Kailas reached the village of Cottlecombe at dusk, relieved to find the wooden gates standing open. She rode through, her horse’s hooves muffled on the peaty ground. Inside the circular perimeter fence, white-washed buildings clustered round a main square, with two lanes forming a cross at the centre.

She glanced back at the empty road, hoping they would soon close the gates, then kicked her horse towards the square. The sight of people going about their daily business came as such a relief, she couldn’t help but smile at the villagers she rode past. One old man gave a cautious smile back.

Kailas breathed in woodsmoke drifting from chimney pots huddled on the thatched roofs, feeling safe for the first time in two days. Spats of rain landed on her cloak, as she crossed the square and took the east lane.

Higgledy shops and houses lined the route. Kailas leaned from the saddle, peering at the goods in the shopfront windows: rolls of fabric, hanging meat, baskets of winter produce, axe hafts and workers’ tools.

As the rain fell in earnest, the locals used the shelter of the overhanging thatches to go from one end of the road to the other. Kailas put her hood up and looked for a tavern.

Halfway down the lane, she saw a colourful sign above a stout building. Fiddler’s Retreat, it read. Below the gold lettering was an illustration of a jester in bright motley, playing a fiddle. The stables were under a lean-to attached to the building, divided into stalls. Two sturdy draught horses looked curiously at her over the dividers.

Kailas winced as she dismounted, feeling stiff and sore. She led her horse under the shelter to a water trough. As it lowered its head to drink, she examined the bewildering array of leather straps, loops and metal rings connecting the horse’s tack. The animal would be more comfortable out of harness, but she didn’t know how to remove it or put it back on.

She settled for tying the reins through a ring on the wall. As she unstrapped her bloodstained rucksack, she saw a lad with a mop of blond hair beside one of the draught horses, hanging a hay net. He wore a yellow, red and black chequered tabard, just like the fiddler on the sign.

To her mortification, Kailas saw that he was cleaner than her. She hid her rucksack behind her back.

‘I’m Yan.’ The stable lad approached with a smile. ‘Are you staying the night?’

‘If you’ve got a room.’

‘You can take your pick. The place is dead this time of year.’

Yan untied her mess of knotted reins, undid two buckles, and the harness and saddle slid into his hands. He slung the saddle over the wooden divider, then led the horse into a stall.

‘Come far?’ Yan asked.

‘Quite far,’ Kailas said. Before he could ask her for specifics, she continued, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen any unusual looking visitors in the last few days? People who look…out of place.’

‘You mean, foreigners?’ Yan picked up a stiff brush in one hand, hoof-pick in the other. ‘No, just your usual travellers, heading for the city.’ He groomed her horse with long strokes, removing mud from the road. ‘Looking for someone?’

‘It’s complicated,’ Kailas said, reluctant to say more. If the lad had seen the masked Mayqsa, he’d remember.

Yan gave the horse’s furry rump a pat. ‘He’s a lovely fellow. What’s his name?’

Kailas stared at the horse’s black, dense coat, scouring her mind for inspiration.

‘Black…rump.’

‘Suits him,’ Yan smiled. ‘What time are you leaving tomorrow? I’ll get him ready.’

‘As early as possible.’ Kailas stifled a yawn. Seeing her horse so well-tended had doubled her exhaustion.

Leaving Yan to his duties, she stumbled through the rain to reach the tavern door. Inside, thick, oak struts formed a partition between the hallway and lounge. She put her hand to the warm wood, the aromas of ale and roast meat wafting through from the bar. Covered lanterns lent a warm glow to the room. A large fire blazed in the hearth on the opposite wall, stoked by a man wearing a red bartender’s apron.

Crackling sparks shot up the flue as the bartender prodded the logs. He chatted to a couple of old men sitting at a trestle table nearby with froth-topped tankards and a half-finished game of Galleons between them. One man had a gleaming pate, the other was red-cheeked from his position closer to the fire.

Galleons was played in all quarters of Avellion. Kailas had spent many winter nights across the board from her father, her brain grinding through multiple strategies to get past his corsairs, sink his ships and take his treasure.

