《Myrth》 1.01 - Scramvyrn Hours before the caravan arrived, Grizzle Torvik had burst in, ranting about huge antlered beasts pulling an army of demons. ¡°Taller than two men stacked toe to top and as broad as four,¡± he¡¯d slurred. Scram hadn¡¯t served him that day and figured Grizzle had taken too many tugs from his own flask. Yet, here they were. The antlered beasts, a foursome of black furred mountain elk, were not quite as tall as two men but near enough, the fog of their breath thick as wet wood smoke, billowing out from nostrils each the size of Scram¡¯s thumbs. They pulled, not an army of demons, but something worse, as far as Scram was concerned:Edgewards. The black and gold of their banners and the jingling bells, cloying and loud, were sign enough, audible even over the crack and clatter of runners over frozen ground and the always present whistle of wind squeezed between mountains and forced through the narrow dip of the valley. In case there was any doubt, an obnoxiously large plaque affixed to the side of the first carriage in the line removed it. Out the window he could just make out the curving dip of ¡°Edgeward Expeditionary¡± emerging from the snow fog. The tavern was near empty save for the now calmed-by-drink Grizzle, who snored and snuffled into his beard by the hearth, Ysra, who¡¯d come with the morning¡¯s delivery, and the hovering nuisance Scram had taken to calling Pot Lad. ¡°What the fuck are they doing out this way?¡± Ysra spoke Scram¡¯s thoughts aloud, though with less grim curiosity and more wonder in her voice than the situation deserved. ¡°Whatever it is will require more than what I got on,¡± Scram gave a sharp jerk of his head to the boy. ¡°Go tell Cookie we got visitors. Explorer twats. Edgewards.¡± Pot Lad, slack jawed and awed, continued to stare out the thick, grime covered glass. Through it a distorted convoy began to unpack and unfurl itself. Dark figures jumped down from carriage tops, securing sleds and animals and kicking up slush. They shouted instruction over the din of the bells and the excited yips of the dogs. Scram counted twelve figures, plus the occupants of the carriage. ¡°Tell them service for twenty. And warn Haystack he¡¯s got actual work to do,¡± Scram tossed a balled up old rag at the back of the boy¡¯s head. He startled, scampering off to relay the orders. A moment later, a new group of dark shapes emerged from the forward carriage and moved towards the door. The wind when they came in lashed sharp and searing with chill, challenging the hearth fire which sputtered and dimmed in deference. Grizzle snorted to himself as it swept across the tavern, but did not wake, smacking his lips a few times and settling further into the rags of his coat. Scram had found the man dozing in a snow bank once, his hair tipped in frost and powder up to his chin. The three who came in were not so hardy, bundled in heavy, lined cloaks and layered underneath in a myriad of fabrics like calico stuffed sausages. The bottles Ysra had brought him were less swaddled in their crates than these three had been tucked away in their cozy carriage, so thoroughly encased by cloth only shadowed eyes could be seen. The door closed behind them, muting the clamor outside. The tallest began to unwind. Several layers lost revealed sharp, verminous features, and pale anemic skin. The faint traceries of color banding his neck, licking up the sides of his face, spoke words the man was unlikely to offer himself.The broach pinned at his throat, a compass rose of many blades in polished glinting gold, spoke more. He absently deposited the bundle of cloth on the nearest table and down a shrewish nose, surveyed the occupants of the room. Grizzle he dismissed with a blink, a nostril flaring in disgust, to move back and forth between Ysra and Scram. He settled on Scram. ¡°We require lodging. Three rooms - preferably clean - and space in whatever passes for stables here. Eight elk, sixty four dogs, four sleds and two carriages. Can you accommodate?¡±The sharp man¡¯s nasal drawl seemed doubtful. ¡°I can if you can pay,¡±Scram turned his back on the group, limping toward the crates he¡¯d been unloading behind the bar when the first chime of bells drifted on the wind. ¡°Not the dogs though. Kennels up the road.¡± He indicated the direction with a tip of his head. ¡°Of course we can pay-¡° the man blustered, half way through the removal of a glove. Scram cut him off. "Five aurum," Scram said, his voice steady. "A night." ¡°Five-FIVE aurum? That¡¯s..that¡¯s extortion! Robbery! Do you have any idea-¡° ¡°If you can¡¯t afford the gold I¡¯ll take what you got to trade,¡± Scram offered. He looked back at them and out through the window beyond, eyeing the sleds. ¡°Half what those dogs of yours can carry oughta do it.¡± If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. The man sputtered, the mottled pink blooming to an encompassing red and his lips shined with outraged flecks of spittle. As they watched the lines crossing his skin flared a brilliant glowing blue, near white. Ysra gasped and jerked back, braids swinging, hand flying to the knife on her belt. ¡°Scram-¡° Ysra started just as one of the man¡¯s companions stepped forward to lay a hand on his arm. The glow dimmed and faded with his snarl. Scram took a bottle from the crate and put it on the shelf. He followed it with another. ¡°Way I see it,¡± Scram continued, moving through the box at a steady pace. The joint of his brace clicked as he dipped down and rose again, arranging each brown bottle of Maegra¡¯s Finest in a neat little row. By the fire, Grizzle shifted in his chair, a sleep mumble turning into a honk. ¡°You can pay the five and have yourself three nice rooms indoors and the heating of them, warm meals for your bellies, a shelter for your team that Haystack will keep all fed up toasty like in the shed. And plenty of northern drink from our fine Miss Ysra here-¡° he gestured to Ysra, whose fingers tensed on the handle of her knife, wild eyed and hare tense. Scram continued. ¡°-you can take your chances out there, and make camp up in the Drift, free of all charge but not near as comfortable. Or you can take yourself up the road to the next inn. Lantern on the Span¡¯s the name of it, if I recall.¡± He finished one crate and moved to the next. He¡¯d have to see what Maegra had in her stores after this crew. ¡°We have come from The Span,¡± the rat faced man¡¯s mouth barely moved, speaking entirely through teeth clenched so tight Scram thought he might be able to hear them grinding even over the racket on the road and Grizzle¡¯s increasing rumbles. The man had finally removed the troublesome glove and had it crumbled in his fist. The pale skin of his hand was inked with more lines, black and gold and silver, all laid over each other in the same haphazard swirls as the ones climbing his neck. ¡°So you won¡¯t be needing directions then,¡± Scram said. The man jerked forward. As they watched, the lines crossing his skin flared¡ªa brilliant, blinding blue. Ysra gasped, stumbling back, her braids swinging as her hand flew to the knife on her belt. Scram smiled and turned to face the visitors. The one who¡¯d calmed the man before spoke. ¡°Three nights,¡± they said. Their voice was soft and muffled but firm. ¡°For our exclusive use.¡± ¡°I can promise the rooms. Nobody uses the rooms.¡± Scram said with a shrug. ¡°Tavern¡¯s a different story. Whole of the village uses the tavern.¡± ¡°For five aurum we could buy this wretched little hovel three times over,¡± the man spat from behind the new speaker. ¡°This place? It¡¯s just a few planks and a hot fire. You could buy it five times over, at least.¡± Scram eyed the wood of the floor above speculatively. ¡°The location is shit, nothing around for hundreds of miles. Cold as all fuck.¡± Scramvyrn pushed away the last of the crates with his boot. ¡°Afraid all I¡¯m offering is the rooms though. And the stables. Best ostler in one hundred leagues that¡¯s our Haystack.¡± ¡°Guestwright Covenant!