The ragpicker cocked his head. “Who I’m really looking for is a man who carries a black staff. Do you know of such a man?”
His new friend nodded eagerly. “Everyone knows about him. That’s the one they call the Gray Man. Sider Ament. Patrols the valley rim, checks the passes to see if the wards are still in place. They’re not anymore, you know. Down, all of them. The way out—or in—is open to anyone.”
He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Word is, there’s an army out there. Trolls.
They’re camped on the flats beyond Aphalion Pass, waiting on something. Word is, they want to take our valley away from us and make a home of it for themselves. Throw us to the wolves or whatever. But we won’t stand for that. You heard about this?”
“I did hear something. No details, though. Are there a lot of these Trolls out there?
Enough to do what they say they’re going to do?” The ragpicker gave the young man his most concerned look. “Do you think our people are in any real danger?”
The young man shrugged. “Could be. I put my faith in the teachings of the Seraphic. I belong to the Children of the Hawk. We believe that we will be saved no matter what the danger, once the valley opens up again. Like it has now. We believe the Hawk will return for us and keep us safe from whatever threatens.”
The ragpicker nodded sagely. Do you, now? Safe from anything at al ? Safe from me? The words burned like a cleansing fire in his heart. “Tell me something of your order,” he asked the other. “All of this is new to me. Who are the Children of the Hawk?”
Then he proceeded to listen carefully to everything the young man had to tell him about the sect and its leader, the Seraphic Skeal Eile, who at the moment was gone from the village but was expected back within the next few days. It was a fascinating story, and the demon drank it all in with a rapturous enthusiasm he could barely conceal. This was so much better than he had hoped. Everything he needed to bring his plans to fruition was right there for the taking. He could hardly believe his luck.
“Well, I will certainly make it a point to speak to your Seraphic upon his return. I think I might be interested in joining your sect. It sounds just right for me. But I want to hear more from the Seraphic himself.”
“Oh, he will be glad to speak with you,” the young man assured him enthusiastically.
He stuck out his hand. “My name is Elson. Yours?”
The ragpicker did not take the other’s hand, but only smiled. “My name is of no importance. I am a simple trader in goods and services. A ragpicker, as you can see. But it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Elson. I am grateful for your time and your insights.”
He started to turn away and then stopped suddenly. “One thing more. You never did say where I could find the man who carries the black staff. What was his name again?”
“Sider Ament,” the other replied. “But he’s a hard one to find. He comes and goes as he pleases and never with any announcement beforehand. Pogue might know. Or maybe his wife, Aislinne. She has a history with the Gray Man. Knew him when they were both young. He still comes by to visit her now and then. She might know.”
The ragpicker repeated the name carefully in his head. “And where will I find her?” he asked.
Minutes later, he was through the door of the council hall and on his way to find Aislinne Kray.
IT WAS A SHORT DISTANCE from the council hall to the residence of Pogue and Aislinne Kray, and the ragpicker found it without any particular difficulty. People helped him navigate the journey, taking time to set him on the right paths, wishing him well as he went. It was early still, but people were up and about, beginning their day, off to work or on errands or whatever pursuits occupied their time. The ragpicker found that everyone knew the Krays and no one questioned why he wanted to visit them at their home. Apparently, it wasn’t all that unusual to do so, although one or two people mentioned that the husband was away and the ragpicker might find himself disappointed if that was who he was intending to see.
But the ragpicker was seldom disappointed about anything these days, and the bright promise of finding the bearer of the black staff was a beacon that never dimmed.
It was no different on this day. He arrived at the little cottage to which he had been directed and found the woman he was seeking working in her frontyard flower garden.
She was on her knees, digging in the dirt, weeding her beds. But when she heard him call out her name and saw him approaching, she rocked back on her feet and then rose.