Claire Delacroix by The Scoundrel

round and laughed at my folly, ale vibrating in their voices. The third punched me amiably in the shoulder - evidently he and Connor were not so intimate. They all sounded of an age with me, but their faces were etched with harsh lines from the fierce clime. Swords and daggers hung from their belts, ice crusted their brows and capped their heads. They were virtually indistinguishable from each other, save by their relative sizes, all looking like the spawn of Winter himself.
    I realized that if I looked as they did, my own mother might not have recognized me. Therein lay the root of their error.
    The horse nickered as the third man scratched its ears with unexpected affection. “I would never have sold Mathe to you, had I known you would try to kill the beast.”
    It seemed remarkable that he might have owned this steed before, but I had seen with my own eyes that horses were few in this land and it was not far from York if one rode directly to Inverfyre. To be sure, I was not in a mood to ask many questions: I had made a life of seizing what opportunity presented and I seized it now.
    “He fares well enough by me,” I declared, my thoughts racing. Perhaps by the time the snow melted from the lot of them, they would be too drunk to realize that I was not their comrade.
    Perhaps I should ensure their drunkenness.
    “And this is the greeting I get, after all this time?” I demanded in mock outrage. “Not a cup of ale nor a wench to be seen, just a grousing by way of greeting, even though the beast is fatter than when you sold him to me.”
    The men laughed, even the one who had previously owned the horse. He nudged me, a familiar gleam in his eye. “There is ale, but they are wanting a rich price for it on this night. If you have enough coin to fatten the horse, perhaps you have some to share with your comrades.”
    “Perhaps I do.” I peered into the village, noting how it had changed since last I was here. Poverty and hardship showed in faces that had once been plump with prosperity. “Where are my comrades? I see only a company of rogues intent upon emptying my purse.”
    This was met with much laughter and back-slapping, and we moved as one toward a hut. A crowd clustered outside its open door, the lantern light from within spilling out upon merry faces. The ale-wife herself was a sharp-faced older woman with little flesh on her bones. There was a blue glaze across her eyes and she held her head at an angle that indicated at least partial blindness, though she moved with such surety that I immediately wondered.
    Her prices were high, but I could not blame her for making the most of what opportunity she had in this remote place to better her circumstances. A baby cried from the hut behind her as she ladled out four cups of her brew at my request and her hand shook as she glanced back over her shoulder.
    “It is no weather for a sick child,” I said as I deliberately folded her hand over the coins I paid. I knew the moment she realized that there was one too many in her grip. The corners of her tight mouth lifted for a heartbeat, then her fist disappeared into the folds of her cloak.
    She peered at me, as if unfamiliar with kindness from strangers, and I wondered again how much she could see. The weight of her gaze made my flesh creep, so odd were her eyes. I had the sense that she could read my very thoughts, that she knew my identity and my intent. I feared for a moment what she might say.
    “No, sir, it is not,” she said. “I thank you for your trade.” She nodded and turned to her next patron.
    We stepped away, clicked our pottery mugs together and drank deeply. It was even worse swill than that in York, but I was so glad to have reached my objective that it might have been the richest mead. I drained the cup in one grateful gulp.
    “Woho! You will be beggared before the night is through, at such a rate,” teased the first man.
    I took a closer look at my companions now. The man who had greeted me first