¡± the man all but shouted. ¡°You are required to extend your hospitality in exchange for-¡° Scram was louder and deeper even though he barely raised his voice, cutting through whatever twaddle was coming next. ¡°Guestwright Covenant is a city charter, Bondsmage. And you¡¯re a long way from The Span.¡± The Bondsmage looked as if he would burst, the unnatural blue flaring brighter. The bundled figure who had spoken suddenly turned, nearly collapsing into him, clutching wildly at his arm. The glow snuffed as their back hunched. They doubled over with a cry, bracing against him. The third stranger, who had neither moved nor spoken thus far, rushed forward and bent low to help. The Bondsmage winced at the tightness of their grip and glared at Scram as if he was the cause of it. ¡°Fine! You thieving pig. No one comes upstairs. Not you, not your little bar maid. No one.¡± Ysra set her jaw, the knife¡¯s direction tilting with intent. Scram lifted a finger off the bar to still her. ¡°Send your lauded ostler for my team,¡± the Bondsmage sneered and freed his arm from his companion with a jerk. He stepped forward and slammed a small leather pouch onto the bar. Behind him the hunching figure took in two trembling breaths hitched in pain and then straightened again. They shrugged off the hand of the third and after a pause both bundled figures pivoted back to Scram as if nothing at all had occurred. Unease prickled at the back of his neck. For a moment, brief as a candle flicker, there had been fear in the Bondsmage¡¯s eyes. Scram made a show of taking the pouch anyway, dumping the contents onto the bar with the soothing clink and rattle of rough pressed golden coins. His favorite sound, save one. He slid them slowly across the wood, piece by piece, into a waiting palm. The Bondsmage near vibrated with rage with every coin. As one would watch a ticking clock his eyes darted back to his companions with each clink and drag. The two bundled figures remained as eerily stoic and still as when they¡¯d arrived. Only when all fifteen pieces had been carefully counted, and there were no further odd displays, did Scram speak. ¡°Up the stairs.¡± He pointed to the stairwell entrance at the back. ¡°Whole floor is yours. But cause any shit in my place, Edgewards, and you¡¯ll be bedding down on the ice.¡± The Bondsmage snatched his bundle of cloth from the table. He looked moments away from spitting on the floor, or perhaps in Scram¡¯s face, before he followed the other two towards the waiting staircase. Scram and Ysra listened as their footsteps clomped up the stairs and onto the floor above. There came the creak of a door opening and its following slam moments later. ¡°What the fuck,¡± Ysra breathed. ¡°A fucking Curiosity?¡± ¡°Probably more than one,¡± Scram frowned. ¡°More than one?¡± Ysra gaped at him. ¡°What the fuck?¡± ¡°Do you run your mouth foul like this in front of Maegra?¡± Scram wondered. ¡°Who do you think fouled it? This is serious Scram, they could have killed us! Could still kill us.¡± ¡°Bah,¡± Scram rolled his eyes. ¡°Bondsmages need a bond. No contract, no magic.¡± Scram leaned on the bar. ¡°Buncha jumped up clerks and scriveners. No idea what one is doing out here though.¡± ¡°Who cares? There are fifteen Edgewards outside right now and ¡®probably more than one fucking Curiosity upstairs,¡± Ysra hissed, looking around as if more would pop out of the walls. ¡°And you just turned the wrong dog loose riling them up two minutes after they got here. Five aurum a night, you fucking lunatic.¡± Ysra went to poke him with the knife but Scram veered out of her way. ¡°Here,¡± Scram tossed one of the coins. Ysra caught it with her free hand, and stared down at it wide eyed. It was likely she had ever held one before, most folks traded in kind goods here and no more than argent if they had to resort to metal. ¡°Calm down. Pot Lad¡¯s letting Cookie know.¡± ¡°Letting them know to make soup,¡± after one last look Ysra shoved the piece into her belt and the knife back into its sheath. She pressed a hand over it like a wound. Scram shrugged. ¡°Cookie knows what I said.¡± Ysra did not look comforted, her eyebrows pinched in with worry, mouth pressed thin. Scram lowered his voice. ¡°City covenants might not have jurisdiction here but Edgeward oaths are bound to the guild. Can¡¯t ride with ¡®em without the oath, and that means they can¡¯t hurt us.¡± ¡°But you agreed to a room. He gave you gold!¡± Ysra looked at him in alarm, her hand shifting to the aurum tucked away in her belt as if it burned. ¡°Bah,¡± Scram laughed. ¡°That¡¯s just something they say to puff themselves up, make people scared. A real bond takes more than tossing a few coins. Don¡¯t fret Ys, or you¡¯ll crag up like Maegra.¡± He pressed a finger into the worried pucker of skin between her eyes and laughed as she swatted him away. ¡°I¡¯m going to tell her you said that,¡± Ysra threatened, moving towards the back door. Outside of the window at the front, the caravan continued its chaotic uncoiling. She cast a final anxious glance to the ceiling. ¡°She¡¯ll just point out I¡¯m looking rather craggy myself these days,¡± Scram said patting his cheek. That got a small smile and an eyeroll. ¡°Do tell her about our guests though.¡± He scratched a fingernail against the wood of the bar. ¡°And if Owen is out when you pass tell him to come up.¡± The rest of Ysra¡¯s concern melted away with a smirk Scram didn¡¯t like the look of. Before he could question it, she¡¯d already heaved herself out into the cold. He could see the familiar figure of Haystack leading a team of the monstrous elk towards the barn before the door closed behind her. A muffled thump from above snapped him to back to attention. He listened for a few more minutes but could only make out the sound of boots crossing the floor now and again. Grizzle was still in a sprawl by the fire, the whistle of breath in his nose swallowed by the great rumbles of his snores. Outside, Edgeward bells chimed a warning on the wind. 1.02 - Scramvyrn The worst blacksmith in the realm stumbled in long after dark, patting himself down as if something had been misplaced but he couldn¡¯t recall what it was. He looked more unkempt than usual, golden curls damp with recent snow melt, fluffed out in all directions like a newly hatched chick. The upturn of his nose was red, his cheeks high with color from the wind. ¡°Owen,¡± Scram snapped. ¡°Where the fuck is your coat?¡± ¡°Ah,¡± Owen said as though Scram had solved some great mystery. ¡°I came here straight from the pipes.¡± His fingertips were bone white, the knuckles red and raw. Scram scowled at them and slammed down the bowl he¡¯d been emptying. Owen beamed as he bounced across, his straight white teeth chattering slightly, catching the firelight. ¡°They are flowing again! I don¡¯t know how long this charge will last but-¡° ¡°I had Ysra send for you hours ago,¡± Scram interrupted. Owen blinked at the harsh tone, his teeth disappearing¡ªtaking the winking dimple in his cheek with them. His eyes moved back and forth, brows pinched as he rifled through the chaotic box of memory and distraction that served as his brain. While he rummaged, Scram moved towards the cook stove, reaching past a spattered pot to a small kettle waiting behind. ¡°She just said to come see you? She didn¡¯t specify a time¡ªat least, I don¡¯t think she did?¡± Scram poured the warmed wine into a mug and pressed it into Owen¡¯s anxious flapping hands. They curled around it, automatically seeking the warmth, the tip of one finger hovering over the steam with more preservation instinct than its owner possessed. ¡°I figured I¡¯d be up for supper anyway, so I¡¯d see you then,¡± Owen hugged the cup closer and peered at a bowl on the bar, half filled with thick brown glop. It shone with a layer of gray grease and had long gone cold. Owen¡¯s eyes lit up. ¡°Stew!