Chapter 1
Arrival
Dawn stretched across the Fisher Coast, banishing tendrils of mist left from the night’s downpours. Vander pulled himself from his damp bedroll, rubbing his eyes. He took stock of his companions. Maggy had woken already and was pulling road-worn vestments over her battered ringmail. She set a domed helm on her head, covering her shock of yellow hair, a cropped cut grown wild and long. Vander watched her appreciatively as she armored up, regretting the mornings he’d woken alone on the trail, glad he’d met her at Beron’s Crossing. She turned over her shoulder to see him rousing. Smiling wearily, she tossed Vander a set of drier clothes, before checking how her own gear had fared.
Nearby, a gnome, who might politely have been called “wizened,” sat perched on a lump of granite. He looked almost comfortable. Orin was staring intently at a black-bound book, its cover marked with vibrant red stitching. His eyelids fluttered as he muttered to himself, practicing incantations. As dawn encroached, he drew down his hood to cover more of his pallid skin.
Across a meager campfire, Halada stood stringing her bow. It was a stocky length of yew nearly as tall as she, taller than Vander by five hands, at least. Vander could swear that she had some giant’s blood in her, but Halada was surly at the best of times, and forcefully averse to prying questions. She sported a long black braid, down past her waist, and a simple deerskin jerkin. Silently, she tugged a kebab of smoking meat from the coals and shoved it in Orin’s direction. She held it out patiently, until he noticed the food and took it with thanks.
Vander rubbed a hand tiredly over his head. Feeling a crescent of stubble, he drew a nimble dagger from beneath his bedroll, beginning to shave his face and scalp. After shining the tanned skin of his head with wax, he drew a whetstone over the gleaming edges of his leaf-bladed spear. He still hadn’t stood from his bedroll when Maggy finished her steaming skewer of pine marten, courtesy of Halada’s hunting. She came over to him and bent to kiss his ear.
“Morning,” she said, leaning next to him.
“Morning you,” Vander replied sleepily. He gave her arm an affectionate, if absent-minded, kiss. She was still looking at him, though, with a wry expression, and he was unsure why. Quickly he felt over his scalp for errant globs of wax. She laughed, pointing for him to stand and look south, which he did.
Then he groaned, swearing in the tongue of dwarves. Though not his own, it was a fine tongue for swearing. Over a rise, which had blocked his view while he sat, Vander could clearly see the village of Dulaman, not a half-mile off, closer really to a quarter. The small keep, surrounded by gray-shingled houses, sat at the edge of a shimmering sound, encircled by stony islands. Beyond there, the Endless Blue rippled in the morning light. The town had been barely too far for Orin to spot, in last night’s sodden dark.
“There were dry beds there,” he said mournfully, standing slack-armed.
“And ale,” said Maggy, reaching an arm around Vander, surveying the landscape.
“Don’t tease,” he told her ruefully.
“A fire to warm my boots by...” Orin murmured from behind them, as he closed his book.
Halada said nothing, but Vander thought her expression was that much sterner than usual. Thinking back on it, he’d never heard her complain about sleeping rough. He took the last of the kebabs, nodding gratefully, and gnawed the juicy meat from the maple twig it was skewered on. After his hurried breakfast, Vander helped Orin up from the rock. First thing in the morning Orin was always stiff about the joints, though spry enough once he got moving.
Breaking camp then, a short jaunt over the stony coastscape brought them back to the road, a dirt track just wide enough for carts to pass. They checked their gear as they strolled and kept a diligent watch over their surroundings. Vander peered eastward with special attention to the edge of the Dimweald, a vast and thorn-choked forest of ill repute.
He would have been happier escorting a caravan on well-settled roads, between the cities of Periandor and his homeland, Rukkarim. What he knew of the Dimweald and the Fisher Road didn’t encourage him. Inattentive travelers were liable to become food for goblins, though it was worse farther south, where the forest crept close to the road.
