the side. It came to rest face down in the tiny stream. With luck, the man’s companions might believe he’d simply lost his footing. Weaver tossed the liquor jug after him and returned to the horse, wrapping the strip of blanket about its hoof and tying it up as he had done the others. The cloth was damp with the dead man’s saliva. Alwenna held the horse’s reins in silence until Weaver straightened up and took them from her. She stepped back half a pace, although she said nothing.
Weaver wasted no time in leading the horse away between the trees, its hoofbeats muffled effectively by the strips of blanket. Alwenna ghosted along at his side as they pushed through overgrown paths a mounted rider wouldn’t take. They didn’t speak, not even when he paused to pull a low branch aside so Alwenna might pass more easily. If she blamed him for Wynne’s decision she didn’t say so. If she held him in disgust for throttling the drunken soldier she didn’t say so, either. It didn’t make for a companionable silence.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Alwenna was growing used to the sounds of the forest now. Small creatures scuffled in the undergrowth, scurrying away as they passed. Birds took off from branches high above them with a clatter of wings. So many things relished the cover of the trees but she found it oppressive, especially by day. Being unable to see more than a few yards in any direction troubled her; she wanted to push the trees back, clear the canopy that masked the sky. It didn’t help that her view forward was obscured by Weaver’s back as she rode pillion behind him. They were far off the beaten track now, riding at a walk along a narrow path used mainly by foresters as they went about their duties – and by others like them who wished to come and go with as few witnesses as possible.
In front of her Weaver tensed. “Riders approaching. Get that hood up.”
“Could it be Wynne?” Alwenna flipped the hood over her head, tugging it down so it hid her face. What if it was the raiding party?
Weaver took his reins in one hand and halted the horse, setting his right hand on his sword hilt. The first of the oncoming horses came into view: a quality animal, it carried not an ounce of fat. These were no peasant foresters. The horse’s rider was tall, of lean build. Behind him plodded a string of pack ponies. A wide-brimmed hat sheltered his bearded face, while his hair was oiled and dragged tightly back in thin plaits, bleached russet by sunlight. A freemerchant. He didn’t appear startled to meet them at all – instead he smiled.
He reined in his horse. “Well met, fellow travellers. May your roads be clear and the Hunter watch over your fires.” His right hand moved to his left shoulder, palm downwards in the stylised gesture of greeting the freemerchants used, and he inclined his head briefly.
Weaver mirrored the gesture. “And so may your road be blessed, traveller.”
The freemerchant nodded, studying Weaver for a moment before his gaze moved on to Alwenna.
“Sister, you are welcome among us.” Again that gesture.
She responded in kind. She’d been taught the formal greeting long ago, but this was the first time she’d needed to use it. Freemerchants came and went at court, but their business had never involved her.
“You will always find welcome with us, sister. I am Nicholl. I give you my name that you may call on me when the need arises.” Was that a hint of pity she saw in his eyes? Perhaps she imagined it. His attention returned to Weaver.
“Well met, Ranald Weaver. Much water has flowed to the sea since my father gave you his name. What news of the road?”
If Weaver was startled to hear the stranger use his name he didn’t show it. They had met before, perhaps. But what an odd way to phrase it. Then again, she’d heard many strange tales of the freemerchants.
“The road is quiet, but you will find trouble as you approach Highkell. Reivers in the Stanton lands have strayed west in recent
Weaver wasted no time in leading the horse away between the trees, its hoofbeats muffled effectively by the strips of blanket. Alwenna ghosted along at his side as they pushed through overgrown paths a mounted rider wouldn’t take. They didn’t speak, not even when he paused to pull a low branch aside so Alwenna might pass more easily. If she blamed him for Wynne’s decision she didn’t say so. If she held him in disgust for throttling the drunken soldier she didn’t say so, either. It didn’t make for a companionable silence.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Alwenna was growing used to the sounds of the forest now. Small creatures scuffled in the undergrowth, scurrying away as they passed. Birds took off from branches high above them with a clatter of wings. So many things relished the cover of the trees but she found it oppressive, especially by day. Being unable to see more than a few yards in any direction troubled her; she wanted to push the trees back, clear the canopy that masked the sky. It didn’t help that her view forward was obscured by Weaver’s back as she rode pillion behind him. They were far off the beaten track now, riding at a walk along a narrow path used mainly by foresters as they went about their duties – and by others like them who wished to come and go with as few witnesses as possible.
In front of her Weaver tensed. “Riders approaching. Get that hood up.”
“Could it be Wynne?” Alwenna flipped the hood over her head, tugging it down so it hid her face. What if it was the raiding party?
Weaver took his reins in one hand and halted the horse, setting his right hand on his sword hilt. The first of the oncoming horses came into view: a quality animal, it carried not an ounce of fat. These were no peasant foresters. The horse’s rider was tall, of lean build. Behind him plodded a string of pack ponies. A wide-brimmed hat sheltered his bearded face, while his hair was oiled and dragged tightly back in thin plaits, bleached russet by sunlight. A freemerchant. He didn’t appear startled to meet them at all – instead he smiled.
He reined in his horse. “Well met, fellow travellers. May your roads be clear and the Hunter watch over your fires.” His right hand moved to his left shoulder, palm downwards in the stylised gesture of greeting the freemerchants used, and he inclined his head briefly.
Weaver mirrored the gesture. “And so may your road be blessed, traveller.”
The freemerchant nodded, studying Weaver for a moment before his gaze moved on to Alwenna.
“Sister, you are welcome among us.” Again that gesture.
She responded in kind. She’d been taught the formal greeting long ago, but this was the first time she’d needed to use it. Freemerchants came and went at court, but their business had never involved her.
“You will always find welcome with us, sister. I am Nicholl. I give you my name that you may call on me when the need arises.” Was that a hint of pity she saw in his eyes? Perhaps she imagined it. His attention returned to Weaver.
“Well met, Ranald Weaver. Much water has flowed to the sea since my father gave you his name. What news of the road?”
If Weaver was startled to hear the stranger use his name he didn’t show it. They had met before, perhaps. But what an odd way to phrase it. Then again, she’d heard many strange tales of the freemerchants.
“The road is quiet, but you will find trouble as you approach Highkell. Reivers in the Stanton lands have strayed west in recent
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