¡± Scram nudged the bowl away from him. ¡°Not for you,¡± he said. Owen¡¯s pout only lived for the moment before he took a sip of the wine. He hummed happily and then, as if the rest of the room had emerged from a thick fog, his jaw slackened and he took in the state of things. Across every table and surface there were people, unfamiliar, clad in heavy cloaks of varying qualities but a similar black and gold design, and every one of them unconscious. The owner of the bowl of denied stew breathed long wet wheezes from an open drooling mouth, his face mashed into an elbow. At Owen¡¯s feet another smaller man slept, curled into a ball like a dozing cat. ¡°Wha-?¡± Owen turned all the way around, taking care to step over the sleeping man, and took them all in. ¡°We have visitors,¡± Scram tipped the contents of the bowl into a waiting bucket on the floor. ¡°Roland!¡± Owen admonished. He set the cup on the bar and crept closer. ¡°What happened to them?¡± He reached a hand out and held it under the nose of the formidable looking, but no less unconscious woman lolling across the table, checking for breath. ¡°It¡¯s like a fairy tale curse. Did you curse them?¡± ¡°Curses aren¡¯t real,¡± Scram said with the soft exasperation of a a well trod argument. ¡°Cookie made stew.¡± Owen¡¯s fingers moved to the woman¡¯s cloak, gently lifting the clasp to get a better look. ¡°Edgewards,¡± he murmured. ¡°Galanthus I could see making their way up. The season is right; they¡¯d want to get a head start on the frost.¡± You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. ¡°Well, we got Edgewards instead.¡± Scram¡¯s voice dripped with false cheer. Owen blinked, his expression sharpening. ¡°And they brought a Curiosity with them. One Bondsmage for sure.¡± Scram spat into the bucket, the sound cutting through the silence. ¡°There are two more upstairs with him. They haven¡¯t eaten.¡± The red tipped nose wrinkled in overwhelmed confusion. Owen slid out a stool and fell into it. ¡°This lot won¡¯t be too happy with you tomorrow,¡± Owen said after a moment. ¡°S¡¯not my fault they can¡¯t handle northern ale. Or maybe it was the rigors of travel¡ªwho¡¯s to say?¡± At Owen¡¯s continued frown Scram lowered his voice and leaned across the bar. Owen tilted towards him. ¡°I suspect whatever it was will hit them so hard in the morning they won¡¯t have much to say about it either way.¡± The teeth and dimple returned with Owen¡¯s smirk. Satisfied, Scram reached under the bar and brought up a thick cloth bag, still warm, and set it down in front of him. Owen unwrapped it like a gift, and let out another pleased little hum at the clay pot nestled inside, a little burst of steam puffing up when the lid was removed. ¡°Stew!¡± Owen beamed, the teeth blinding, the dimple deep, all sleeping Edgewards forgotten. He barely paused to take the wooden spoon Scram placed in his hands before he started eating. It was several rushed spoonfuls and then he looked up. ¡°This is a different batch, right?¡± Scram rolled his eyes and went back to cleaning as the man ate. He nudged a body out of his way, kicking the bucket along as he went. ¡°Would it matter?¡± Scram asked. ¡°Probably the first time food¡¯s crossed them lips since you were sat in that same spot at this same time yesterday.¡± Owen ignored Scram¡¯s chiding and leaned over, pressing a finger into the cheek of the man next to him. He didn¡¯t so much as twitch. ¡°They do look quite peaceful,¡± Owen ate another spoonful as he watched him sleep, the dimple sacrificed to puzzlement. ¡°What in the world are they doing up here though? And so many of them. We aren¡¯t even an official outpost yet. ¡± ¡°Nothing I want to be involved in,¡± Scram said. ¡°Keep ¡®em fed, keep ¡®em quiet, send ¡®em on their fucking way.¡± ¡°You should add that to the sign,¡± Owen murmured, ¡°Or at least something more than ¡®Inn. Tavern. Stable.¡± The last three words were deepened, Owen¡¯s face turning down and sullen, morphing into what Scram assumed to be an approximation of his own. Another well trod topic. ¡°Sign says what we got. Don¡¯t need more than that.¡± Owen huffed but kept eating. ¡°Odd to bring a Bondsmage along too,¡± Owen said. He pressed the spoon to his mouth and teethed at the end for a moment considering. ¡°Did you get a name?¡± ¡°Didn¡¯t ask for one,¡± Scram said. ¡°This lot mostly bitched about the road, their future weeping widows, or their frozen bits. Haystack said the packmaster didn¡¯t have any idea, they were told to move and they did.¡± ¡°Is this all of them?¡± Owen asked gesturing to the room at large. ¡°Most. Haystack is handling the packmaster and the wranglers. There¡¯s one or two went up with the dogs. Barnard will see to them.¡± After all the soup had been cleared, Scram took the bucket to the back door and set it outside. The wind droned on, a ceaseless cry through the eaves. Up the road, the dogs stirred, their restless sounds just barely audible beneath the distant, damned bells. He closed the door behind him and set to his next task. ¡°Let me help. I¡¯d bet my whole shop you haven¡¯t sat down all day,¡± Owen pushed his bowl away, near licked clean and stretched, the long lean line of him spanning almost to the ceiling above. He looked pointedly at Scram¡¯s brace. ¡°Set these around,¡± Scram said gruffly, turning away to nudge a crate of old bottles with his toe. He took to setting a few on the bar interspersed between half full tankards, long since abandoned, and the limbs of the sleeping Edgewards. ¡°Ah I see, setting the stage,¡± with a flourish of his expansive arms and an extravagant bow to no one, Owen came over. Scram¡¯s skin prickled as Owen neared, the hairs on his arm standing on end. ¡°Sit,¡± Owen said. The prickle faded, the hair flattening when he fluttered away, arms laden with bottles. Scram rolled his eyes but let him prance about without argument. Owen alighted around the room like a meadow bee, carefully setting bottles to triple the original number on table tops, tucking them underneath open palms, or slipped into the arms of curled up Edgewards. Scram let himself sink onto his vacated stool, eyes drawn to Owen¡¯s steady, long-fingered hands as they made meticulous little adjustments to the placements. The fire¡¯s golden haze turned the world soft, lit the tips of fly away curls, ramblings about the pipes weaving into the slow, rhythmic breath of the dozing group. Sleep pulled at the corners of Scram¡¯s eyes. The room wavered, slipping out of focus. The fire¡¯s glow flickered. A bottle clinked against wood. Someone exhaled in their sleep. Then, deep and fracturing, like a pine giving way under heavy snow, a woman started screaming. 1.03 - Scramvyrn If Scram had been a different sort of man¡ª one whose life had taken a gentler course¡ª the sudden shift from lulling peace to shattering reality might have demanded a moment¡¯s hesitation. But Scram was who he was. There wasn¡¯t a blink between half-sleep and full alert. His feet moved before his mind could register the shards of glass ¡ª now underfoot from a dropped bottle¡ª or the give of flesh beneath his heel¡ª the leg of an unfortunate, sleeping Edgeward. Scram grabbed Owen¡¯s wrist with one hand, the hilt of a knife with the other, and heaved them both toward the door. There came the sounds of boots above. A door slammed. Someone started down the stairs at speed. Scram ignored the little pinpricks along his palm where they touched, the tingling at the tips of his fingers. His teeth buzzed. He yanked Owen in front of him, pushing him ahead, every point of contact a little zip of feeling. ¡°Wait¡ª¡± Owen went to tug out of his grip, arching his body to put space between them. ¡°¡®S¡¯fine. Flow¡¯s weak. Get Haystack.¡± The footsteps on the stairs were about midway down by the time Scram reached the door. They cleared another step as he opened it. Owen tottered at the gap, nearly tripping over the bucket of old stew just beyond the threshold. Scram kept him upright, sights fixed on the barn. The windows were lit. Haystack was still awake. There was a ward trigger inside. He tried to steer Owen toward it, but the slighter man stood firm. ¡°Go trigger the ward,¡± Scram insisted, urging him bodily to move. ¡°Scram¡ª¡± Owen dug in his heels, eyes wide at something over Scram¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Please! We need a midwife!