He would have rather not come this way, but for the exorbitant reward offered on a handbill in Marlinhelm. Three hundred gold rings...They could spend the next six months drinking dwarven beer if they wanted to. All that, just to peek around an old ruin and report back to the local knight, Sire Landon.
Or so the handbill said.
By the time they arrived, dawn had passed into bright morning, and they found themselves looking up at the Dulaman’s main gate. The little town was surrounded, to Vander’s practiced eye, by a double palisade, the concentric rings of timber packed with earth. A pair of guards stood atop the wall beside its heavy gate, looking down at the travelers without comment. The watchmen were garbed in a simple livery of blue and black.
Vander waved at them, “You going to let us in?” He asked.
“No,” one of them said, continuing to tear chunks from a loaf of bread. Vander glanced back at his companions. It occurred to him that they made an unsavory impression, showing up near dawn at the isolated village.
Orin’s long coat did little to conceal a bandolier of daggers, and the ancient gnome’s face was shrouded within his cowl. Halada stood taller than anyone Vander had met, and she was leaning on a longbow that might serve as a siege weapon. Blood from this morning’s hunt still dotted her sleeves. And there he was, in mud-spattered chainmail, bearing a spear and a war-notched shield. The falchion at his hip, a curved and broad-tipped sword, suggested the hacking of flesh.
He pulled out the handbill they’d gotten from the city five days back, holding it up to the guards. “We’re here about this,” he told them.
“Hard to read from up here,” said the right-hand guard, shrugging.
“Then by the damned moon, come down and look!” Vander snapped, but calmed himself. “It’s the bounty to explore some temple near here, posted by your village’s knight.”
“Look,” the guard said. He was becoming terse, “I don’t care why you’re here. You look like ruffians, so shove off!”
“But that’s stupid!” Vander blurted out. The men on the wall ignored him. He muttered, mostly to himself, “What did you expect, putting out a call for mercenaries?” Maggy patted his shoulder and stepped forward, laying aside her long-handled mace.
She did a better job of looking half respectable. Albeit her white robes were worn and frayed, and where once they bore a holy blazon, only silver threads remained. But she had a way of carrying herself when she wished, that suggested she was someone. She sighed and resigned herself to the performance.
“I am Sister Magdelena Clarke, healer and priestess of Assandai,” she announced toward the gate. Her voice had taken on a soft quality, though she spoke loudly. “I am here on your lord’s business and will tend to any sick among you. We will do no harm to your people, on my word.” Then she drew from beneath her robe a silver emblem on a long cord. It depicted hands clasped around a phial of medicine.
One of the guards moved to open the gate, but the other blocked him. “Yeah?” The guard asked. “And what’s to say you didn’t kill one of Assandai’s travelers, or filch their garb? I’ve never seen a priest of Assandai with one of those.” He pointed to the pole-mace she’d laid on the ground behind her. It was a straight length of oak approaching Maggy’s own height, topped with an onion-sized ball of lead.
“Our vows do not forbid us to travel armed, nor to defend ourselves as a last resort,” she answered him. Still, he looked at her with slack-jawed skepticism. “Very well,” she sighed quietly. Then she raised her amulet again and whispered something to the heavens. A moment passed before the amulet began to shine, growing so bright that Vander was compelled to look away. As the light ebbed gentler, he saw the glowing icon lying over her heart. “Prithee, let me bring the healing power of Assandai to your people, and see to your lord’s request,” she said.
That seemed enough for the guards. Maggy had made holding them a decision above the watchmen’s station, and the way was opened. Vander patted her back for a job well done. She looked at him sourly, perhaps sadly, before turning forward with the mask of the priestess raised. As they moved through town to Sire Landon’s keep, they found that Dulaman’s people were already about, and many stares followed them down the narrow main road.
Fortunately, the knight’s houseguards were more useful than the sentries at the gate, and they quickly summoned the steward to speak with Maggy. Sire Landon had been absent three days, inspecting his holdings in the Glint Delves. He would return by sundown, though, and would see them after he supped. The steward offered assurances that his master would be pleased by the arrival of competent mercenaries. Other groups had come on this business, but, so far as the steward knew, none had taken the job.
