Come Twilight by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page A

here?” Sanct’ Germain asked, aware that once feet blackened and lost feeling the whole body was at risk.
    “Four days. When he came, he said robbers had taken his boots as well as his donkey and goods. He was cold to touch, but claimed to be warm except in his feet.” He pointed to the stable at the far end of the long, rectangular court. “There are many empty stalls, and hay in the loft for the animals.”
    “Very good,” said Sanct’ Germain, and led his horse and mules in that direction. He had almost reached the stable when Rogerian caught up with him. “You have done well for us, old friend.”
    Rogerian waved his hand in dismissal. “It is going to be a hard night. The weather makes demands of all of us. None of us wanted to be in the open, not with rain and cold coming on the wind.” He lowered his voice. “There are between forty and fifty monks here, and room for as many travelers.”
    “The Primor says that they have few guests tonight, and that one has blackened feet,” Sanct’ Germain remarked as he stepped inside the stable, and glanced at the long rows of stalls on either side of the central aisle; Childric had already claimed the stalls across the way and was busying himself with giving his horse a quick grooming.
    “Yes, so I understand,” said Rogerian.
    Sanct’ Germain halted. “But you doubt this,” he said, having caught a note of disbelief in Rogerian’s tone.
    “Yes, I do,” said Rogerian. “I know what the monks are saying, and they are frightened. Why should blackened feet frighten them?”
    “Some say the Devil causes blackened feet,” Sanct’ Germain reminded Rogerian; he started moving again, pulling his horse and mules with him. “A few steps more and you will rest,” he said as he coaxed the animals along.
    “Primor Ioanus has made this his fiefdom, or I know nothing about it,” Rogerian added quietly.
    “So I think,” Sanct’ Germain agreed. “He may be a younger son, or a bastard.” He considered the matter. “A younger son, I presume from his manner. Or a stepson. Yes,” he went on, thinking aloud, “a stepson, raised with all the trappings of power but with no way to gain it for himself: except here.”
    Two monks had come into the stable, each with horses and mules in tow. Rogerian indicated a row of empty stalls. “These should do,” he recommended. “We will look after them.”
    “As well we should,” said Sanct’ Germain, and gave the mules’ lead to Rogerian, then pulled his gray into the nearest of the stalls. “I’ll tend to the packs as soon as I am finished with my horse.”
    “I’ll secure their halters,” said Rogerian, and went about his self-appointed task with the ease of long experience.
    By the time Sanct’ Germain set about removing the pack-saddles and their loads from the mules, the monks had left the stable; Childric had gone before the monks, and now only Sanct’ Germain and Rogerian remained to tend to the animals and what they carried. Two small oil lamps provided a faint, luminous glow to the center aisle but did little to mitigate the gloom beyond.
    “Bring me that barrel,” Sanct’ Germain said as he struggled to unfasten the breastplate on the tallest mule. “I need somewhere to rest this that will not break the saddle-tree.” He had removed his paenula, leaving it hung on the end of the gatepost that closed the stable in for the night; if the cold bothered him, he did not show it.
    Rogerian hastened to obey, rolling the barrel close to the stall and securing it with an old paving stone so that it would not rotate once the packed saddle was set upon it. “It is ready,” he said.
    “Let us hope no one is watching,” said Sanct’ Germain as he lifted the laden saddle in his arms and carried it to the barrel. “I would be hard-pressed to explain why I am able to—”
    “The Primor is coming,” Rogerian interrupted him.
    “Just in time,” said Sanct’ Germain; he settled the pack-saddle atop the