Daughter of Prophecy by Miles Owens Page A

that Lachlann’s prize inn, the Bridge Across, was located. Like most buildings in the region, the ground floor was constructed of river stone. A second and third story of whitewashed boards jutted out two arm lengths around the structure, topped by a sharply pitched thatched roof. Several paces behind the main building a stable provided lodging for the patrons’ horses.
    Inside the inn’s double doors, tightly woven rush mats protected the floor from muddy feet. Immediately to the left, an arched entranceway opened into the dining room with a score of red oak tables and a roaring fireplace. At the end of the main hall, a winding staircase graced by a polished, hand-carved railing led up to the second and third floors. Each level had eight well-appointed rooms facing each other across a wide hallway. Every room had a window.
    The sun had slid below the horizon an hourglass ago, and the dining room was bursting at the seams with Dinari merchants who traveled the circuit of wool sales. Eager to provide their newly wealthy clan members opportunities to lighten their coin purses, the merchants brought a variety of expensive wares—linens for gowns and cloaks, swords and daggers, dyes, furs, brightly colored tapestries, saddles, beveled glass for windows, and gems and rare spices from the fabled lands in the Southern Sea. Most of the merchants knew each other and gave nods of recognition as they settled into their chairs and waited for the young waitress to bring tonight’s dish.
    One table along the far wall drew more than its share of attention. Lord Gillaon Tarenester, an Arshessa lord from the foothills of the Ardnamur Mountains, and a young warrior sat waiting to be served. The Dinari merchants caught one another’s eye, then glanced at the two Arshessa clansmen, then back to each other. Some lifted eyebrows, some pursed lips, others remained blank-faced.
    The room stilled when three Sabinis wool merchants strode into the dining room with a flutter of rich garments. The first two greeted the innkeeper by name, then went straight to their reserved table in the far corner. The third merchant slid by with only a slight nod of his head. He was a weasel of a man, almost completely bald except for a thin fringe around his lower scalp. His eyes moved among the diners until they found Lord Gillaon, then the merchant’s face closed into a neutral mask. He scurried on to the table.
    Behind the merchants strutted their three hired bodyguards. All eyes in the room darted warily to the two Arshessa several paces away. The guards paused, their gazes resting on Lord Gillaon. The atmosphere in the room changed.
    Gillaon remained calm and assured, ignoring the stares of the guards. The nobleman was short, barrel-chested, with iron-gray hair, and projected immense energy and purpose. Tonight he was fashionably dressed in a white linen shirt and dark trousers. The knee-length cloak fastened at his shoulders was trimmed in ermine. He wore a pair of knee-high leather boots shining with polish.
    All Dinari were aware of Gillaon’s discussions with Lord Tellan to acquire the wool from the Rogoths and other smaller Dinari kinsmen. The Arshessa clan was proposing to bypass the Sabinis’ stranglehold on shipping by hauling the goods across the Ardnamur Mountains into the pagan Broken Stone Land. It was a move bold enough to crack the Sabinis’ monopoly and benefit every Dinari clansman.
    But no deal had been struck. Everyone anxiously awaited tomorrow’s meeting.
    The warrior sitting next to Lord Gillaon might have been twenty. He had dark hair and even darker eyes to go along with chiseled features. The warrior wore leather breeches, a soft gray woolen shirt, and similar boots as his lord’s. His mouth firmed and his eyes narrowed as, unlike Lord Gillaon, he glared back at the three mercenaries.
    The biggest of the three guards stepped toward the Arshessa table.
    The noise level dropped. Everyone held