¡± Scram had nearly shoved Owen fully out of the door when the words hit, cutting through his readiness like a misfired blow. The voice was high and thin, shaking with fright- and as far as Scram could tell, not the one that had screamed. A midwife? The word sat strangely in his mind, unfamiliar¡ª known but never used. In that hesitation, Owen slipped past him, back into the tavern. The buzz trailed along Scram¡¯s sleeve, tugging at the back of his shirt. ¡°She¡¯s¡ªshe¡¯s¡ªI don¡¯t¡ª¡± The voice cracked, wavered, grew small and uncertain. ¡°She started b-b-bleeding, and I¡ªI thought I could do it¡ª¡± The woman rushed on, breath hitching between syllables until a sob overtook speech entirely. Owen moved toward her, dragging Scram back around as he went. The woman was soft and round and dipped in blood. Like a tallow candle coated in red wax- covered from the tips of her shaking hands to the top of her trembling shoulders. Blood streaked rust across her sweating face, colored the ends of her hair, and crept along the front of her dress, as if she had knelt in a puddle of the stuff. It was a discomfiting tableau¡ªthis unfamiliar woman, bathed crimson, standing amidst so many black-clad unconscious bodies. ¡°May I ask, are you hurt?¡± Owen¡¯s voice was the same one he used to encourage tiny gears to lock and minuscule cogs to turn. Scram had caught him whispering - to clockwork hummingbirds, to the egg-like wire constructs lining his precious pipes - in just such a voice. A politic, baffled interrogation: Why aren¡¯t you behaving as expected? What is the problem, and how may I be of assistance? As if the young woman were struggling with a broken pocket watch rather than something involving quite a lot of blood and the services of a midwife. Strangely, it was effective. The woman¡¯s shoulders slumped. ¡°No, s¡¯her blood. I¡¯ve¡ªI¡¯ve never seen so much.¡± Her hands started trembling. Owen crept closer on sideways feet, making odd shushing noises- like a shepherd approaching a frightened lamb. Scram had seen his fair share, and judging by the quantity on her skirts, whoever this blood belonged to likely wouldn¡¯t see morning. He was just about to say as much¡ªknowing a lost cause when he saw one¡ªwhen, in the corner of his eye, something flickered. Scram turned toward the movement. The scream came again¡ªan agonized sound, like metal on metal. It crested then fell into a dulled, drawn-out moan. On the bar, a bowl¡ªthe one Owen had eaten from not an hour before¡ªdisappeared. Scram blinked. The bowl was back. But the spoon was gone. Owen continued his quiet murmuring, the woman replying as best she could between tremulous sobs. ¡°What¡ª¡± Scram took a step toward it. Before his eyes, the bowl faded, growing more and more translucent, a ghostly remnant of its original form¡ªuntil, with a sudden blink, it returned in full, steam rising from fresh, hearty brown stew. ¡°What the fuck?¡± Scram breathed. ¡°-send for her.¡± Owen was saying. ¡°Roland.¡± His gentle tone had sharpened. ¡°The bowl,¡± Scram gestured to it. ¡°We¡¯ll need Maribelle,¡± Owen said. Scram reached a finger toward the bowl and gave it a simple prod. It was solid, an aura of humid air surrounding it from the heat. The stew sloshed up the sides as it moved. Owen exhaled in exasperation and crossed the room to push Scram toward the still-open door, each finger pressing into his back, sending a little zip of sensation along his spine. ¡°I¡¯ll assess the situation upstairs. Send Haystack up for¡ª¡± ¡°Like fuck you will,¡± Scram interrupted, digging in his heels. ¡°Whatever this shit is, it ain¡¯t our business. They paid for the rooms and the board, and that¡¯s all they¡¯ll get from us.¡± This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Both the blood-covered woman and Owen looked at him¡ªthe former in dismay, the latter in annoyed exasperation. ¡°Roland¡ª¡± Owen started, but the woman cut in. ¡°My mistress is Taneah Winterglade.¡± The name was wielded like a master key, one that unlocked favors and prestige. It rang in Scram¡¯s ears the same way midwife had¡ªcommonly read but never spoken. ¡°Oh my,¡± Owen gasped. ¡°Doesn¡¯t make a bit of difference to me,¡± Scram said. ¡°No midwife here. No healer neither. I don¡¯t know what the fuck is going on, but we won¡¯t be having any part of it.¡± His gaze flicked back to the bowl. It still looked wrong¡ªand then he realized why. The steam was falling down, a waterfall of fine mist spiraling into the stew rather than rising from it. The spoon had not returned. Scram scanned the floor, the tops of the stools, peered under the arms of the sleeping man¡ªbut there was no sign of it. ¡°As I speak for myself¡ª¡± Owen said, already shepherding the young woman toward the stairwell, ¡°¡ªI¡¯ll assess the situation upstairs. I have some experience in such matters.¡± Scram scoffed. ¡°What experience?¡± Owen ignored him. ¡°Roland will send our man up to fetch Maribelle. She¡¯s birthed half a dozen children and is more than qualified, I should think.¡± The woman looked at Scram over her shoulder, her face tight with terrified doubt, but she allowed Owen to tug her along. ¡°Owen¡ª¡± Scram tried again. ¡°This smells like shit. There¡¯s something going on here.¡± ¡°Go,¡± Owen glared at him from the stairwell. ¡°Or don¡¯t. If it¡¯s payment you require to help a mother in need, Roland Scramvyrn, I¡¯ll settle the account myself after.¡± And with that, he tromped up the stairs. The woman followed. As Scram watched, they both seemed to slow¡ªeach movement fracturing, every twitch, every shift of fabric breaking down, piece by piece, stretched across an unbearable eternity. He blinked over the course of what felt like days, and then everything moved as it should. Owen¡¯s feet were heavy, his face bobbing up beyond the stair rails until only the bottoms of his boots were visible¡ªand then, not even that. The scream came again¡ªlouder, closer¡ªthe sound of a rusted hinge wrenched open too wide. Now, Scram¡¯s feet didn¡¯t know the way. They were planted, useless and leaden. He moved toward the stairwell¡ªtoward Owen¡ªa thousand horrifying scenarios clipping through his imagination¡ªno¡ªhis memory? Scram smacked a fist into the side of his head with a dull thwack, pain bursting true at his temple, peaking at the tip of his ear. His feet twisted toward the partially opened door. The barn light reflected off the snow, but beyond, there was only pitch black. ¡°What the fuck,¡± he hissed. His feet had control again. They picked up speed, hurtling him out into the night. The cold seared past his nose, stung his eyes, his breath billowing in great gasping clouds of fog. He could only hear his heart and the cracking glass sound of his boots in the snow. Warm amber light lay ahead. The snow seemed too clear, his eyes picking out individual flakes, individual mounds, individual hillocks¡ªlittle islands of blue and green, shining orange where before there had been only white and gray. ¡°Haystack,¡± he yelled, his voice hoarse and cracking. He tried again. ¡°HAYSTACK!¡± The man tumbled out of the side door, dressed only in long pants and a thin, grubby undershirt, half-held up by a single brace while the other sagged. He looked more asleep than awake, rubbing his whiskered jaw and blinking owlishly. ¡°Go fetch Maribelle,¡± Scram panted. ¡°And when you¡¯ve delivered her, rouse Barnard down.¡± Haystack blinked at him another moment. ¡°Fucking¡ªMOVE.