So, the party found the village’s single inn, The Skimming Kingfisher. It was a small establishment, with two bedchambers above its tavern. A low doorway forced Halada to duck as they entered the smoky room. In one corner, an old man with a gratuitous beard was already anointing the day with ale. At the opposite end of the long beer hall, a dowdy woman labored over a cauldron of porridge.
Orin pulled back his hood and approached her, coughing quietly, then loudly, to catch her attention.
“Morning, and what can I get for you?” she asked. She leaned forward over her worktable for a better look at the small figure greeting her. Vander doubted that she had ever seen a gnome before, much less one hailing from the undersea. “Small beer, porridge?”
“Warm porridge for each of us would be appreciated, I believe,” he said, “and coffee if you have it, bitter tea if not.”
“Coffee I can give you, lordling, though it will be dear,” she told him, smiling as a publican does, whose customer has expensive tastes.
“If you please, Madam,” said Orin, and before she could bustle away he added, “And both of your rooms, with hot baths. We will wash, after we take breakfast.”
Having begun to turn, the woman spun back and leaned over the table, beaming. She put a hand on her chest. “Idna Gatherbrook, at your service,” she declared. Then she called loudly toward a side door, “May!” Hearing no response she shouted, “Mirian-Helen Gatherbrook!”
Moments later, a girl of nine or ten sprang through the door and skidded to a stop. Idna told the child to find her father and collect water for baths. Before her mother had finished speaking, the girl was tearing away once more. Idna looked to Orin, sliding her hand across the table to accept payment, though she did not name the price. He reached into his purse, drawing out coins, a jumble of Rukkic stamps and Periandic rings, mixed with exotic currencies. Having counted what he imagined to be a fair exchange, he dumped the heap of monies into Idna’s outstretched hand, to exclamations of copious gratitude.
Watching this, Maggy groaned. Though cleverer than anyone ought to be, the gnome had little energy for learning things he thought tedious, which included local currencies. As Orin returned to his friends with a tray of porridges, Vander thanked him for covering their lodgings and attempted to explain that he might have paid less.
“I’ll be dead sooner than I’ll have need of hoarded gold,” Orin told him, and that was that.
The porridge was good, made sweet and fragrant with the juice of malted barley. And even Halada seemed to savor the coffee, so rare was it, though Orin claimed it was common as mint tisane in his homeland. Vander suspected that Idna stocked the beans at Sire Landon’s request. He guessed that only Orin’s clear eagerness to part with coin had freed it from those reserves.
Before they had finished eating, villagers began to trickle in. Some came for breakfast, others to gawk at Orin and Halada, but most came for Maggie’s blessings. Vander saw her wince as the line of supplicants grew from few to several, then to at least a dozen. Yet she saw to them patiently, sending most away with promises that Assandai would watch over them. To others, she gave poultices and tinctures. In a few cases, she healed a deep gash or broken bone with magic.
Some hurts, though, were beyond Maggy’s power, a man whose arm was cut away near the shoulder, a child with a blind eye. Those would weigh on her, Vander knew. Still, the crowd of villagers awaiting her attention only swelled. This was probably the first time in years a traveler of Assandai had visited. Without obtruding on her business, Vander rubbed Maggy’s shoulder, then headed up the back stairs toward their lodging.
The room he and Maggy would share was half the length of the Kingfisher and well furnished, though a layer of dust suggested infrequent occupation. Vander guessed that it was the rare merchant carting saltfish to Afairn who rested there. He took a look around the room.
Just by the door there was a stone altar, upon it a tiered shrine to several gods, each with its own statuette. A decent bed stood near the far end of the room. In the middle was a small but steaming iron tub, a chamber beneath it to hold coals from the fireplace. Vander stripped away his armor and clothes, then lowered himself in.
