guest.” Hagan stomped his boots to shake off the snow. “Caim, this is Liana. Seat yourself by the fire and take the chill off.”
Caim set down his burdens and pulled a chair over to the hearth. Liana grimaced as she maneuvered around her father to take a stack of plates down from a shelf and set them around the homemade table. Caim watched the girl out of the corner of his eye. He doubted she’d seen her twentieth summer yet. Twice, he caught her glancing in his direction. He smiled after the second time, and she pulled her father aside. Snippets of their conversation reached him.
“… is he?”
“Mind your … guest …”
“… don’t even know …”
“… the proper respect.”
Liana brought over a bowl of warm water and a cake of hard soap so they could wash. Caim was embarrassed when his hands turned the water brown, but Hagan didn’t appear to notice as he splashed his face and dried off with a cloth. Hagan dragged the only other chair up to the table and sat down. Caim got up to offer Liana his seat, but she swept by without looking at him and pulled out a three-legged stool for herself.
The meal was a simple affair, round loaves of bread hot from the hearth-oven, ash-roasted potatoes in the skin, and strips of chewy meat that were probably rabbit. Hagan worked his way across his plate like a lumberjack felling trees. Liana pushed around her food, but little made it into her mouth. Caim devoured everything they put in front of him. After a time, he had to stop or risk splitting his insides. It was with a satisfied sigh that he sat back in the chair.
A row of clay figurines stood on a shelf above Hagan’s head. Caim recognized the major deities of the north—Nogh, Saronna, Sirga, and Father Ell. All outlawed since the coming of the Church. Beside the pagan icons hung a sunburst medallion on a nail, which struck Caim as strange. Stories of the crusade that had brought the True Faith to Eregoth were legendary for their carnage and viciousness on both sides. Yet both faiths were represented here, side by side under the same roof. Caim would have liked to know the reason behind it, but he wasn’t curious enough to offend his hosts by asking.
Hagan pulled out his pipe and a pouch. “So, your father was a soldier.”
Caim plucked at the whiskers on his chin. Why keep lying? Who was he trying to protect? The air in the hut felt stuffy. He wished his host would prop open one of the flaps over the windows.
“I’m sorry, Hagan. I didn’t tell you the truth before. My father …” He took a breath, unable to believe what he was about to do. “My father was Baron Du’Vartha.”
If the old man was shocked, he didn’t show it. He combed his fingers through his beard and nodded as if he dined with nobility all the time. His daughter glanced up for a moment, and then dropped her gaze again.
“Liana, clear this off, won’t you?”
With a sharp glance at her father, the girl threw on a knitted shawl and carried the dirty tableware outside.
Hagan lit his pipe from a candle and took short puffs. Looking at him, secure in his home, surrounded by a growing cloud of smoke, Caim saw a different side to his host. There was an air of gravity about him, like a magistrate at his tall bench.
“It’s said none survived the attack on Du’Vartha’s manor. Not even the animals in their pens, all dead by fire or sword.”
Caim put both hands on the table, palms down. A rivulet of sweat ran down his spine. “I survived. And so did my mother.”
The old man leaned forward, and the top of his shirt gaped open to reveal a bronze torc around his neck. “I never heard that, and I know just about everything that happens in these parts.”
“What do you know about what happened?”
Hagan took another pull at his pipe. “Not much more than the tale I spun for you before. The baron made no secret that his wife came from the north, but she didn’t look like any Northman bride. Dark features, night-black hair.
Caim set down his burdens and pulled a chair over to the hearth. Liana grimaced as she maneuvered around her father to take a stack of plates down from a shelf and set them around the homemade table. Caim watched the girl out of the corner of his eye. He doubted she’d seen her twentieth summer yet. Twice, he caught her glancing in his direction. He smiled after the second time, and she pulled her father aside. Snippets of their conversation reached him.
“… is he?”
“Mind your … guest …”
“… don’t even know …”
“… the proper respect.”
Liana brought over a bowl of warm water and a cake of hard soap so they could wash. Caim was embarrassed when his hands turned the water brown, but Hagan didn’t appear to notice as he splashed his face and dried off with a cloth. Hagan dragged the only other chair up to the table and sat down. Caim got up to offer Liana his seat, but she swept by without looking at him and pulled out a three-legged stool for herself.
The meal was a simple affair, round loaves of bread hot from the hearth-oven, ash-roasted potatoes in the skin, and strips of chewy meat that were probably rabbit. Hagan worked his way across his plate like a lumberjack felling trees. Liana pushed around her food, but little made it into her mouth. Caim devoured everything they put in front of him. After a time, he had to stop or risk splitting his insides. It was with a satisfied sigh that he sat back in the chair.
A row of clay figurines stood on a shelf above Hagan’s head. Caim recognized the major deities of the north—Nogh, Saronna, Sirga, and Father Ell. All outlawed since the coming of the Church. Beside the pagan icons hung a sunburst medallion on a nail, which struck Caim as strange. Stories of the crusade that had brought the True Faith to Eregoth were legendary for their carnage and viciousness on both sides. Yet both faiths were represented here, side by side under the same roof. Caim would have liked to know the reason behind it, but he wasn’t curious enough to offend his hosts by asking.
Hagan pulled out his pipe and a pouch. “So, your father was a soldier.”
Caim plucked at the whiskers on his chin. Why keep lying? Who was he trying to protect? The air in the hut felt stuffy. He wished his host would prop open one of the flaps over the windows.
“I’m sorry, Hagan. I didn’t tell you the truth before. My father …” He took a breath, unable to believe what he was about to do. “My father was Baron Du’Vartha.”
If the old man was shocked, he didn’t show it. He combed his fingers through his beard and nodded as if he dined with nobility all the time. His daughter glanced up for a moment, and then dropped her gaze again.
“Liana, clear this off, won’t you?”
With a sharp glance at her father, the girl threw on a knitted shawl and carried the dirty tableware outside.
Hagan lit his pipe from a candle and took short puffs. Looking at him, secure in his home, surrounded by a growing cloud of smoke, Caim saw a different side to his host. There was an air of gravity about him, like a magistrate at his tall bench.
“It’s said none survived the attack on Du’Vartha’s manor. Not even the animals in their pens, all dead by fire or sword.”
Caim put both hands on the table, palms down. A rivulet of sweat ran down his spine. “I survived. And so did my mother.”
The old man leaned forward, and the top of his shirt gaped open to reveal a bronze torc around his neck. “I never heard that, and I know just about everything that happens in these parts.”
“What do you know about what happened?”
Hagan took another pull at his pipe. “Not much more than the tale I spun for you before. The baron made no secret that his wife came from the north, but she didn’t look like any Northman bride. Dark features, night-black hair.
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