"Chapter IX-A Murder of Crows" by James P-W

Chapter Nine

A Murder of Crows

            Tristan squatted down to sit at ease on his heels and stare into the dying embers of the fire, feeling sleep’s mist lift slowly from his mind. All was silent in the newly-broken morn save for the whispering of the tree leaves and his friends’ labored but steady breathing. He scanned the surrounding woods and undergrowth and saw, with a hint of disappointment, nobody. He hadn’t really expected Kai to be there, but all the same…

            He broke his fast with dried meat, some flatbread, and weak hathersage tea. He didn’t have much of the cure-all to spare, what with caring for Gaerith and Dryfan, but he needed some to ease the throbbing in his shoulder. 

            Tristan stood, brushing the crumbs of his hasty and meager meal from his hands, and prepared to leave for Crosswick. He left his sword behind, as his shoulder was too sore and weak to use it and he didn’t want to attract any unwanted notice. His longbow he took despite the fact that his injury also prevented its use, hoping that if it came down to it, the weapon might scare off some potential trouble-makers. He also checked to make sure his sheath-knife was still in his right boot.  

He bent down to check his friend’s conditions: they were unchanged. I’ll do more help by getting a healer from Crosswick than from staying here,  he reminded himself, but he still felt as though he was betraying them by leaving them alone in the forest with nobody but Gelert to defend them. He straightened up and started off with the steady, measured pace of an experienced traveler, ignoring the odd feeling that came with departing without taking leave of his friends.

As Tristan walked through the quickly-thinning forest, he disturbed a murder of crows that had been roosting in a dead fir tree. Upon hearing his footsteps they took flight, squawking in protest, and retreated to another part of the forest. Alone and in silence once more, Tristan made his way out off the trees and soon found made his way to a dirt road that led towards a town about a league or so in the distance. The road was empty at first, but within a half-hour or so he began encountering more people, until he was walking down the wide path with about a dozen others.

            To Tristan’s left a  foul-mouthed unshaven man was mercilessly flogging his horses to make them haul in a creaky cart loaded with muddy potatoes. To his right an old shoeless man with tired eyes was walking slowly, leaning heavily on a carved yew walking staff worn smooth with years of use. There were numerous people on the road, but apart from the journeyman and farmer ahead of Tristan – who were angrily discussing how the guilds were responsible for the rising cost of turnips – nobody talked to anybody else, except to curse them for splashing them with mud or growl at them to get out the way of their cart.

Fields flanked the dirt street on both sides, fitting together into a rough patch quilt of dark green, earth-brown, and yellow squares. Amongst the crops Tristan could make out the bent-over figures of toiling peasants reaping in the last of the year’s harvests.  

            In traveling boots and forest garb, Tristan felt decidedly different from everybody else on the road, like he was some yokel. He felt – or fancied he felt – eyes boring into him, taking in the longbow on his back and the green homespun fleece cloak, and saw small smirks forming on men’s faces as they took in his appearance. His cheeks soon burned with self-consciousness and his eyes dropped down to look at the road ahead of his feet. He focused on keeping a brisk but fixed pace, hoping to arrive at Crosswick in another half hour or so. After that, however, there was no telling how long it would take to find a healer.

            Crosswick grew progressively larger as the minutes passed, until the gates were a quarter or so of a league away. It was about thrice the size of Annwyn and Domen Rôr combined, Tristan judged…much bigger than he had dreamed towns could get. Determined not to show his astonishment to those around them and just add fuel to their fire, however, he kept his it to himself. Kai called it a town! he thought. It was bigger than he had fancied cities to be! A huge earthen dike rose around the perimeter of it, surrounded by a hedge of sharpened stakes. Remembering the nearby Whispering Woods, and the villagers at Domen  Rôr, Tristan wasn’t surprised.

             As he neared the gates and passed through a gap in the earthen mound girdling the town he saw a row of pikes on either side of the road leading through the entrance, with dark swollen shapes impaled upon them. When he passed them, Tristan realized that the shapes were what were left of men’s bodies. Though they were bloated and half-rotting, Tristan could tell that their limbs had been sawed off and attached backwards, with the arms sewn on where legs had been before and the legs re-attached likewise. This gave them a horribly grotesque look, and Tristan had to close his eyes to no vomit. It’s a horrible fate for anyone, Tristan thought. Regardless of who they were or what they may have done. Those around him paid the carnage no heed, except for a wagon-driver to Tristan’s left who remarked in a satisfied voice, “It’s about time we got rid o’ those bleeding crows. Bloody Dravnians.”

            “Crows?” asked Tristan, puzzled.  