The water appeared to have been drawn fresh from the ocean. He judged this by its brine, and by the pods of seaweed bobbing around. No matter. Leaning his head back amid the plumes of salt-steam, Vander resolved to buy Orin as much of Idna’s coffee as she would sell. After he had soaked for some time, Vander scrubbed his skin pink with lye soap and a sea sponge, then dragged himself out.
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Returning downstairs, he found a score of villagers still waiting for Maggy’s attention. Meanwhile, Halada was looming near her like a solemn bodyguard, monosyllabically ushering those who wished for an audience.
Searching farther across the room, Vander spotted Orin on a tall stool near the fire, telling stories to a gaggle of unattended children. As Vander came closer, he heard them being regaled with the old gnome’s favorite tale. Disguised as a traveling vintner, he had snuck false battle plans into the tent of an enemy general. To Vander’s relief, Orin elided over the grisly ambush that followed. After the story came magic tricks. Orin pulled a canary from a surprised boy’s nose, then changed his own face to appear like Idna’s.
Not wishing to interfere with Maggy’s doings, and having heard Orin’s stories a dozen times, Vander collected two heavy demijohns of ale. Kindly, Idna gave him the second free of cost, seeing all the business that Maggy was pulling in. He returned up the stairs with his libations.
Back in their lodgings, Vander loaded wood into the iron stove and lit a fire. As the split logs burned to glowing coals, he shoveled them into the chamber beneath the washtub, keeping the water hot for later. This done, Vander uncorked one of his jugs and poured beer out into a wooden cup.
For an hour or more, he sat by the window drinking his ale, bitter and floral in the halven style. So much so, indeed, he wondered if Idna’s brewer might be one of the slight folk. Through the wavy glass, he could see westward across Dulaman’s sound, which lay enclosed by a string of islets. Strands of fog clung to the outermost island like a ghostly claw. Beyond there, whitecaps crested the azure surf, and the ever-surging sea stretched without end.
When the door opened and Maggy stepped in, more than half his demijohn was gone. Vander had enjoyed his ale and silence but was no less pleased by her arrival. She looked haggard to him, very easy on the eyes, but haggard still. Closing the door, she leaned against it, then pulled off her white robe and tossed it on the floor.
Vander helped her to loosen the straps of her chainmail hauberk. Beneath the mail, she wore a thin aketon. Vander opened the padded underjacket for her, reasoning that the buckles would be stiff for her tired hands, and she leaned back into him. Wrapping Maggy in his arms, Vander felt her form through the aketon’s threadbare fabric. “Ale?” He whispered questioningly into her ear.
“Ale,” Maggy answered decisively. She disentangled herself gently from his embrace and placed a kiss on his shaven cheek. Then she finished undressing and slipped into the steaming tub, wearing only the silver amulet of Assandai. Briefly, Vander lost himself in enjoying the view, but after a moment he remembered the ale. With his dagger, he sliced off the stopper of the second demijohn and poured the fresh, hissing beer into a pewter goblet.
“Thank you,” she told him, and she took a long draught as she sank down in the water, all the way to her chin.
Vander shrugged, “‘Course. Big crowd. Must’ve been a long time since they had a healer come through.” He was leaning on the wall to the side of the tub, holding his drink.
“Not less than two years, I would think,” said Maggy. “We don’t...” She stopped, correcting herself, “They don’t make it here from the Paladric chapter anymore. The road from the south got worse during the war. Healers from Edrim are supposed to visit the Coast, but they’re spread thin.”
She seemed sad and weary, her shoulders slouching in the water. Vander tried to take an encouraging tone, “Well, it was a good thing we stopped here and you...”
“It was a lie. I am no priest,” Maggy snapped, interrupting him, her face creasing with anger. Then she seemed to slump farther, before she straightened herself up. “No, you’re right,” she told him, her voice softening. She reached for his hand. “I’m sorry, you were trying to cheer me, and the village will be better for our coming.”
He clasped her fingers in his and refilled her cup. “Sure will,” he said. He could not help noticing that her chest had risen above the water as she straightened. Still, some inner wisdom told him this was not the time for an appreciative comment. Instead, he averted his eyes from her bosom, making an interested study of a splintering beam in the ceiling. He did not miss Maggy’s amused snort, but each held to the fiction of his gaze. “Looks sturdy enough,” he said of the beam.
