Wintertide by Michael J. Sullivan Page A

out in a moonlit fog.
    As he climbed down the slope, he recalled this ravine from the trip he had taken three years earlier with Hadrian and Prince Alric. Then, as now, he had difficulty finding a decent route and struggled to work his way to the valley below. The snow made travel a challenge, and once he reached level ground he found it deep with drifts. He had not made more than a hundred feet of headway before encountering the footprints once more. Again he followed them, and found the way easier.
    Reaching the far side of the valley, he faced the steep slope back up. The footprints turned to the right. This time Royce paused. Slightly to the left he could see an easy route. A V-shaped ravine, cleared and leveled by runoff, was inviting. He considered going that way but noticed that directly in front of him, carved in the bark of a spruce tree, was an arrow-shaped marker pointing to the right. The trailblazer’s footprints were sprinkled with woodchips.
    “So you want me to keep following you,” Royce whispered to himself. “That’s only marginally more disturbing than you knowing I’m following you at all.”
    He glanced around. There was no one he could see. The only movement was the falling snow. The stillness felt both eerie and peaceful, as if the wood waited for him to decide.
    His legs were weak, his feet and hands numb. Royce never liked invitations, but he guessed following the prints would once again be the easier route. He looked up at the slope and sighed. After following the tracks only a few hundred feet more, he spotted a pair of fur mittens dangling from the branch of a tree. Royce slipped them on and found they were still warm.
    “Okay, that’s creepy,” Royce said aloud. He raised his voice and added, “I’d love a skin of water, a hot steak with onions, and perhaps some fresh baked bread with butter.”
    All around him was the tranquil silence of a dark wood in falling snow. Royce shrugged and continued onward. The trail eventually hooked left, but by then the steep bluff was little more than a mild incline. Royce half expected to find a dinner waiting for him when he reached the crest, but the hilltop was bare. In the distance was a light, and the footprints headed straight toward it.
    Royce ticked through the possibilities and concluded nothing. There was no chance imperial soldiers were leading him through the forest, and he was too far from Windermere for it to be monks. Dozens of legends spoke of fairies and ghosts inhabiting the woods of western Melengar, but none mentioned denizens that left footprints and warm mittens.
    No matter how he ran the scenarios, he could find no way to justify an impending trap. Still, Royce gripped the handle of Alverstone and trudged forward. As he closed the distance, he saw that the light came from a small house built high in the limbs of a large oak tree. Below the tree house a livestock pen was surrounded by a ring of thick evergreens, where a dark horse pawed the snow beside a wooden lean-to.
    “Hello?” Royce called.
    “Climb up,” a voice yelled down. “If you’re not too tired.”
    “Who are you?”
    “I’m a friend. An old friend—or rather, you’re mine.”
    “What’s your name… friend? ” Royce stared up at the opening on the underside of the tree house.
    “Ryn.”
    “Now see, that’s a bit odd as I have few friends, and none of them is called Ryn.”
    “I never told you my name. Now, are you going to come up and have some food or simply steal my horse and ride off? Personally, I suggest a bite to eat first.”
    Royce looked at the horse for a long moment before grabbing the knotted rope dangling along the side of the tree trunk and pulled himself up. Reaching the floor of the house, he peeked inside. The space was larger than he expected, oven warm, and smelled of meat stew. Branches reached out in all directions, each one rubbed smooth as a banister. Pots and scarves hung from the limbs, and several layers of mats and