And what are your names?"

Evan leaped forward before either of the others could speak. "My name is Evan Dangar, my lady. No one like you has ever come to Ivard, before. There's a gleeman in the village for the Spring Festival, too. And tonight is very special because it's a night before the festivities. Will you come to my house? My mother makes the best pies in the village!"

"I shall have to see," she replied, putting a hand on Evan's shoulder. Her eyes twinkled with amusement, though she gave no other sign of it. "I do not know how well I could compete against a gleeman, Evan. But you must call me Moira." She looked expectantly at Robert and Asher.

"I'm Robert Rains, la… ah… Moira," Robert said. He made a stiff bow, then went red in the face as he straightened.

Asher had been wondering if he should do something of the sort, the way men did in stories, but with Robert's example, he merely spoke his name. At least he did not stumble over his own tongue this time. Of course, she knew who he was, but others didn't know that fact. Asher thought her smile, a bare curve of the corners of her mouth, was the sort someone wore when having a secret.

"I may have some small tasks to be done from time to time while I am in Ivard," she said. "Perhaps you would be willing to assist me?" She laughed as Evan squealed in agreement. "Here," she said, and Asher raised an eyebrow when she pressed a coin into his palm, closing his hand tightly around it with both of hers.

"There's no need," he began, but she waved aside his protest as she gave Evan a coin as well, then pressed Robert's hand around one the same way she had Asher's.

"Of course, there is," she said. "You boys surely want to impress the girls tomorrow. Buy them something, something pretty. We will talk later, for I have some important matters to attend to."

"Moira?" Asher asked hesitantly as she turned away. She stopped and looked back over her shoulder, and he had to swallow before going on. "Why have you come to Ivard?"

Her expression was unchanged, but suddenly he wished he had not asked, though he could not have said why. Her smile did fade, slowly, as if something had been recalled ot her. For a moment she merely looked at him. "I am a student of history," she said at last, "a collector of old stories. Heard there's one right here, in this village."

"A story in Ivard?" Robert asked. "I'm sorry, but you must be mistaken. What ever happened beneath the Western Rise to interest someone like – I mean, what could have happened here?"

"Who knows? Perhaps you're right, young Robert." Then her eyes darted towards Asher, and her lips curled upwards. "Perhaps there's a story in the making, right here and now."

Asher felt the shivers crawling down his spine when her eyes finally released him and moved its gaze elsewhere. What does she want from me? He was sure there was something she wanted. Moira, or rather Calia, that was her real name, was the princess. She was a royalty and a noble. And nobles never do something without a motive. He stared at her, unable to say a word. The other two were just as tonguetied, he noticed. Evan's mouth hung open. Moira focused on them again, and all three gave a little shake as if waking up. "Later we will talk," she said. None of them said a word. "Later." She moved on towards the wide wooden bridge, appearing to glide over the ground rather than walk, her cloak spreading on either side of her like wings. As she left, a tall man Asher had not noticed before moved away from the front of the inn and followed her, one hand resting on the long hilt of a sword. His clothes were a dark grayish green that would have faded into a forest palette or shadow, his clothes swirling through shades of gray as it shifted in the wind. Man's hair was long and gray at the temples, held back from his face by a dark bandanna. That face was made from stony planes and angles, weathered but unlined despite the gray in his hair. When he moved, Asher could think of nothing but a wolf.

In passing the three youths his gaze ran over them, eyes as cold and blue as a midwinter dawn. It was as if he were weighing them in his mind, and his face revealed nothing of what he thought of them. He quickened his pace until he caught up to lady Moira, then slowed to walk by her shoulder, bending to speak to her. Asher let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding.

"That was her own personal guard," Evan said throatily, as if he, too, had been holding his breath. "I"ll bet he's a knight."

"Don't be a fool." Asher laughed, but it was a shaky laugh. "Knights don't come to Ivard. Anyway, they have swords and armors covered in gold and jewels, and spend all their time in the palace or down south at the border, fighting evil and orcs and such."

"He could be a knight," Evan insisted.

"Did you see any gold or jewels on him?" Asher scoffed. "Do we have orcs in Ivard? We have sheep. I wonder what could ever have happened here to interest someone like her."

"Something could have," Robert answered slowly. "They say the inn's been here for a thousand years, maybe more."

"A thousand years of sheep." was all Asher said.

"A silver penny!" Evan suddenly burst out. "She gave me a whole silver penny! Think what I can buy when the peddlers come."

Asher opened his hand to look at the coin she had given him, and almost dropped it in surprise. He did not recognize the fat silver coin with the raised image of a woman balancing a single flame on her upturned hand, but he had watched while Conci Wiggins weighed out the coins merchants brought from a dozen lands, and he had an idea of its value. That much silver would buy a good horse anywhere in the valley beneath the Western Rise, with some left over.

He looked at Robert and saw the same stunned expression he knew must be on his own face. Tilting his hand so Rob could see the coin but not Evan, he raised a questioning eyebrow. Rob nodded, and for a minute they stared at one another in perplexed wonder.

"What kind of chores does she have?" Robert asked finally.

"I don't know," Asher said firmly, "and I don't care. I won't spend it, either. Even when the peddler comes." With that, he shoved his hands into his coat pockets.

Nodding, Robert slowly did the same with his. He was not sure why, but somehow what he said seemed right. The coin should not be spent. Not when it came from her. He could not think of anything else silver was good for, but…

"Do you think I should keep the coin?" Anguished indecision suddenly painted Evan's face.

"Not unless you want to," Robert said.

"I think she gave it to you to spend," Asher added.

Evan looked at his coin, then shook his head and stuffed the silvery penny into his pocket. "I'll keep it," he said mournfully.

"There's still the gleeman," Asher said, and the younger boy brightened.

"Asher," Evan asked, "is there really a gleeman?"

"You'll see," Asher answered with a laugh. It was clear Evan would not believe until he set eyes on the man himself.

Shouting drifted across the bridge, and when Asher looked to see what was causing it, his laughter became wholehearted. A milling crowd of villagers, from gray-haired oldsters to toddlers barely able to walk, escorted a tall wagon toward the bridge, a huge wagon drawn by eight horses, the outside of its rounded canvas cover hung about with bundles like bunches of grapes. The peddler had come at last. Strangers and a gleeman, fireworks and a peddler too. It was going to be the best Spring Festival ever.