“And our lads?” another asked. “Any word of a pardon for those on the losing side?”
“Dust and I didn’t stay to hear,” Vren said cautiously, pleased that he received nods of understanding. “We passed a few straggling this way,” he offered. “I’m not sure if they’re local or not.”
“Word is that Satia is not the forgiving kind,” came a mutter from the back.
“Athelbryght was neutral to both sides, by the word of the Chosen,” the Mayor explained, “but she allowed any that wished to go to make their own decisions.”
“Harris’s boy had a horse, might explain why he was nearly home,” said a man off to Vren’s left.
“Now there’s a new King and Queen,” Ian grumbled, “and sure as I have hairs on my ass, there’ll be trouble.”
“Ian,” Lissa scolded even as chuckles rose all around.
“It’s the truth,” Ian said glumly. “Aye, our lads returning, but so are those that will turn to thievery. And there’s trouble in the Black Hills and—”
“Aye, and it’s all gonna end in fire and death,” the Mayor said, standing up. “Ian, you fret worse than an old granny. The Chosen and the vore have kept us safe here in Athelbryght for longer that my father’s and grandfather’s time. So it will continue, yes?”
Worried looks, then nods all around. Vren could hardly blame them. What happened in far off Edenrich touched them rarely—but it might dig sharp claws in now.
The Mayor continued, “Let’s be off. Morning comes soon enough and the Widow Harris will be needing our aid.” He bowed to Dust. “Our thanks, vore Dust, for this news and your service.”
Dust bowed her head in acknowledgment, then rose and headed for the door.
Vren paused. “I would aid in the digging of a grave, if there’s a need. Hard work in the winter.”
Ian rose and clapped him on his shoulder, pulling the marcus aside. “Ah, no, lad, many thanks. In Athelbryght, we burn our dead. Long tradition. Best you sleep warm tonight and be on your way in the morning.” Ian lowered his voice. “With Dust returning, there’ll be a Packmoot, most like.”
Dust looked over her shoulder and nodded.
“The Chosen lives, Dust, but,” Ian hesitated, then almost blurted, “last word is she’s slippin’.”
Dust huffed.
“Aye, then,” Ian walked them to the stairs. “Sleep well. Best you get on first light. You’ve still a bit to go before you reach the manor give them the news. We’ll see ya fed and provisioned in the morning.”
Vren hesitated, not wanting to offend, then followed the man, resigning himself to a sleepless night.
The room was small, not much more than a bed, a rug, a nightstand, and a fire in the hearth. The four walls were too close, the ceiling too low.
Dust stretched out on the rug in front of the fireplace.
Vren stripped down, climbed in, and sank into the soft bedding. Even with the warming pan, the bed felt cold and lonely. “You could climb up here,” he suggested softly.
Dust didn’t even lift her head.
Vren closed his eyes, rolled over, and willed himself to sleep.
A few daysof hard travel found them at the gates of the home of the Chosen.
When they left the village, Dust had led Vren to the road, and Vren had agreed to follow it. There seemed little danger now and speed was necessary. The fact that the roads were lined with fields fully harvested, hay stacks neatly arranged, and livestock behind stout fences gave at least the illusion of peace and security.
Far better than piles of the fallen and weapons littering the ground.
Dust barked sharply as they crested the next rise.
From ahead came an equally sharp bark in response.
“Watcher?” Vren asked.