            The man spat. “Kindredmen, from the South. They wear black robes, see. We can’t trust ‘em anymore.” He spat again. “With the King sick on the throne, ‘tis only a matter of time befer war breaks out. The Dravnians want the throne, and the Kindred is ther pawn, mark my words.”

             “The King is sick?”

            “You been living in a haystack, boy? Aye, Fredrek Roland is dying, and all his seventeen children went before him.” Another glob of spit sailed through the air and spattered thickly into the dirt. “I’m not one much fer sayings, but that one about fate weaving with a free will and a hand of iron? It rings true enough ter me.”

            The straggle of people slowed and condensed, until everybody was jostled together and muttering bad-humouredly to their neighbors. “Get in a line!” bellowed a voice above the din, and Tristan craned his neck to see its owner – a harassed-looking man with a spear and leather vest sewn with iron disks.

            The wagon-driver shifted the reins in his hands so he could lean over and spit again. “Ach, they’re checking fer outsiders, boy, to make sure no bloody Dravnians come in ‘ere.” His eyes traveled from Tristan’s boots to his face, and suddenly suspicion flashed over his face. “Ye like a bit foreign yerself, boy,” the driver said slowly. “You’re not a bleeding crow, are ye?”

            “No,” replied Tristan hastily, and pushed his way through the crowd and away from the wagon-driver, his mind racing. How was he going to get inside? He stood out like a goose in a hen-yard. Perhaps hide in a cart? he wondered, taking in the numerous carts around him. It always seems to work in the stories…Then he saw one of the guards thrusting around vigorously with a spear into a load of hay on a wagon. Then again, maybe not, he thought wryly.

            Suddenly a rough voice called out. “You there! Come ‘ere!” Tristan saw one of the guards two paces away motioning him over. Realizing it would be a give-away to run, he forced himself to walk, albeit woodenly, to the gate, determined yet nervous. He squared his shoulders and pushed out his chest in an effort to appear more intimidating…the guard looked bored and unimpressed. “Where you from, boy, and what’s yer business ‘ere?”

Tristan’s throat clenched, but suddenly words sprung into his mind. Along the road you may find some of my brothers. Show this to get aid from any one of them. This possibility presented opportunity and risk, and Tristan wasn’t sure if he was willing to test his luck. There had to be a better way…

“I’m talkin’ to yer, boy.” said the guard, peering into his face. “Eh?”  

It’s worth the risk, he reasoned. It’s my only chance to get into the town and get help. He pulled the carved knot of wood Kai had given him from out from his shirt and quickly dangled it from his fingertips before hiding it quickly once again. “Important business.” he said shortly, in what he hoped was a deep and assertive voice, and started resolutely forward, past the guard, without waiting for a reply, willing himself not to look back. The guard didn’t call for him to stop, but he didn’t breathe again until he had passed through the thick iron-and-oak doors and into the busy streets. What a stroke of luck, he thought. Hopefully another one will have me walking into a healer in the streets.    

            This hope was quickly dashed as he made his way deeper into the tangled warren of crowded streets. A handful of cripples and beggars huddled on the sides of the muddy streets, crying out piteously and tugging at the sleeves of passer-bys, so of whom spat upon them. The  wagon-drivers, bent on getting their goods to the market, lay about with whips on the crowd with cries of, “Make way, you maggots!” Tristan thought he might suffocate in the stench and crowds of the city. They live like animals, he thought in disgust.

            To his left a thick-armed burly man was waving about an axe and roaring above the din. “War is coming!” he bellowed. “Defend your families!”

            Swept along by the flow of the traffic, he soon found himself in the midst of a bustling marketplace. He searched the signs hanging from the daub-and-wattle buildings on either side, looking for the sign of the crossed quill and hathersage sprig that marked a Cunning One’s dwelling. Maybe they don’t have Cunning Ones here, he thought, struck by the sudden thought, after a while of search. He passed needle-makers, chandlers, cloth-vendors, and soap-makers, wine merchants, weavers, dyers, fortune tellers, horse merchants, blacksmiths… in short, everything but a healer.

Exhausted after nearly two hours of hunting, he stopped at a vendor’s stall in the street and bought a slice of hot meat pie. The first few bites were tasty and satisfying, but soon enough he felt sick from all the grease in his belly. He finished it off with difficulty, licked juice off his fingers, and asked the toothless women at the stall where he could find a healer. “Nother meat pie, sir?” she asked him. 

            “No, thank you,” he said. He repeated his question again, louder this time. “Where could I find a healer?”         