¡± At Scram¡¯s bark, Haystack scrambled, yanking up the lolling brace and righting himself before rushing back into the barn. Scram heaved himself back around, the pain in his ankle searing. The next shriek cut through him like metal dragged against glass, vibrating in his teeth. It came not from a room in his tavern ahead but from everywhere, echoing off the starlit sky above and the dark shadows of the woods beyond. The force of the reverberation nearly sent him careening into the snow. He caught himself, the cold burning his palms, and pushed forward. The journey back into the barn was missing. He was climbing the stairs now, every step echoing¡ªfar louder than any boot on wood should be. One door was cracked; the other two stood open and empty. Noise and light spilled from the cracked door into the hall¡ªa flickering fire, a screeching woman¡ªthen the tremulous wail of an infant. Scram watched his own hand press against the door. The gap widened, revealing the room beyond. Owen stood before him, bathed in the yellow-amber glow of a lantern behind him. His billowing sleeves were tinged red, though largely obscured by the flailing bundle of dark fabric in his arms. A tiny fist waved from the folds, and the infant¡¯s cries grew louder, more frantic. Owen smiled down at the bundle and cooed, his dimple deeper than ever. He shifted his arms, and the bundle of fabric resolved into a baby¡ªfoldings parting to reveal a fragile, wrinkled little thing. Its mouth was a screaming void of black, topped by a smear of red for hair and weeping, scrunched-up eyes. The baby reminded Scram of springtime deliveries¡ªpigs in the barn, kittens nursing from whichever mother was willing. He thought of the nests of baby mice discovered in the hay¡ªmice that those same kittens would one day hunt. Owen¡¯s smile turned up to him, and he gave the baby a happy little jostle, murmuring the same soothing shush. A whispering voice to his side snapped the rest of the room into focus. On the bed, under a horror of gore-covered sheets, a beautiful woman glowed with sweat, clutching the front of her nightgown and staring at Scram as if he had interrupted an elegant meal in some palatial estate. Her gaze was as cool as the snow clinging to his knees¡ªso placid he could imagine her anywhere but here, in this cobbled-together birthing room. Taneah Winterglade was less beautiful than the renderings he had seen in the broadsheets¡ªthe ones beaming down from posters and banners littered around The Span. Her face was rougher, lines newly forming around her frowning mouth and between the disdainful pinch of her brows. But her presence was fierce. She commanded his attention as if she had taken her nails and grabbed him by the chin, forcing him to look at her. The rat-faced Bondsmage hovered nearby, similarly glaring, though with far less effect. His cloak was gone, revealing the swirling marks on his skin¡ªless rising curlicues and more geometric spirals, their definition fading the further one stepped away. The young woman from downstairs stood on the other side of the bed, hovering over Taneah but not daring to touch her. She had changed, Scram realized, into an identical dress¡ªthis one only tipped crimson at the ends of her hands and the cuffs of her sleeves. He frowned at it. At the bloodied sheet, far too clean for what he had seen before. Had they changed it? Owen stepped alongside him, the baby making little snuffles from the cradle of his arms. ¡°I told you I had experience,¡± Owen said, smug and grinning. He tilted into Scram, shoulder pressing against his arm. ¡°What, with sheep and dogs?¡± Scram rasped. He cleared his throat. ¡°Shhh,¡± Owen smirked. ¡°Hush, you. I got there in the end. She gave us some trouble¡ªstubborn little mite¡ªbut we got through it, didn¡¯t we, dear heart?¡± Owen cooed at the infant, giving her another gentle jostle. He lifted her up for Scram to see¡ªstill red, still wrinkled and scrunched¡ªbut her tear-stained eyes were open now, peering up at him. Dark and serious. Flickering with light from the candles. Or the fire. Or the lantern. Scram didn¡¯t know. But they burned the same. 1.04 - Owen Owen had never held an infant before. Not a human one anyway. Creatures were always being born around the outpost, so he supposed he could not say he had never held a baby in the whole of his life. He¡¯d held plenty: slick, wet lambs tottering from his arms on shaking limbs; wrinkled little logs of brown and pink piglets, soft and squeaking in his palms come spring; little balls of warm skin snuffling into his chest when he visited Barnard during whelping season. He wasn¡¯t quite sure how he had come to be holding this particular baby, but like the croaking lambs and squeaking pigs, it was pleasant enough, so he didn¡¯t mind overmuch. This particular baby didn¡¯t seem to mind him either. She wiggled in his arms, testing new limbs, her face twisting between expressions as if discovering things like cheeks and eyebrows and tiny dimpled chins ¡ª but she didn¡¯t cry. After that first primal screech, she had only made the quaintest of gurgles and tentative coos. It must be strange to be an infant, Owen thought ¡ª one moment nothing, and then shunted, feet first, into an entirely new world. He adjusted the blankets around her again, her feet and fists determined to fight free. ¡°-in my fucking place.¡± Roland was not shouting ¡ª he rarely did ¡ª but he was not pleased. His naturally deep baritone was wire-taut, matching the tension of his shoulders, the clench of his fists. Owen tugged his attention from the baby as she punched at the fabric enclosing her arms, wondering if he should intervene. It was caught an instant later by the turn of her head, a little honk emitting from her as she nosed into the front of his shirt. Owen laughed a little and shifted his arms to let her burrow further. ¡°-settlers designated and dispatched¡ª¡± the Bondsmage was saying, every word rang with malicious glee. Owen¡¯s eyes flicked up to see a sneering smugness on an already unpleasant face, a piece of parchment being waved about like a banner. Before he could ask, the baby had kicked a foot free. Owen tutted and went to setting it to rights, working to tuck in the ends of the cloth. He was curious how long it would take her to free it. If that¡¯s what she was even trying to do. Owen wasn¡¯t entirely sure how much babies knew. Human ones, that is. Some animals stood and walked away from their mothers in hours ¡ª survival written into their bones. Strange that humans needed so long to find their footing. Owen was not well studied in natural philosophy and had only ever spent a passing amount of time with children, Mirabelle¡¯s mostly, and nearly none with babies. ¡°When do children start to walk?¡± Owen asked. The infant¡¯s mother ¡ª Mistress Winterglade, Taneah Winterglade, Owen remembered after a blank moment ¡ª paused, but in the end ignored him and finished her thought. ¡°-to discuss further. But not tonight. I am tired.¡± She waved a hand dismissively. ¡°Lazrin. See them out.¡± The Bondsmage, Lazrin, swept to the door, opening it wide with grotesque childish joy ¡ª a cruel pettiness that made Owen¡¯s skin crawl. The baby increased her burrowing, trying to wedge her head between Owen¡¯s arm and chest. It tickled, and he huffed a laugh, easing away. The miniature grunts and snuffles increased in pitch, grew more frantic, her mouth drawing in the fabric of his shirt with desperate little sips. ¡°Oh!¡± Owen shifted her again, and with a gentle smile at Taneah, he lifted the warm bundle toward her mother. ¡°Ah ¡ª I think this little one might be hungry?¡± Taneah reared back, her lip curling in poised distaste ¡ª as if the baby were a dead rat Owen had thrust at her. His chest tightened. Owen brought the baby back to his chest, confused. She was ramping up to an urgent cry now. The room dimmed as a candle went out. ¡°No. Avenna. The child.