An hour later, Maggy had finished bathing, and much of the day was still open to them. The remainder of the morning, they filled with ale. Halada found that Idna had no maple wine, but sated herself with mead, while Orin sipped a thimble of liquor, nodding by the fire.
The afternoon was spent walking off the effects of the morning. They discovered a western gate, opposite the one they had entered by, which led to a small docks. There, a cacophony of seabirds wheeled over heaps of refuse, dipping and soaring. Fishing vessels came and went in a continuous stream.
Then, hiking out to a broad hill near the town, they found the village’s cemetery. Three fresh graves were dug there. The stones, which marked them as guards of the town, were inscribed with more prayers than most. The bodies were lost where they had been slain, and empty coffins lay interred in the earth. Vander whispered his own prayer for them, and the party moved on to scout the surrounding lands, making good use of the time until dusk.
The farthest extent of ground they covered was a craggy headland reaching into the Endless Blue. It formed the northern periphery of Dulaman’s sound. From their vantage point, they saw that a portly island shielded the mouth of the shallows. Two smaller islets rose between it and the open sea. To the south, the little river Melriar trickled into Dulaman’s sound, and another headland mirrored the one they had trekked along.
Maggy took Vander’s hand and pulled him closer. Gusts woven with salt-mist buffeted them and tousled Maggy’s hair. Halada had wandered off for a time, and Orin was lost in his view of the sea. Vander and Maggy sat together against a lichen-flecked boulder. They remained there, sitting in affectionate silence amidst the wind-rush, until Halada returned. She declared the headland barren of game.
The sun had begun to ebb low, then. Pine scrub and brambles, twisting from the promontory’s cracked stone, cast spindly shadows. The ocean was glinting and indigo as evening called them home.
Darkness had settled by the time they returned to town. After brief ablutions at the Skimming Kingfisher, they found themselves in their audience with Sire Landon, in the bottom chamber of his keep. Sitting by a huge fireplace, a cup of wine in hand, he was dressed in a tailored coat of blue and black. The knight had the look of a once vigorous man in middle age, worn down by sharp illness or poor diet. For his frame remained strong, but his skin was sallow and his eyes darkly circled. His finely tailored coat had begun to sag around him.
Still, if the lord’s countenance was odd, his domicile was all the more peculiar, at once a library of rare-looking tomes, and a trove of curiosities. The books in themselves were not strange, for all of Periandor’s nobility were mages of some stripe. Their sheer volume, though, was unusual. Jumbled books and folios lined every wall, and in some cases formed improvised furniture.
All over, amid stacked tomes, on shelves and in glass cases, there were artifacts of every describable kind. Vander set his eyes on elven statuary fragments, engraved skulls, and scraps of dwarf-forged armor. On one side of Sire Landon’s monumental fireplace towered an ivory statue, worked with exquisite scrimshaw. Vander could not begin to guess what kind of beast might have given the tooth or tusk.
As they looked around, Sire Landon waved out his houseguards, and he stood from his chair. “Greetings!” he said. His voice retained a vitality that his countenance did not, an excitability reminiscent of a precocious child. “And welcome. Please, take refreshment if you like.” He gestured to a platter of delicate glasses filled with wine, waiting on a pile of books.
Maggy took up a glass, and the others followed suit. “Our thanks, Sire.” She sipped it. “Very fine, from the North Wold?”
“Yes!” Sire Landon answered exuberantly. He had a quick way of speaking. “I collected the vintage myself on my travels there. Now, to business, to business. You are here about the bounty I had posted?” Vander handed the paper forward to Maggy, and she unrolled it. “Exactly!” the peculiar knight exclaimed.
“Is there another party that has a lead on us? Your steward told us that others had come,” Vander asked from behind Maggy.