            “Nother meat pie, sir.” she replied loudly, but it wasn’t a question this time. Realizing what she wanted, he reluctantly dug out another two coppers from his purse and handed them to her. He accepted the second slice of her greasy meat pie with a sigh. It wouldn’t do to waste money, he thought, and forced the pie down. His protesting stomach gave an unpleasant and ominous roil. “Two streets down, left o’ the fountain. Sir.” she told him, watching him finish eating with a satisfied expression.  

            Tristan followed her directions only to realize after another hour of fruitless search that there was no healer. Frustrated, he sat down on the stacked-stone wall of the fountain and decided it would take too long to force his way back into the market, find her, and make her tell him the truth. He took a sip of the water, and it was cold and clear, helping to rinse away the mud of the city and grease of the meat pie.

Out of the corner of his eye he could make out a big man with scarred knuckles and a shaved head gazing intently at him. He wiped his hands dry quickly on his breeches and set off, unnerved and wanting to escape the dark, boring eyes. He’s probably harmless, thought Tristan. But even so…To his dismay, however, the man followed him as he left, and was always a dozen or steps behind, wherever Tristan went, even through the most crowded sections of the market.

Tristan broke into a jog and cut down a narrow alley, and twisted his head about to see the man dashing doggedly after him, all pretenses gone now. Tristan put on an extra burst of speed, though tiredness dragged at him as if he was running through water. His shoulder was cramped and sore, and his breathing was coming with difficulty. The meat pie in his stomach gurgled unpleasantly. He knew he couldn’t keep up his pace for long, and knew that if it came down to a fight the man was much stronger than he, and not injured besides.

Despite his best efforts the man was gaining on him. Tristan struggled to distance himself in the tight alleyways, but he was tired and weighted down by his longbow. His mind raced as he thought of how to escape the thief. When he risked another look backwards, however, he realized the man was behind him no longer. Panting, he slowed to a halt and looked around warily in the deserted alleyways.

Without warning, the man was in front of him, and his arm was swinging through the air to meet him. The man’s meaty fist filled Tristan’s vision in a moment and exploded into his right cheekbone. His vision flickered uncertainly on impact for a moment and his muscles turned rubbery and loose. Tristan crumpled to the mud, shaking his head groggily and blinking blood from his right eye. He struggled to rise, but a kick in his ribs sent him sprawling once more.

The man started forward with a guttural growl, but suddenly there was a ring of steel and two crossed knives; curved, shining, and two hands long apiece; flashed through the air to stop a hair from the would-be thief’s neck on either side.  “Peace, Noose,” said a calm and confident voice firmly. “You want no trouble with me.” The man’s big hands balled and unballed themselves into fists and open palms, over and over again, reminding Tristan of how Alen Culhwch back home would open and close his mouth while working up an excuse. Finally, the man backed away, glaring murderously, and soon disappeared around a corner.

 A tall, silver-haired man stepped from behind Tristan into his vision. He was blade-slender, and had twinkling blue eyes and a confident smile. “Hello, friend. Who might you be? You don’t look like you’re from around here.”

“I’m Tristan Aegir.” Tristan replied guardedly, wary of a trick. Just because Kai had turned out to be trustworthy didn’t mean that this man could be necessarily trusted. Kai himself had warned Tristan that people would try to tie strings to him.

“I’m Paedrig Ceres; aspiring bard, player of the harp, master of sleight-of-hand and the knife, lover of smoke-and-mirrors and illusions, and a king among rats.” the man replied. “Our mutual friend there is known as Moose. We call him Moose,” he continued in a confiding tone, “for when he snores at night it sounds like a bull moose’s mating call. However, for the sake of pride he often likes to change that to the slightly more threatening Noose. He’s quite harmless, though, like all vermin, if you know how to tame his ilk.” With that he tossed his knives with a lazy flick of his wrists, into the air where they flipped once, flashing, before landing into their sheaths.

Tristan accepted the man’s proffered hand and raised himself groggily to his feet. Gingerly he touched two fingers gingerly to the side of his face, where a raised and throbbing bruise had already appeared. He wiped the blood off with his sleeve, and was surprised to see how much red there was on his tunic. “Thank you,” Tristan said, trying not to look too hard at the blood. “But won’t that man, Noose, be angry with you?”

“Undoubtedly, but I’m far from helpless and he knows it. He won’t do anything about it, methinks, not while I have my wits or my knives about me. Besides, half the innkeepers, cutpurses, wagon-drivers, stableboys, tax collectors, and blacksmiths in this town owe me a favor or ten. And a fair bit of mercenaries and fight-breakers do as well. As such, most find it unwise to make an enemy of me.”

“Well, thank you anyway.”

“Don’t mistake it for kindness,” said Paedrig with a smirk. “You’re foreign and I want some outside news. Besides, there’s an aura of something about you, and I have a feeling I could make a fine story out of you.” Well, so long as he admits his intentions. I’m not adverse to honesty…thought Tristan dryly, but he said nothing.  

