Here, at this tree, Haddy had first kissed Arbor, the shoemaker’s daughter. He and Dunstan had been competing for years for her favor, but Haddy kissed her first. That had been what started the fight. Dun had known better. He had seen Haddy spar with his father, and witnessed Haddy beat the old reeve for whipping Willie, a villein friend of theirs. The reeve had been too embarrassed to report to the bailiff that a fourteen-year-old boy had bested him. Haddy’s skill was no secret to Dunstan, but rage had overcome reason.
When Dunstan found out about Arbor, he had charged at Haddy, who instinctually sidestepped and threw him to the ground. Misfortune landed Dun’s head on a fieldstone. He had lain unconscious with blood running from his nose and ears. Horrified, Haddy had carried him back to the village, convinced he had just killed his best friend. Dun recovered, but Haddy never would. He never spoke to Arbor again. Three days later, the boy known as Haddy had left for good.
Hadrian slumped to the ground and sat in the shade of the tree with his back to the old oak’s trunk. When he had been a boy, this had been where he had always come to think. From here, he could see the whole village below and the hills beyond—hills that had called to him, and a horizon that had whispered of adventure and glory.
Royce and Arista would be wondering where he had gone. Hadrian was not usually self-indulgent on the job.
The job!
He unconsciously shook his head. This was Royce’s job, not his. He had kept his part of the bargain, and all that remained was for Arista to reach the rendezvous. When she did, that would end the assignment and his career in the world of intrigue. Strange how the end brought him back to the beginning. Coming full circle could be a sign for him to make a fresh start.
Near the center of the village he could see the smithy, which was easy to pick out by its rising black smoke. He had worked those bellows for hours each day. Hadrian remembered the sound of the anvil and the ache in his arms. That had been a time when all he had known of the world had stopped at this tree, and Hadrian could not help wondering how different his life might have been if he had stayed. One thing was certain; he would have more calluses and less blood on his hands.
Would I’ve married Arbor? Had children of my own? A stout, strong son who would complain about working the bellows and come to this tree to kiss his first girl? Could I’ve found contentment making plowshares and watching Da smile as he taught his grandson fencing, like a commoner’s version of the Pickerings? If I’d stayed, at this very moment, would I be sitting here thinking of my happy family below? Would Da have died in peace?
He sighed heavily. Regret was a curse without a cure, except to forget. He closed his eyes. He did not want to think. He fell asleep to the sound of songbirds and woke to the thunder of horses’ hooves.
As night approached, Royce became worried. Once more they enjoyed the hospitality of the Bakers. Arbor was making a dinner of pottage while Dunstan ran a delivery of loaves to the manor. Arista offered assistance but appeared more a hindrance than a help. Arbor did not seem to mind. The two were inside, chatting and laughing, while Royce stood outside, watching the road with an uneasy feeling.
The village felt different to him. The evening had an edge, a tension to the air. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. He felt a nervous energy in the trees and an apprehension rising from the earth and rock. Before Avempartha, he had considered it intuition, but now he wondered. Elves drew power from nature. They understood the river’s voice and the chatter of the leaves.
Did that pass to me?
He stood motionless, his eyes panning the road, the shops, the houses, and the dark places between. He was hoping to spot Hadrian returning, but felt something else.
“The cabbage goes in last,” Arbor was telling Arista, her voice muffled by walls. “And cut it up into smaller pieces than that. Here, let me show you.”
“Sorry,” Arista said. “I don’t have a lot of experience in a kitchen.”
“It must be wonderful to have servants. Dun could never make that much money here. There aren’t enough people to buy his bread.”
Royce focused on the street. The sun had set and the twilight haze had begun to mask the village. He was looking at the candlemaker’s shop when he spotted movement by the livery. When he looked closer, nothing was there. It could have been Hobbie coming to check the animals, but the fact that the image had vanished so quickly made him think otherwise.
Royce slipped into the shadows behind Armigil’s brew shop and crept toward the livery. He entered from the rear, climbing to the loft. A fresh pile of hay cushioned his movements and muted his approach. In the dark, he could clearly see the back of a figure standing by the doorway, peering at the street.
“Move and die,” Royce whispered softly in his ear.
The man froze. “Duster?” he asked.
Royce turned the man to face him. “Etcher, what are you doing here?”
“The meeting has been set. I’ve been sent to fetch you.”
“That was fast.”
“We got word back this morning and I rode hard to get here. The meeting is set for tonight at the ruins of Amberton Lee. We need to get going if we’re going to make it in time.”