Michael Sullivan - The Crown Tower

The man narrowed his eyes. “What business?”

“Medford House, the best damn brothel in the city.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Strange-you’re the one building the place.”

Hadrian stayed five days in Colnora while the rain poured, sleeping most of the time. The rest he spent wandering the streets, visiting taverns and inns, looking for that familiar hooded head. He never found him but saw Vivian’s face everywhere. Just about everything from his journey since leaving Vernes had been erased. If not for the horse, he might have concluded it had all been a bad dream. When the rain finally relented, he was glad to get on his way. He needed to put distance between himself and the strangeness, to add miles to separate him from still more ghosts.

He had a new mount, thanks to trading the heavy tow horse for a pretty rouncey named Dancer, who sported two rear white socks and a white diamond on her forehead. He had new clothes too-wool and leather, sturdy and warm. In no time at all the rain made them feel like old friends. For two days he had traveled, hood up and head down, but never lost the haunted sensation.

With the city far behind, he entered farmlands of brightly painted barns that faded to gray the farther north he went. Soon the barns disappeared, as did the fields, and he found himself on the third morning in a thick wood. The tunnel of oak, thrashed by another storm, cast a leafy bed of red and gold over the road. Big leaves, bright and beautiful against the black mud. Something about the wet always brought out the best colors. Trunks and branches became ink-black, but the otherwise dull leaves were yellow as gold and red as blood.

Hadrian drew his horse to a stop and waited. He was alone, but it didn’t feel that way.

The air was still. He could hear the patter of water dripping from the trees, the deep breath of the rouncey, and the jangle of the bridle as she shook her head. She didn’t like stopping. Dancer felt uneasy too.

This was how bad things always started in stories told at campfires or around small tavern tables. The young man rode deep into a forest. He was alone in the gray stillness, and all he could hear was the sound of dripping water, the hush of leaves, and then … A hundred things could follow. The man would see a light in the trees and follow it to his doom, or he would hear the pursuit of some creature stalking him.

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” Hadrian asked Dancer. “Ask Sheriff Malet in Colnora and he’ll agree with you.”

He gave a gentle nudge and the rouncey started forward again. The moment she did, Hadrian caught sight of movement. Not a falling leaf-something big, something dark, moving somewhere behind the bright colors. He turned and stared. Only trees.

“Did you see that?” he whispered.

Dancer continued to plod forward.

Hadrian kept his eyes fixed on the spot but saw nothing. Soon he was carried too far down the road to matter, but he continued to cast nervous glances over his shoulder. In the stories the stalker would be half-man half-wolf, a troll, or a ghost. And if it were one of Packer’s tales, it would have been a goblin wearing a waistcoat and a tall hat. While his imagination could conjure many possibilities, at least he knew it wasn’t a goblin. Perhaps a highwayman? A lone rider like himself, with new clothes and tack, would prove a tempting target. He continued to travel, keeping an eye to the wood and an ear to the breeze, but nothing ever revealed itself.

What little geographical information Hadrian retained from his nights before the hearth with Packer ended mostly with Colnora, as did his personal travels as a soldier. He was still in Warric, still in the kingdom of Ethelred, though near the north end. Sheridan was north of Warric-he knew that much. Somewhere along the road, but exactly how far he didn’t have a clear idea, and he wasn’t certain if there would be a sign or indication of the school along the way. He had passed several trails, which he ignored, guessing a university would be along the path most heavily traveled. The only thing north of Sheridan that Packer had ever mentioned was a land called Trent. The old tinker had described that place as a mountainous realm settled by violent people. Hadrian didn’t think he’d overshot, but he’d done stupider things.

By midmorning he entered a small village of simple thatch-roofed homes, zigzagging fences, and stone-cleared fields. No inhabitants were visible in the drizzle. He considered tapping on the door of a house that had smoke rising from the chimney when he spotted a man wheeling a manure cart.

“What village is this?”

The cart driver looked up slowly, as if his head weighed more than most. Hadrian recognized the body language. He’d encountered it often, usually in the company of a well-armed troop. Fear. The reaction was no less irrational than a deer’s flight, and Hadrian was certain that if this man and his cart could bolt with the speed of a whitetail, he would have already been gone. Hadrian had been in the employ of many armies, and none had questioned the right to seize such a village. The commander would take the best home for his headquarters. He’d give the others to his lieutenants, driving the previous owners out into the elements, keeping even their blankets. Pretty daughters were allowed to stay. Should the father object, he might receive only a beating-if the commander was in a good mood. But commanders of war-faring men were rarely in good moods. Hadrian could not recall if he’d ever stayed in this particular village. They all appeared alike, just as all the battlefields blurred meaninglessly together in his mind. Fear was a taught lesson, though, and Hadrian guessed this man had seen or felt the pain of men on horseback before.

Hadrian dismounted and softened his tone. “Pardon me, sir, I didn’t mean to startle you. I am merely passing through and hoped you could lend me directions.”

The man stole a peek at his face.

Hadrian smiled.

The man smiled in return. “Windham.”

“Is that the name of the village, or yours?”

The man looked embarrassed. “Ah, the village, sir. My name is Pratt, sir.”

“Nice to meet you, Pratt. And what river is that?”

“The Galewyr, sir.”

“And that would make this what kingdom?”

“We’re standing in the province of Chadwick, in the kingdom of Warric.”

“Still in Avryn, then?”

The man looked surprised. “Of course, sir. But that far bank begins the kingdom of Melengar.”

“Still in Avryn?”

“Yes, sir.”

The man set the cart back on its haunches and wiped his face with the crux of his sleeve. “Are you headed to Trent, then?”

“No, to Sheridan. I’ve just been traveling for several days and thought I might have overshot.”

“To Sheridan? Oh no, sir. You have half a day’s ride before you.”

Hadrian looked up at the leaking gray sky. “Wonderful. Anything you can tell me of the road ahead?”

“I don’t cross the river, sir.”

“Are there hostilities between the banks?”

“Oh no, Ethelred and Amrath have been peaceful neighbors for years. There hasn’t been a guard on the Gateway Bridge as long as I’ve lived here, and I’ve lived here all my life. I’ve just never had an occasion to cross. Bib the Potter, he’s been over. He sells his clays in the city of Medford. Goes twice a year, he does. That’s the royal seat of Melengar. It’s just up that way.” He pointed across the river and slightly to the left of the bridge. All Hadrian could see was vague gray shapes curtained off by the rain. “On a clear night in winter when the leaves are gone, you can see the lights of Essendon Castle, and on Wintertide morning you can hear the bells of Mares Cathedral. Bib, he brings back salt and colored cloths, and once he even came back with a wife. A pretty girl, but”-he lowered his voice-“she’s lazy as a milkweed. He can’t get her to fix a meal, which is just as well since she also can’t cook any better than a woodchuck. Bib’s place is a wreck now.”