Approaching the twin oaks that marked the southern boundary of the town, he noted how they resembled a pair of porch pillars. These broad columns, however, were clad in dark bark and hid beneath a canopy that cast deep, wide shadows. The hollow—the dale—where the village clustered was a leafy pocket at the base of the ravine where that singular road from the outside entered the Valley of Dulgath.
Outside. Already Hadrian thought of things in such terms as here and beyond here, as if he were in a different place from everywhere else, from normal. On this, his second visit to Brecken Dale, he thought the gathered ivy wasn’t simply decorative and pretty but a blanket that hid everything. The sound of Dancer’s hooves on the stone road echoed in the hollow.
Everything echoes. Noises bounced back off the ravine. Not even sound escapes.
When he reached Pastor Payne’s ramshackle hovel, the old man was outside, pulling loose boards. More than a few had come free and teetered in a stack next to him.
“Hey there,” Hadrian called. “Could you recommend an inn? I’m going to get a room for myself and Royce.”
“This town doesn’t have one. At least none I could recommend. Your best bet would be Fassbinder’s place.”
“What’s that?”
“Fassbinder is a soap maker, but his two boys died last year. It’s where I stayed my first night, but now Bishop Parnell has arranged for this”—he gestured toward the shack—“wonderful abode. He’s assured me the new church will be the envy of the region.”
Hadrian tried to imagine Royce taking supper with Fassbinder and his wife. He didn’t relish night after night of awkward silence.
“How about something a bit more public. A tavern with some lodging, perhaps?”
“There’s Caldwell House, but as I said, I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Why wouldn’t I want to go there? Do they have bugs or something?”
“Worse. It’s down by the river near the square where we first met.” Payne’s arm stretched out, one bony finger aimed downhill toward the center of the village, where the ivy and old oaks grew the thickest. “A house of sin and debauchery.”
“They sell beer then?”
The pastor’s response was an irritated pfft, which Hadrian took as yes.
“I stay away from the river. The far side is godless; that’s the bad side.”
“What’s over there?” Hadrian lifted his head. A depression snaked through the far side of town, where he imagined a river ran. Beyond roofs and gables, he saw only trees and a hill.
“Nothing—nothing of any worth.”
Hadrian had trouble reading clergy in general; they always managed to project a disconnected yet knowledgeable attitude—less than helpful when gauging reliability.
“Fassbinder is up that way,” Payne told Hadrian, pointing toward the majority of the freshly planted fields to the south.
“Thanks.” He dismounted, preferring to walk through the remainder of the village and guessing Dancer appreciated the gesture.
The sun was in the middle of the sky and warm—another beautiful day in Maranon—but few people were out. A pair of boys and a dog chased sheep in a high meadow up the ravine, and a woman drew water from the central well, but he didn’t see anyone else. Two doors closed as he approached, and the shutters on nearly every house abutting the street were sealed.
He hoped the pastor wasn’t watching him as he turned downhill toward the river.
On that day the village market was open. The dale’s version was small, airy, and lined with stalls and carts selling salt, spices, leather goods, candles, copper pots, and brass buttons. Caldwell House wasn’t hard to find. The building sat on the corner of THIS WAY AND THAT, which was a confusing sign, given that five separate lanes came together at the same intersection; two, however, were only small pathways. One of these led to a reclusive home surrounded by a stand of trees, while the other marked the entrance to what Hadrian thought must be Caldwell House, easily the largest building in the village.
The place was tall, a full four stories if you counted the three dormers and five gables built with all the planning of an afterthought. It, too, was made of fieldstone supported by thick timbers. Like everything else, it was covered with thick ivy. The place was a living plant with doors and two smoking chimneys.
No sign was posted at the entrance or from the eaves. But the door was open, and three men stood in a cluster on the porch, smoking long black pipes. They scrutinized him; not one smiled.
“Excuse me, is this an inn?” When no one replied, he added, “You know, a hostelry, an auberge, a lodge, a way house?”
Just stares.
“A place where people rent rooms for the night to sleep in?”
The group puffed and walked back inside, leaving a cloud behind.
Not to be deterred from the possibility of a good mug of beer—even a reasonable imitation thereof—Hadrian tied Dancer to one of the porch posts. He clapped the horse’s neck. “Hang in there. I’ll see if I can find something for you, too.”
He walked around the railing and up the stairs onto the porch.
“Don’t mind them,” a voice said. A moment later a young woman stepped out of the gloomy interior of the house, emerging from the ivy-wreathed hole.
Red hair—lots of red hair.
Divided down the middle of her head, the woman’s ginger tresses spilled to her waist after first cascading off bare shoulders. Small and dangerously pretty, she wore a gown elegant in design but not material. Black felt pulled together with leather laces formed the plunging front, while the sleeves were made of coarse wool. Side panels—hidden beneath her arms—were made of suede, and the cuffs and pleats were comprised of stitched together burlap scraps. Not remotely refined, the patchwork dress was a bold attempt to imitate the wardrobe of a lady using the means of a waif. Yet unlike any chaste noble garment, this concoction of wool and leather greedily gripped the woman’s body, straining the imperfect stitching.
“No?” he asked, willing his eyes to remain on her face, not a poor alternative given her friendly smile.
“No.” She reached up, gathering her hair with both hands and casting it behind her like a net. “You’re the one who stopped the feathering last night, right?” She didn’t wait for an answer, obviously didn’t need one. “Some folk are holding a grudge.”
“Not you, though?”
“Wasn’t there. Heard about it. People talk in a small village. You thirsty?”
“Yes, but right now I’m looking for a room and a place for my horse. So, is this an inn?”
“Caldwell House is pretty much whatever you need her to be.” She winked. Her age was difficult to guess. The dress said young, but her confident tone made him think she was a year or two older than himself.
“Do you…work here?”
“What? Like a whore or something?” There wasn’t any tone of offense and no emphasis on the word whore. Just a question asked in a delightfully casual manner, as if they were discussing lemonade or the lack of rain.
He absolutely had been thinking prostitute, but given her reply, he felt it safer to retreat. “Barmaid, perhaps?” That, too, might have been an insult. She could be like Gwen and own the place.
“An entertainer.” She made a little hop, threw her hands up, and spun around in an elegant twirl that made the hem of the gown flare. “My name’s Dodge.” She pulled at her hair. “Scarlett Dodge. My mother had all the creativity of an eight-year-old with a spotted puppy.”
He chuckled. “Nice to meet you, Spot. I’m Hadrian.”
“Pleasure is mine.” She made an equally elegant curtsey. “You’re from up north, then?”
“Most recently from Melengar.”
Her eyes brightened, and the smile grew even more inviting. “Fancy that. I came down from Warric—Colnora, to be exact. But you probably guessed I wasn’t a native, on account of how pretty I talk.” She chuckled. “And my lovely complexion”—she held out a freckled arm and rubbed—“which I share with the bellies of dead fish on a hot day.” She made another smart spin, turning her back on him but trailing a hand that beckoned with a curled finger. “C’mon in, Hadrian of Melengar. I’ll let you buy me a drink, and we can regale each other with stories of our adventures in foreign lands.”
Hadrian glanced back at Dancer. “It won’t take long. I promise.”