¡± Avenna ¡ª apparently the name of the young lady who had come for their help earlier ¡ª did not move. She looked more terrified now than she had in the tavern below, her gaze fixed on the smoke drifting to the ceiling, the wick recently snuffed. ¡°Avenna,¡± Mistress Winterglade¡¯s voice sharpened. Avenna startled and, with a determined nod, rushed forward, reaching out to Owen with reluctant arms. She didn¡¯t meet his gaze ¡ª or the baby¡¯s. The grunts sharpened as Owen passed her over. His arms felt suddenly light. The fading warmth lingered like winter¡¯s breath ¡ª thin and aching and new. Owen¡¯s hand hovered for a moment before settling back to his side, empty. _______________________ As soon as they reached the landing, Roland heaved him toward the bar to face a bowl of stew. The Edgewards slept on around them, undisturbed by the evening¡¯s excitement. Roland picked up the spoon ¡ª or rather, prodded at it, as if testing a trap spring. Then, seemingly satisfied, he picked it up to examine it. ¡°Go ahead and eat. You must be famished,¡± Owen encouraged. ¡°I know you let the rooms, but I could¡ª¡± ¡°What happened?¡± Roland asked after another moment of turning the spoon over in his hands. ¡°Upstairs.¡± ¡°Upstairs?" Owen echoed, glancing at the ceiling. "Er... quite a bit?¡± Roland huffed, then seized Owen¡¯s shoulders and settled him onto the stool, bringing their heights level. His hands were hot, the dark brown of his eyes moving over Owen¡¯s face as if searching for something beneath it. ¡°Tell me everything that happened from the moment you went up those stairs,¡± he said. ¡°I¡ª¡± Owen was no stranger to missing time. The walk down from his shop to the outpost proper was not one he could describe with any confidence, despite taking the same route each day for well over two years now. Entire afternoons had vanished ¡ª sitting down to puzzle out a quandary with the sun slanting through one window, only to find it setting through another when he looked up again. ¡°It all happened rather fast,¡± he started, trying to piece it together. Roland, ever patient, waited. Owen remembered the woman, Avenna, coming down the stairs. Remembered Roland snapping into action ¡ª as if the years they had spent here meant nothing ¡ª once again tasked with herding Owen into waiting secret carriages or shutting him behind closed doors at the slightest whisper of suspicion. ¡°I went upstairs, and Mistress Winterglade was¡ª¡± Roland was shaking him. His broad hands pushed Owen¡¯s hair back from his forehead, cupping his cheeks with steady pressure. His face blurred and sharpened in Owen¡¯s vision. He blinked, and something whispered along his cheek. He reached up. His finger came away wet. ¡°Am I crying?¡± he asked, staring down at the smudged tear in wonder. He touched his face and felt more damp evidence. Roland seemed to sag when he spoke, his hands lightly squeezing. ¡°You just stopped,¡± Roland rasped. His forehead pressed against Owen¡¯s, brief and searing, before he pulled back. ¡°Stopped what?¡± Owen asked, breathless. ¡°You just stopped,¡± Roland snapped. ¡°Stopped moving. Stopped blinking. It was like you were ¡ª I don''t know ¡ª fucking stuck.¡± Roland ran a hand through his hair and scowled at the bowl of stew. ¡°More of their fucking schemes,¡± he muttered, kicking sharply at the side of the sleeping Edgeward on the ground. The man¡¯s body shifted from the force, but he slept on. ¡°Roland!¡± Owen barked, the full weight of his station behind it. ¡°Come with me.¡± He let Owen come to him, to run calming hands down his broad arms ¡ª little licks of energy sparking beneath his skin ¡ª and guide him past the cookstove into the back rooms. He reminded Owen of a child, once soothed from ill dreams, being returned to bed. Roland would surely hate the comparison, but Owen found something achingly sweet in his quiet acquiescence ¡ª in the power of guiding this moose of a man with only the gentlest of pressure. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. The original designs had meant the space to serve as a suite for the innkeep¡¯s family ¡ª separate, but close enough to tend any trouble. Roland called that a waste of good storage. Two of the rooms had long since been given over to crates and barrels, the hanging bodies of dried fish and onion bulbs. The man himself had taken up in what had once been designated as a washroom. Restoring the room wouldn¡¯t be difficult. Roland had added only a bed piled with thick furs and a trunk for his clothes, which he kept in the heavy copper tub. There were no pictures. No odd scraps of paper. A few books, which Owen suspected were only there because he had forgotten them in the tavern, and a set of clothes hung to dry from the eaves. Owen led them both to the bed, and Roland sat backward onto it with a sigh, already propping one booted foot to knead at his ankle under his brace. Owen sat on the bed¡¯s edge and slapped his hands away to start working at the straps. For a few moments, there was only the sound of their breaths, white clouds puffing out from the cold. ¡°You should let me revive the charge so you can sleep tonight. I forgot with all the commotion,¡± Owen said. Roland shook his head, watching Owen¡¯s hands as they slipped the leather free and started on the locks. "Tomorrow, then." "As if you''ll remember." ¡°Why don¡¯t you tell me what happened,¡± Owen said, finally unlocking the last clasp. ¡°Things that don¡¯t make any sense,¡± Roland sighed, relaxing a bit as Owen shifted the brace off and, with quick rubs, worked at where it had dug into his skin above the top edge of his boot. He started working on the boot next. ¡°Be more specific,¡± Owen said. It was several more quiet moments ¡ª nothing but breaths and the rasp of leather on cloth as he worked it sideways off Roland¡¯s foot. It was more difficult than usual. It fell to the floor with a dull thunk. Roland¡¯s ankle was warm through his stockings, swollen. Owen pressed at it, half relief and half impatience, and Roland hissed but did not move away. ¡°The bowl,¡± Roland said, voice flat. ¡°It was empty. Then it was full. And the spoon ¡ª gone.¡± He ran a hand over his face. ¡°Like it had never been there. Come downstairs, spoons back again. And outside, when I went to get Haystack-shit,¡± Roland sat up. ¡°He¡¯s gone up to fetch Maribelle,¡± Roland said. ¡°And Barnard.¡± ¡°Shouldn¡¯t cause any harm if Maribelle takes a peek at them,¡± Owen said. ¡°She won¡¯t mind waiting for dawn if they get here early, but Haystack will take his time in the dark.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t I fuckin'' know it.¡± Roland finally shifted his foot out of Owen¡¯s grasp and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. ¡°I can¡¯t explain¡ª¡± He took a breath and shook his head. ¡°I don¡¯t know what the fuck happened outside, but something is going on. That girl, not the mother¡ª¡± ¡°Avenna?¡± Owen said. Roland nodded. ¡°She was covered in blood, more blood than anyone living could have lost, but now she¡¯s clean as fresh snow.¡± Owen frowned. He did remember that. He had thought her a shade at first, some haunting vision of past brutality come to visit them in the night. ¡°Maybe it only looked worse in the moment?" Owen suggested, doubt threading through his voice. ¡°And you can¡¯t even speak plain about what happened.¡± Owen went to open his mouth, but Roland¡¯s large hand snapped out and clamped across his mouth with firm pressure. ¡°Don¡¯t try again,¡± he bit out. He pulled his hand back, and the tingle of his touch remained for a heartbeat. Owen wanted to chase it but snapped his fingers for the other boot instead. Roland rolled his eyes but shifted, tugging it off and handing it over. ¡°Perhaps it was Cookie¡¯s stew?¡± Owen tried again. ¡°On the skin or perhaps the vapors? Like when I forgot and left the flue closed and¡ª¡± ¡°I know what I saw,¡± Roland bit out. ¡°I know what I heard. I know that you sat there like a propped-up corpse after trying to put words to it, and I know I don¡¯t want this shit anywhere near us.¡± ¡°They¡¯ll be on their way soon,¡± Owen said weakly, unsure of how to reassure him. This was not something he had experience with. Roland had never needed such before. Roland laughed, a harsh, bitter thing. ¡°Knew you weren¡¯t paying attention, too busy cooing at that¡ªthat¡ª¡± ¡°Infant?¡± Owen suggested, a warning winding its way in. ¡°Baby?¡± ¡°As you say,¡± Roland said. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean¡ª¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure you did not.¡± Owen stood, deftly dodging Roland¡¯s swipe to tug him back. He took a deep, steadying breath. Now was not the time to be sensitive over old wounds. ¡°You¡¯re not wrong,¡± He said finally. ¡°So the baby is¡ª¡± ¡°Gifted? Blessed? Touched by the Gods?¡± Owen wrinkled his nose at the last. ¡°I suspect so. I can¡¯t sense if someone is, not unless they have some visual indicator that lets everyone know. But she didn¡¯t stir a bit¡ª¡± He wiggled his fingers, a little arc of lightning traveling from forefinger to thumb. ¡°Not a flinch.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not as strong as you think.¡± Roland reached up and flicked at the arc. It branched out from the stream, dancing in the air until it barely brushed his fingernail. Owen pulled it back. ¡°Lots of people don¡¯t notice. Or mind.¡± ¡°True,¡± Owen bit his lip, pondering. ¡°Mirabelle¡¯s girl thinks it¡¯s funny when she hugs my leg. Still though, there¡¯s something. And there¡¯s also, as you pointed out, the bowl, and every time I try to think about her birth it just¡­ slips away.¡± ¡°Your memory is shit,¡± Roland pointed out. ¡°And I told you not to try again.¡± ¡°Also true. Both.¡± Owen¡¯s bones ached, every joint felt locked up, and exhaustion was creeping in on field mouse feet. Roland must have felt similar. He grunted and threw himself back on the bed, letting out a gusty sigh as he stretched out along it, closing his eyes. ¡°The girl, Avenna, has been dispatched as a settler for the outpost,¡± Roland said. ¡°That¡¯s what you missed. Fucking mandate. They claim they are merely ¡®acting as escort.¡¯¡± His tone told Owen all he needed to know about his feelings on the veracity of that claim. ¡°Taneah Winterglade acting as mere escort? Seems unlikely.¡± ¡°Better chance of me joining back up with those twats than that being the truth.¡± ¡°How disappointing,¡± Owen teased. ¡°You look so fetching in gold.¡± Scram gestured rudely but did not open his eyes. ¡°You¡¯re exhausted. I¡¯m exhausted. We¡¯ll work it out in the morning. Do you think Haystack¡¯s bed is clean?¡± Owen asked. ¡°Not a chance in fuck. Why?¡± This time he did crack an eye, peering at Owen in good-natured suspicion. ¡°I know you won¡¯t let me go up on my own, and I¡¯ll not have you walking all the way up and back after the evening we just had.¡± Owen sniffed. ¡°So you can occasionally stir a thought outside of the damned pipes.¡± Owen leaned over to jab sharply at Roland¡¯s side, but he caught his wrist instead, reclosing his eyes. He tugged gently. ¡°Just sleep here,¡± he gruffed, tugging again. ¡°If you kip out in Haystack¡¯s grubby little nest, you¡¯ll get fleas.¡± Owen sat down, kicking off his boots. He wouldn¡¯t lie to himself ¡ª this was what he¡¯d hoped for. ¡°And then you won¡¯t notice until you¡¯ve scratched yourself bald, and Barnard and I will have to dip you in the river like the dogs.¡± Boots removed, Owen let himself lie down. It was a small bed, a washroom-turned-bedroom-sized bed, and Roland was a broad man, Owen a very long one. He gingerly arranged himself until Roland, perhaps impatient, perhaps overtired, grabbed him by the waist and half-flung him over his body, the curve of Owen¡¯s side pressed over his front, their legs braided. He tugged the mass of furs and cloth over them, a little cocoon of warmth. ¡°Fuck off to sleep,¡± he said. Owen was sure his face was burning in the dark. Roland¡¯s warmth pressed into his side, steady and grounding. This was not the first time they had shared a bed; it was not even the hundredth, but it always made his stomach squirm, made his toes curl in a giddy sort of anticipation ¡ª as if he were a child, getting away with something under Nanny¡¯s ever-watchful eye, never mind that he was several decades removed from childhood and she had passed on some years ago. ¡°It won¡¯t bother you?¡± Owen asked, biting his lip. ¡°Stop,¡± Roland murmured, already sleep-thick and slowed. He gave Owen a gentle jiggle in reprimand. ¡°Sleep. We still have to deal with this shit in the morning.¡± ¡°Do you think fleas would be affected?¡± Owen asked. ¡°They jump a lot, I think. Maybe they wouldn¡¯t notice.¡± ¡°You¡¯ll find out if you keep yapping,¡± Roland murmured, half of it almost lost in the trail of his voice petering out. ¡°I delivered a baby today,¡± Owen said with no small amount of awe. ¡°I believe I did anyway.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t. Think. About. It.¡± Roland gave a little kick. ¡°Sleep.¡± ¡°I liked her,¡± Owen said. ¡°The baby, I mean. They are very small ¡ª babies. And very¡­ pink.¡± ¡°That¡¯s it, it¡¯s the barn for you.¡± Roland made a show of heaving him out of their cave. ¡°Sorry,¡± Owen whispered, allowing himself the indulgence of brushing the side of his hand across the soft down of Roland¡¯s beard. ¡°I¡¯ll be quiet.¡± Roland¡¯s responding grunt seemed doubtful and so faint it was likely the last he¡¯d say for the night. Owen, however, was thrumming, too livened to follow. He enjoyed a few moments of listening to Roland¡¯s deep, even breaths, feeling the heat of him down the line of his body, and then turned himself to the problem of his memory. The last thing he remembered was climbing the stairs. The first: the sensation of wiping pinched dark eyes, his body overwhelmed by some foreign exhilaration, his eyes prickling with tears even as laughter left his mouth. The rest was as fathomless as the Gap, a yawning void. Even this was strange. The missing pieces of his memory didn¡¯t feel lost in the usual way. Owen was used to the sense of time passing ¡ª blurred but present ¡ª even when he couldn¡¯t recall the details. But this¡­ this felt like a dreamless night, a single blink from sleep to waking with nothing in between. 1.05 - Owen Owen awoke alone in a dark cave of humid, rosemary-scented warmth to the sound of his name. "Owen? You in there?" Owen recognized Torbin¡¯s cracking voice, an edge of pleading in the question, as if he¡¯d been asking for a while . A soft tapping followed. Owen shuffled out of the cave of furs with great reluctance. Roland¡¯s bedding was sackcloth coarse, but it smelled of woody rosemary and cloudberry seed oil and was still body-warm. He¡¯d tried the concoction once, curious if it would tame the fine wisps of his curls the way it smoothed over Roland¡¯s bushing locs. Owen had spent hours watching him tend to them¡ªthick hands rolling and rubbing tight coils into shape each week by the tavern¡¯s hearth, in mud-soaked tents, in cramped, dingy inns. A slow, deliberate ritual. A quiet intimacy. Owen had ended up looking like a slicked-up beaver¡ªRoland¡¯s words¡ªand it had taken two baths to scrub it out. "Owen? Scram said to fetch you." Torbin knocked again. Owen startled. "Good morning, Torbin," Owen sang back. Outside the warm cocoon, the room was brittle with cold. He needed to see to the pipes. "You may tell Roland I¡¯m awake." "Yes. Thank you. I will," The boy sounded so relieved, Owen wondered how long he¡¯d been knocking. "¡¯Said to tell you my Ma came down." Message delivered, the boy scampered away. After a final indulgent huff, face pressed into the very spot where Roland¡¯s head had rested, Owen followed. Even by the meandering, weather-dependent, timekeeping of the outpost, Maribelle and Haystack had arrived hours later than expected. A battered pot of weak ale sat on the bar, near empty, and only a few black-crusted ends of bread and crumbs of hard cheese remained on the serving plank. The room was empty of Edgewards though he could see dark figures through the window. Haystack heaved stacks of bundled furs and leathers into the room from the door at the back, grumbling under his breath with each one. At the bar, Torbin was arranging them to Maribelle¡¯s exacting instruction and looking more harassed than usual. ¡°Fluff them, boy,¡± Maribelle scolded. She had spread a rough mat across the bar, laying out knife sheaths and small pouches with practiced precision. ¡°Why would someone wan¡¯ta glove don¡¯t even look warm?