Snippets of conversation reached her as she headed for the only other person in the place - a plump, rosy-cheeked woman with her back to her, drying tankards behind the bar.

‘…hounded by those monks of the Blessed Poor who hang around the square,’ she overheard the bald man say. ‘Must have been my lucky day. They stopped me on the way to the forge.’

‘They got me at the pie shop,’ his red-cheeked companion chipped in.

‘Ah, well, it’s always the same religious claptrap.’ The bald man took a swig from his tankard as his companion rolled the dice. ‘They’re raving, the lot of them. Obsessed with the coming red eclipse. They think demons are going to explode from the sky.’

Kailas’s ears pricked up. She leant on one of the oak struts to overhear. Some of the sightseers at Mottesfont Reach had mentioned a special eclipse, but she had paid it little heed.

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‘Same as that blind beggar,’ his ruddy companion said. ‘The one who follows you around, waving his stick about. Eyes or no eyes, he knows where you are. Yelling about the wrath of Mayaqdor, and threatening hell if I don’t start praying. It’s dangerous, this scaremongering, the way it draws you in.’ His wrinkles deepened as he took a gulp of ale and studied the state of play.

‘Take my wife. She’s down the Temtari temple every day. The elders fill her up with doom and gloom. It’s just an eclipse. How’s praying going to change anything? She’d be better off praying to be a better cook. Twenty years of marriage and she still can’t fry a sausage without a bucket of sand handy.’

Kailas cleared her throat to get the landlady’s attention and threw her a smile, hoping the woman would overlook her bedraggled state. Her clothes were splattered with marsh mud and blood, and her cloak was shredded. The dead man’s sword was visible beneath the tatters. She hoped no one would recognise it.

The landlady didn’t bat an eyelid. She was probably used to seeing travellers in a far worse state walk through her door.

‘Can I help you?’

Kailas asked for a room for the night and a hot meal. ‘I’d like a bath, too,’ she added.

‘Of course,’ the landlady said, her lowlands accent motherly, like a warm blanket. ‘Bring a hoss?’

‘A what?’

‘A hoss?’

Kailas answered with a nod, wary of saying too much in case anyone picked up on her Mealduthian accent. She was working on softening it, but some sounds still grated.

‘That’ll be two crown all in, excepting drinks. Dinner’s potato layercake with despiked sedgepig pie, served in a green tureen.’ The landlady put a key on the bar, with the number four on the boss.

Two crowns? Kailas hid her pained expression. In Mealduth, two crowns would have paid for a fortnight’s bed and board in a luxury citadel, with as many roasted insects as she could eat.

‘Could you throw in a pint of ale?’ Kailas tried her luck, longing for something to take the edge off.

The landlady shook her head. ‘I can’t do that, but I’ll do a tankard of hotbrew for nothing.’

Kailas gave a resigned nod and counted out the coins. Thankfully, she had kept hold of Cook’s crown. The money wasn’t tainted, after all. Ancier was the one with blood on his hands.

‘Go and make yourself cosy by the fire,’ the landlady said, before heading through a door into the kitchen. The bartender took her place behind the bar and started pulling pints.

Kailas sauntered over to the hearth. She pushed her stained rucksack beneath the stout legs of an armchair, angling the damp side towards the fire, before sinking into the chair’s warm, padded cushions. A pleasurable languor started to seep through her, increasing with the snap of the flames and the thought of hot food.

She stretched out with a contented sigh, watching the men playing Galleons across the hearth. The bald man took a deep draft from his tankard, following it up with a resounding belch.

His ruddy friend started to reach for his beer but stopped short in dismay as his friend nudged his blue corsair off the board.

‘All this talk of demons,’ he ran his hand over his sweating forehead. ‘It’s ruining my concentration.’

‘It’s rumours from Mealduth, that’s all,’ the bald man said, fixing Kailas with a stare. ‘Nothing good ever comes out of that place. Ain’t that right, girl?’

Kailas jumped in her seat. ‘What?’

‘I was saying, we don’t think much of those whitescabs, do we?’

‘No, we don’t.’ Kailas sank deeper into the chair. Her cheeks should have been burning, but she lacked the ability to blush. The feeling in her gut would have to suffice.