“Not at all, no,” said Sire Landon. “Others arrived, but I sent them away. Not professionals like you. Why look at you! I see you fought in the Border War, a veteran!” His gaze locked on Vander’s chipped shield, marked with the battle crest of his city.
“On the other side...” said Vander slowly.
Sire Landon must have fought as well, given his age. Perhaps Landon found it easier to forgive, after Periandor’s retribution at Edrim. Vander’s thoughts flickered into memory. Death from above. Not that they hadn’t deserved it. The fire’s howl rose louder than the dying...
“Nonetheless, an experienced blade!” Sire Landon said chipperly, pivoting to consider Vander’s companions. “A trained healer,” he said of Maggy, “A hunter,” he glanced at Halada, “and...” the knight examined Orin, unsure. The gnome was thin as kindling, wearing sturdy leathers and a long coat. The small armory he preferred to carry had been left at the Inn.
“A wizard,” Maggy said quickly, seeing Vander’s vacant look.
Vander thought this was generous, and his amusement drew him back to the present. In his travels, he had met apprentices who knew twice the magic Orin did. Few of them, though, were like to be as handy with a dagger, or as silent in the darkness.
“Delightful,” said Sire Landon, “A fine catch! Yes, this is excellent.”
“So, this place you wish us to explore...?” Maggy asked.
“Indeed, on the island,” said the knight absentmindedly as he rummaged through a heap of papers. He brought forth a small map, spreading it on a stack of books. Vander noticed a stiffness to his movements, as though a recent wound had tightened his left side. Landon pointed out the most westerly islet, a strip of land not half a mile wide.
“Here, at the edge of the sound. A fisherwoman washed up there some weeks ago, her boat dashed on the rocks in rough seas. Later, in calmer weather, she swam back to the mainland. When she did, knowing my proclivity as a collector,” he gestured around to his books and objects, “she immediately brought me news of the place she had sheltered. Some kind of ancient temple beneath the ground.”
“A temple to which god?” inquired Maggy.
“I cannot say,” replied Sire Landon. “The woman was of paltry learning, and her account of the site was regrettably lacking. That is where you come in.” He tapped his finger on the map for emphasis. “All I wish of you is to search around and record what you see in detail, and return that knowledge to me, so I may decide if an investigation merits my time. I ask you to leave any artifacts undisturbed. You see, this is why I needed professionals, not any rough folks who answer to coin. I am confident that a trained wizard and a traveler of Assandai will understand how to document the place.”
“Certainly,” said Maggy hastily, “You have our assurances. All will be left as intact as possible. The compensation you offer is more than suitably generous.” She paused, thinking. “The fisherwoman though, might we speak with her before we depart? If you would direct us to her dwelling...”
“Alas,” Sire Landon sighed, adopting a pained expression, “her boat was lost at sea between then and now. It seems she had a penchant for fishing out in ill weather and did not survive the second wreck, wherever it may have been. Her poor family was forced to bury an empty coffin.”
“Sad tidings,” Maggy offered, “my condolences for the loss of your villager.”
“Sad, indeed,” said Landon. “Yet! Let us not darken the hour. There will surely be much learned from the ruin by sundown tomorrow.” He flexed his fingers together, suddenly businesslike. The youthful energy to his voice was fading, as though his enthusiasm had wearied him. “In addition to the promised reward, I shall tender you an advance of twenty gold pieces,” and saying so, he passed Maggy a pouch of gold, which she took readily. “This should more than cover any preparatory expenses you incur. I suggest you rent a skiff from a fisher at the dockside early tomorrow, and you should make good time to the island. I believe the temple is somewhere at the island’s southern tip, though you will not find a landing there.”
Vander felt a deep appreciation for how carefree nobles could be with money. Better than the merchants who usually employed him, much better than the guardhouse of Edrim. By his best guess, no one else in town had twenty gold rings in their purse. He wondered eagerly whether the whole advance would be necessary for their preparations. Happily, he doubted it. With Vander lost in this reverie, Maggy offered Sire Landon the party’s thanks and assured him of their intended haste.