¡± Haystack draped a collection of fur-lined cloaks across the bar, the pelts shimmering in the firelight. The pair of beaver-fur gloves lay next to several hats, trimmed with mink and rabbit, already arranged in tight little rows, and Owen presumed¡ªadequately fluffed. ¡°People wan¡¯ta bit o¡¯ warmth for their travels, not mangy scraps all bunched up like they''ve been tossed to the dogs.¡± Maribelle Hollis was built like a whip, a solid frame of bone and stretched leather skin, with thin, spindling limbs that lashed out to pinch ears and flick foreheads. She was always dressed head to toe in her family wares, a menagerie of pelts and leathers and fur trims that cloaked her form and smelled perennially of acrid willow smoke and rendered fat. She lit up when Owen came in. ¡°Feathers and ice, if it isn¡¯t the man after me own job!¡± Maribelle said. Owen frowned at the furs, confused. ¡°Ah, er¡ªwhile I do find the alchemical process rather fascinating, I don¡¯t think I have the stomach for¡ª¡° Owen stammered. ¡°She means the baby,¡± Roland said. He kicked a stool with his boot and nodded for Owen to sit. ¡°Oh! Well, I don¡¯t quite recall¡ª¡° Owen started, sliding onto it. Roland slammed a bowl of pottage in front of him with a sharp look, cutting him off mid-sentence. ¡°Cute little pup that one,¡± Maribelle went on. ¡°Already got her color in. Healthy lungs. Tongue too, not a spot of white!¡± ¡°You¡¯ve seen her?¡± Owen asked, looking up. Roland pressed a spoon into his hand. ¡°Bit of a surprise,¡± Maribelle laughed, a jovial cackle that reminded Owen of crunching spring leaves. ¡°Haystack said Roland told him ta fetch me down with haste, said we had visitors, so I figured, might as well take an opportunity when the wind blows me one and had him bring some of the season with me. I wasn¡¯t expectin¡¯ a babe.¡± Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. ¡°Neither were we,¡± Roland muttered and slid onto a stool next to Owen. His face was drawn with worry, the frown etched in. ¡°And the mother?¡± Owen asked. Maribelle¡¯s smile slipped into a scowl. ¡°Her man told me right off,¡± Maribelle said. ¡°Can¡¯t say I blame her, last thing I¡¯d want is some strange bear woman asking ta peek ¡®tween my legs after all that.¡± Maribelle shrugged. ¡° ¡®Sides, if the mum is birth sick enough ta die, nothin¡¯ for me to do anyway.¡± It was said with a coarse matter-of-factness that startled Owen. Maribelle continued on. ¡°I set eyes on the nurse though.¡± ¡°Avenna?¡± He asked. Maribelle nodded. ¡°Babe had a strong suckle going. Good tits on that one, she should fatten right up.¡± Owen went red to the tips of his ears with a shocking quickness. Roland coughed. Several things suddenly made a bit more sense. ¡°Ah.¡± ¡°Told ¡®er I¡¯d send down my old sling, and some of the clothes I got set back from when Thora was a pup. Up to my hip now that one, she¡¯ll be tall like her da¡¯.¡± Haystack grumbled again, no doubt recognizing that he would be ferrying these items back on her behalf. Maribelle continued with her updates. Alric was out in the woods, she¡¯d send him down a visit when he returned. Nordon was with him, of course, could sooner separate the stars from the sky than pry that boy from his papa. On and on she went, a pleasant cadence of consonants and vowels that slipped into and over each other. Owen sank into the rhythm of the retellings, his mind snagging on certain sounds, the ebb and lilt of her speech. The way her tongue caught on the T¡¯s, and lengthened the E¡¯s, the occasional burst of spring leaf laughter. ¡°You two,¡± Lazrin¡¯s voice cut into the melody like a snapped string. Roland tensed next to him, and Owen¡¯s own startled jerk near tipped the pottage. Lazrin ignored Maribelle¡¯s glare and motioned at them. ¡°She¡¯s asking for you.¡± Owen wiped his mouth on the collar of his shirt and stood. Roland was harder to shift. After a few silent moments of exchanged glares and Torbin¡¯s uncomfortable twitching, he finally stood. Curiosity triumphed over stubbornness, Owen figured. Owen smiled at him, a reassurance, but the frown was cut in deep today. Roland¡¯s gaze flicked past the smile to the waiting Lazrin. Upstairs, the birthing room was set for tea. Roland and Owen could only blink at the contrast from the doorway. The bedding had been replaced¡ªthe graying whites and browns of linen and wool, the patchy fur hides, now covered by bottle green and midnight blue silks and brocades. There was no sign of the horsehair-stuffed mattress beneath this new finery. Even the table had been swapped out, replaced with a deep cherry wood piece, polished to a high luster, its thin, curving spindles gleaming where before there had been rough-hewn oak and sapling stumps. The tea service, a lovely set, the delicate cream porcelain painted with spiraling green leaves and tiny bursts of bluebells, looked more suited to the new additions. But the rest of the room¡ªthe moth-eaten wool curtains, the dust-coated glass¡ªcast a shadow over the fresh opulence, as if the room itself had yet to catch up. The woman sipping tea at the cherry wood table seemed worlds apart from the desperate, sweating wraith of the night before as well. Her curls swept gracefully up from a powdered face, her skin glowing with a luster that caught the light, and her lips¡ªplush and full¡ªformed around a cup so delicate that the tea appeared as a dark mass swirling within. There was no sign of the weariness from the night before. She was perhaps a shade paler than seemed usual, her eyes a bit more drawn, but everything else¡ª from the tucks and folds of her dress to the hanging jewels draped across her chest¡ªwas impeccably arranged, perfect in every way. ¡°Sit,¡± she commanded. The teacup was set soundlessly on its saucer. Owen folded himself into the chair across from her without hesitation. Roland jerked, the barest spasm, but remained standing. Taneah¡¯s lip quirked. After a moment she shrugged and took another dainty sip of the tea. The silence plucked at Owen¡¯s skin, made him shift in the chair, his hands rubbing at the tops of his legs. It felt heavier in this room, thick with tension and unease. He wanted to leave. There was no sign of the baby, which was disappointing. Owen wanted to see her, finding within his chest a strange envy that Maribelle had already done so, a pressing curiosity to see how she fared this morning. It was an unfamiliar anxiety and he shifted, trying to focus. ¡°The babe is doing well?¡± Owen blurted. The scowl was brief, but it twisted the carefully arranged portrait of her face the same. ¡°Avenna will tell me if there is something amiss,¡± Taneah dismissed. ¡°That is not why I asked you here, however.¡± ¡°You didn¡¯t ask at all,¡± Roland said. ¡°And you guaranteed exclusive use of these rooms. Yet last night you both took it upon yourselves to enter my bedchamber and involve yourself in my personal affairs on the whims of one over dramatic simpleton. Sit. Down.¡± Roland¡¯s knees buckled, and he dropped into the chair with an ungainly lurch¡ªlike a marionette caught mid-cut from its strings. Owen¡¯s eyes widened. Roland¡¯s face was a thundercloud, a primal fury that curled his lip and bared his teeth. Taneah tutted and raised the teapot to fill her cup. Bone-white lace gloves, intricate and gleaming. The kind he had dirtied, torn, hidden beneath cushions and between book pages, pressed under his thigh to keep from sight. They didn¡¯t belong here. Not in this room, not in his outpost. Their wrongness prickled at his skin¡ªan itch, an urge to tear them away. How dare she-how could she-how- Roland¡¯s hand was hot, pressing solid and sure against his thigh. Owen tore his eyes from the lace. They fell instead on her smile, a wolfish satisfaction in the glint of her teeth. ¡°Better.¡± She nodded in approval and, with a pair of tiny silver tongs, dropped a sugar cube into the cup with a plop.