The bald man tipped his opponent’s largest galleon over on a battle square, replacing the little red striped flag with a blue one.

‘That was sneaky.’ The ruddy man flushed puce and gave Kailas a wink. ‘Are you sure you’re not Mealduthian, yourself?’

Kailas didn’t know whether he was trying to impress her with his wit or making an accusation. She put her hand to her cheek, acutely aware of her paleness.

The bald man gave a triumphant smile as he landed his galleon on his opponent’s port. ‘Next round’s on you.’

The ruddy man let out a sigh, as the bartender set down fresh tankards of ale on the table.

‘I’ve got a good one for you.’ The bald man said. ‘There’s a blind man, a beggar and a Mealduthian in a brothel. The blind man goes up to the madam and says, “How much for a bl-”

‘Oy, mind your language,’ the barman cut in, nodding in Kailas’s direction. ‘There’s a lady present. Why don’t you just drink your beer and save it for later?’

The bald man looked round at Kailas and raised his hands in mock-surprise.

‘I was going to say blind man. How much for a blind man?’

‘Sure, you were,’ the barman winked in Kailas’s direction. ‘You should buy the lass a drink to say sorry.’

‘It’s all right.’ Kailas grabbed her rucksack and pushed herself out of the chair. ‘I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll head up to my room.’

‘See what you’ve gone and done?’ the bartender leant on the oak mantel, shaking his head at the regulars, as the far door opened and the landlady appeared holding a lantern. She beckoned to Kailas.

‘Your bath is ready, lass.’

‘Can I take my meal in my room?’ Kailas asked.

The landlady glanced at the cluster of men, pressed her lips together, and nodded.

She showed Kailas the way up a rickety flight of stairs, handed her the lantern and told her where the bathroom was. Her room was wedged in the corner, the number four painted in gold leaf. The tiny chamber contained a bed and a chair, a round rug and side table.

Kailas put the lantern on the sill, by the casement window. It was pitch black outside. The rain made tapping sounds as it hit the glass.

The room was warm from the kitchens below. Kailas dropped her rucksack on the floor, hoping it would dry overnight, then went for her bath. She took her sword and dagger with her.

Upon her return from a long, aromatic soak, wearing her travel clothes with her cloak draped over one arm, she found a dinner tray outside her door, tankard of hotbrew included. Beneath the steaming tureen was a curl of parchment with a message written in large letters.

Kailas cast a swift look round before carrying the tray inside. She locked the door from the inside and wedged the chair under the handle for good measure. Only then did she reach for the parchment.

Something slithered out and landed on her lap. A necklace of some kind. The chalk scrawl read: Miss, fownd this on yor saddel, Yan.

Probably from the stable lad, but there must be some mistake.

Kailas picked up the strip of corded leather and the small piece of carved wood hanging from it. The knot at the back was worn smooth with wear. A small, carved eagle was attached to a balsite ring. It had been simply but carefully made, with inscribed black eyes and individual feathers on the outstretched wings.

The wood was warm to the touch. The eagle’s edges were worn smooth with age, or touch. She slipped the cord over her head and gently pinned the eagle’s wings between her fingers, wondering who had left it. The necklace felt like a token, a talisman. Not from someone who meant her harm.

Kneeling on the bed, she looked out of the window, but it was too dark to see anything. For a moment she suspected Ancier, but he had barely been able to stand when she left him, let alone make the journey to bring her something that appeared to be valueless.

Unable to fathom the mystery, she ate her dinner. Once she’d cleared her plate and set the tray outside the door, she locked herself in for the night.

˜

Ten feet above her on the roof, a man sat in shadow. From his vantage point he could see beyond the village stockade to the scrubland that stretched in every direction, eventually merging with the forest.

The man rolled his shoulders, gradually slowing his breathing until he reached the trance-like state known as strat-kahir, the spring-trap. In this state, his body rested while his subconscious mind was alert to any suspicious movement, noise or scent.

Pulse slow, skin cold, he entered a vigil that would last through the night until daybreak or the arrival of the enemy, whichever came first.