DEBTS (Vinlanders' Saga Book 3) by Frankie Robertson Page B

rabbit.
    Torlon gestured with his knife. “This is my brother, Gaelon. Gaelon, this is Dances-with-Bears, otherwise known as Aren.”
    Gaelon chuckled, nodded to Aren, then continued with his task.
    Aren winced at Torlon’s joke, but if Gaelon knew the story, he didn’t seem to hold Aren in contempt for his indebtedness. Then again, Elves didn’t hold mortals in much esteem anyway, so he wasn’t sure the distinction was meaningful. He looked from one brother to the other. The two Elves looked much the same, but they also wore their glamour, so their appearance was no proof they were related. “While the rabbits are welcome, I already ate.”
    The new Elf made a face. “Journey-bread.”
    They know what I had for supper?
“You’ve been
watching
me?”
    “Yes.”
    How often had the Fey observed him while he hunted? The thought was disturbing, but had Torlon not been close at hand that time years ago, Aren would be dead. Nonplussed, all Aren could think to say was, “I would have gladly shared my meal with you.”
    “Kindly meant, I’m sure, but only the desperate would consider journey-bread food.”
    Aren laughed. “True, but it packs light, and it’s sustaining.”
    Torlon spitted the rabbits and propped them over the growing flames. “Starvation might be preferable.”
    As the rabbits cooked they talked of hunting and harvests and weather, all matters essential to people living close to the land, and nothing important enough to merit a visit from the Fey.
    The sky was showing the first kiss of dawn when Torlon threw the last of the now clean bones into the fire. Gaelon pulled a metal pot from his pack, filled it with water from a skin, then threw leaves into it. As the water heated, it released a lovely aroma. Aren forced himself to relax. He hadn’t asked any questions of the Elves, but they must have a reason to be here, with him. They would speak when they were ready. At any other time this would pleasant, though strange. But now that the sky was growing pale, it was time for him to be off.
    When the water came to a simmer, Gaelon produced three cups. It was light enough to see that they were beautifully wrought, with rolled gold at the edges and delicate scrollwork carved down the handles. Not what Aren would think was typical camping gear. The Elf carefully poured the tea and handed the cups around, then saluted with his before drinking. “To Freyr and Freya. May they bless you and your herds, and increase your family.”
    “To Freyr and Freya,” Aren echoed. “May they reward your generosity for this meal. It was indeed better than journey-bread.”
    Torlon sipped his tea, then said, “Now it’s time for talk. I have come to collect on your debt.”
    Aren nodded, hiding a stab of alarm. He owed this Fey his life. Whatever Torlon asked, Aren would do if it were in his power, but what would the Elf require, that he couldn’t do for himself?
    “You are following Annikke and Benoia. Why?”
    Aren lifted his brows, surprised at the Elves interest in his mission, and further surprised that they knew by name the women he was tracking. “The Jarl has tasked me with bringing them to Quartzholm.”
    “Why?”
    Aren saw no reason to hide the truth, and suspected it would be useless to try in any case. “Lord Tholvar has accused Benoia of a crime, and Annikke of aiding her escape. I’m to bring them to Lord Dahleven so that he may sort out the matter.”
    “We know of Dahleven, but who is this Tholvar?” Torlon asked.
    Aren shook his head. “I have no direct experience of the man. Only rumor.” But that rumor wasn’t good.
    “It’s of no consequence,” Gaelon said, waving a hand dismissively. “I ask that you return to Quartzholm, and leave the women to our protection.”
    “I cannot. I’ve sworn to serve Lord Dahleven.”
    Torlon exchanged a look with his brother. “You would not have lived to swear that oath had I not saved your life,” he said softly.
    Aren’s heart clenched in dread.