Sad news of the lost fisherwoman notwithstanding, they returned to the Skimming Kingfisher in fine spirits. Before the night was through, they put a part of Sire Landon’s advance to good use in the purchase of truly excellent spirits. Orin’s head dipped sleepily after his fourth thimble of brandy.
Even Halada, who usually partook with restraint, quaffed enough ale to make a horse reel, regaling them with the story of her parents’ wedding day. Before dawn, the bride and groom had gone into the forest and wrestled down a wild bear, butchering it for the feast. Afterward, though, Halada grew taciturn and withdrawn. Eventually, she helped Orin to the second room upstairs and settled herself on a bench in the tavern, where she claimed she felt more at home.
As the night wore on, the tavern’s clientele trickled out. Soon, only Vander and Maggy remained with their cups. They drank steadily, maintaining a light and pleasant warmth. Idna’s husband, Raul, was pouring the drinks. Blessedly, he had the instincts of a long-serving barman and left them in peace until he was needed.
They shared tales from their travels. Even after many nights together, smoothing the benches of alehouses, there was always someplace the other had visited but not yet spoken of.
It was not long, though, before Maggy’s tellings returned to the Skydwelm. She spoke of a city built into the northmost of three lonely mountains. The berg’s peak had been sheared off and built into a vast plaza of temples and stately buildings. Down the center of the mountain was carved a deep hollow, lined with homes and countless public houses. As soon as you came within a mile of the dwelm, you could smell the brewing of dwarven beer, and the fumes of distillation.
Perhaps, they said, they would visit it after this job was done, their pockets heavy with coin. When they’d had their fill of the mountain city, they would take an easy caravan job between the Silberwerks and Beron’s Crossing, bringing them back to the trade lanes.
With Raul dutifully minding his own business, Maggy leaned forward to give Vander a long, pointed kiss. Leaning closer still, she whispered in his ear that she was going to bed. Then she stood, laying several rings of silver on the board, before heading upstairs. Vander looked into his mug, mostly finished, and drank down what remained. Then he paid his own tab and followed Maggy.
Closing the door to their room, he was quite warmed through, with hundreds of gold pieces ahead of him. And Maggy was leaning against the central beam in her chain shirt...only her chain shirt. No aketon beneath it. He drank her in from toe to eyes, and as the evening came to a close, Vander was feeling very lucky indeed.
Afterward, Maggy curled against him in the drafty room, and Vander drifted in and out of sleep. When her warmth had almost lulled him into a lasting slumber, he awoke suddenly to the smell of smoke. He was sitting bolt upright before he had opened his eyes, searching the room for fire.
But there was none. A candle guttered by the window, its wisp of smoke trailing toward them. Gradually he relaxed his breathing, but a frigid sweat had settled on him. He lay down beside Maggy again, and he pulled up the blanket. She shifted but did not wake, accustomed to his stirring in the night.
He could not say how long he lay in the room’s dimness. Perhaps he slept fleetingly, perhaps not at all. As the night dragged on, he felt a chill that would not settle. Vander heaved himself from the bed and threw on his nightshirt. Looking back at Maggie beneath the blanket, he instead wandered blearily to the shrine by the door.
He reached out to touch the Gray Man’s icon, fingers brushing the god of death and eternity. The idol was cloaked and faceless, carved from Gwynnberian ivory, the finest of the statuettes. The people of the coast must venerate it, a god of short, hard lives.
Vander bowed his head, averting his face from the idol’s gaze. He had lived a good while on borrowed days. Stolen, unearned. Little was left, but to wait with good ale and good company, until the Gray Man reclaimed his debt.
Slowly, he lowered himself before the shrine, until his temple rested on its seastone plinth. He whispered in Rukkic, “Let death come gentle, whether in many days or tomorrow.” Silence lingered. It was a simple prayer, learned from those he had borne his shield beside, and it expected no answer.
Vander set about the room, snuffing the remaining candles. This done, he led himself blindly through the blackened chamber to bed.