Carol Berg - Son of Avonar

He set the crate on the bench by the door. A dark blue jacket lay crumpled on the top of it, likely shed on the warm journey up the path. “Good morrow, miss.” He did not seem surprised to see me. “I’ve come to speak with Jonah if I may. Or Goodwife Anne.”

“They’ve gone to Montevial and won’t return for several days more.” Surely he would go now. “May I offer you ale or tea? I’m sure they’d wish it.”

“Ale, then, and I’d thank you for it. The day’s gone warm already.” He retrieved the jacket, straightened it a bit, and flopped it over one shoulder.

I snatched a mug from the shelf, filled it from Jonah’s little barrel, and shoved it into the man’s hand, remaining standing in the doorway lest he decide to stay a while.

He raised the mug slightly and nodded as if answering a question I’d not heard. “I’d be Graeme Rowan from Dunfarrie.” I couldn’t remember any mention of that name, but his provincial inflections were much thicker than Jonah’s or Anne’s, so I couldn’t be sure. He downed the ale quickly, but, to my distress, seemed in no hurry to go. “Perhaps I ought tell you why I’m here,” he said, propping one foot on the bench beside the sand-crusted crate. The rotting, fishy scent of river-wrack overpowered any smell from the battered green and yellow fruits. “Aye, it’s probably better I speak with you.”

I didn’t like the way he looked at me so intently, his expression revealing so little. And his slow speech, as if he weren’t quite sure he wanted to say anything, left my jaw tight with impatience.

“I’ve heard Anne and Jonah had a visitor these few months. Some in the village say it’s their granddaughter Jenny, come home after so many years lost.” The moment stretched. His gaze picked at my face. “Last night, three men come to the village. They’re the sort who look as if they’ll burn their shoes when they leave your town and think no one in a place the size of Dunfarrie can understand words of more than one syllable.”

The long pauses and his unreadable expression goaded me to speak. “And what did these men want?” The planed edge of the doorframe dug into my back.

“They were looking for someone, someone they badly want to find, though they vow they wish her no harm. Told me only that the one they hunted ran away from her family five months ago, that she’s five-and-twenty, tall for a woman, and has brown eyes and red-brown hair, cut shorter than the usual. They claim it be a matter of law. The time was the same as when Jonah and Anne came back from Montevial in the spring, so I thought to come up and ask what knowledge they might have of the question.”

As if an executioner’s hood had been dropped over my head, the brightness went out of the day. “What did you tell these men?” My voice came out no more than a whisper.

His gaze did not waver. “Naught as yet. But they didn’t know who I was. They’ll find that out this morning.”

“And who are you?”

“I’d be the Sheriff of Dunfarrie.”

Bile rose in my throat. No matter what claims were made about maintaining order or protecting the citizenry from theft and murder, a sheriff’s first duty, the very reason for his existence, was to exterminate sorcerers. And though he was appointed by his lord, a sheriff’s first allegiance was to his king. Evard’s man. Evard’s anointed killer.

Coldly, no longer in a whisper, I said, “So you’ll tell them about Anne and Jonah’s guest.”

“I’m god-sworn and king-sworn to uphold the law.”

I spat at his feet. “That for Evard’s law!”

The slight hardening of his mouth and eyes reflected his judgment of me. “You’ve no business here, madam.”

No matter that he was a damnable villain, he was right, of course. I couldn’t hide behind the old couple’s kindness, and I didn’t think I could run. Karon had told me about that kind of life, and I had neither the determination nor the skill for it. Survival was not that important to me. But Anne and Jonah were. “So you’ll hand me over?”

One might have thought I was some kind of dungworm. “I ought. But they’ve given me no warrant, no grounds, not even a name. For all I know this is just a game for ones like you and them—causing trouble for ordinary folk. But unless you give me some reason not, I’ll tell these men what I’m required to tell them, and they’ll have no such scruples.”

I stood mute. I would not tell a stranger—a sheriff—of my life. He snorted, slung his jacket over his shoulder, and started down the path.

The world was already cold and shadowed even before I stepped out of the sun. I straightened the quilt on the pallet that Jonah had crowded into the corner by the hearth, put away the cup I had used the previous night, and folded the mended towel I used for washing. When all was tidy, I sat on Jonah’s bench and stared at the sundrenched meadow long enough for the sheriff to be well on his way. Then I rose and walked down the path toward the village, expecting never to come back.

The common room of the Wild Heron was dim after the glare of summer morning, so it took me a moment to see the four men seated at a corner table: the sheriff, two soldiers in red livery, and a dark-haired man in black, who had his back to me.

Rowan noticed me first. His expression did not change. One of his companions touched the arm of the dark-haired man, who whipped his head around. Darzid. I thought I might vomit.

He remained seated, his shiny boots resting on the table, as he inspected me. “Well now, my lady, you’ve come up in the world, I see. From sorcerers to pig farmers. What next? Gravediggers? Cutpurses?”

“What do you want of me, Captain?” I said, forcing my voice even.

“Only word of your safety and health to carry back to your friends and family. Your brother grieves for your company.”

“Rubbish.”

“Also, you have something that belongs to your king.”

“Impossible.”

“Ah, dear lady, only by his sufferance do you live.”

“I’m sure I’m very grateful.” What kind of game was this?

“Gratitude is not enough. There’s a price for the king’s parole.”

Parole . I caught my breath. “He wouldn’t dare!”

“Oh, yes. The first day of autumn is only three weeks away. This exemplary sheriff has been charged with the responsibility to see that you fulfill your duty on Sufferance Day in this and every year of your life.” I started to speak, but Darzid raised his finger. “You’d best not compound your past offenses with treasonable words. Such an example it would be. And from a duke’s daughter, one whom rumor claimed was to be our queen! Do the good people of this place realize the honor to which they are privy, having such an exalted personage in their midst?”

One of his companions nudged him and said, “Not from her dress, would they, Captain?”

Darzid chortled merrily. “Perhaps not. But her manners are so fine. I’m sure she curtsies to the swine, or perhaps she discusses fine points of law with the sheriff here.” He waved Rowan and the men in livery toward the door. Then he stood and straightened his dark purple tunic and vest. “Have you any message for your brother, my lady?”

As I was awash in the bitter implications of his news, it took me a moment to realize I was not to accompany him.

He propped one boot on a chair and used the hem of his cloak to flick away imaginary dust. “Quickly, madam. If we stay here too long, we’ll begin to stink. A message for the duke?”

A message? For Tomas the executioner? Even in the moment’s relief, my hatred boiled over. “Tell my brother he cannot wash them enough.”

Darzid crinkled his eyebrows in puzzlement and shrugged. “As you wish. Don’t think to run away again.” With mock solemnity, he wagged a finger first at the sheriff and then at me. “It would go hard with anyone who’s given you aid. And the first day of autumn—on your life and the lives of everyone in this charming sty, do not forget.” Darzid and his soldiers left the tavern without closing the door behind them.