“Yes,” continued the bard dreamily. He assumed a dramatic voice. “A boy, barely old enough to be called a man, lost and lonely in the world, searching for a past, an identity, and answers to the scattered thing he calls his life…has a sort of nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“I’m not lost or lonely,” snapped Tristan, stung by how accurate Paedrig’s words had been.

“I see,” replied Paedrig meaningfully. A cocky grin played at his thin lips. Tristan decided on the spot that he didn’t like the man.

“Where can I find a healer?” demanded Tristan, annoyed by the smugness of the bard’s face.

“A healer?” breathed Paedrig with a spark of excitement in his eyes. “Ah, the plot thickens! Do you need one for wounds taken bravely in combat? Or perchance it is to save a doomed lover, or devoted friend? Or mayhaps…” His voice resumed the theatrical, sing-song quality once more. “Our hero searches for a cure for a deep wound in his soul, an unhappiness as deep as the oceans are vast, keen as the biting northern winds, profound as …”

“It’s for a hurt friend.” said Tristan shortly. “And if you wish to continue writing this story of yours, Master Ceres, I suggest you help me get my friend to a healer. The plot might suffer from the death of one of it’s heroes.”

“It’s not a story,” replied the bard in an annoyed voice. “It’s a lyric poem, to be sung to music. And if you can get your friend to the Silver Sickle Inn by tonight, there will be someone there to help them.”

It was a slim chance, but it was the best Tristan could do. He was painfully aware that every minute without help brought Gaerith, and maybe Dryfan as well, closer to death. “I’ll be there.”

“Until then, stranger.” replied Paedrig, and bowed. Tristan resisted the urge to sneer at him and made his way back into the streets. He walked as fast as he could; he had heard that the gates were closed at nightfall, and Gaerith couldn’t wait until tomorrow for help.

The crowds, however, had thinning, and he was able to make good progress. He reached the camp at the edge of the Whispering Wood just as the lower edge of the sun was about to kiss the horizon. His friends were exactly the same as he had left them.

“It took you long enough…did you stop and find a brothel as well while you were there?” said the Cunning One in a loud voice. Tristan whirled about, but Dryfan’s eyes were still closed.

“Dryfan?” he asked uncertainly.

The Cunning One said nothing. “I’m so sorry…” he said a few moments later, but this time his voice was timid and he sounded nearly on the verge of tears. “I’m so, so sorry…” His voice trailed off, and he relapsed into silence once more. Gelert sniffed uncertainly at the unconscious Cunning One.

They’re dreams. Just dreams…Shaking his head, Tristan belted on his sword and gathered up all the saddlebags and panniers before hitching up a single litter between Draigoch and Kayla and squeezing his two friends into it. Draigoch, still not used to being a pack animal, snorted a bit bad-humouredly at having the litter lashed to his saddle, but at least didn’t refuse to advance when Tristan took his reins and led him forward.

Progress was slow, with the hastily-lashed litter swinging alarmingly between the two horses, as Tristan feared it would, and nearly spilling his injured friends onto the ground on numerous occasions. Travel was much easier after they had they cleared the edge of the Whispering Wood and were onto the dirt road, but by then the sun was nearly completely behind the horizon.

“Come on!” cried Tristan desperately, slapping at Kayla and Draigoch’s flanks in an effort to make them walk faster. They snorted at him and whipped their tails, but increased their pace until Tristan had to jog to keep up with them. The litter bounced up and down. I have to get them in by tonight, thought Tristan grimly, and tried to ignore the sound of the two limp bodies jouncing up and down in the blanket slung between the two sticks of wood. Gelert trotted easily beside him, tongue lolling out, and for a moment Tristan forgot himself and smiled.

Crosswick grew larger and larger, and Tristan tried to ignore the stitch burning in his side. As the last days of sunlight fled, he heard a great wooden creak and the gates in the distance began swinging in slowly. “No!” he cried out, and slapped the horses up to nearly a full gallop. He sprinting alongside the litter, holding it with one hand to avoid it tipping over. Some two hundred paces ahead of him the oak gates groaned and continued their inward journey. “Hold the gate!” he screamed. “Wait!” Gelert, as though sensing Tristan’s need, began barking frenziedly.

There was a rumbling noise, and then the gates shuddered to a halt with barely two paces’ distance between the two doors. Tristan reached the gates in a few moments’ time and slowed Kayla and Draigoch to a walk. Gasping for breath, he led them through the narrow opening. “Many thanks,” he said breathlessly to the guard when he had passed through the gate.   

The guard, a different one from the guard that had let Tristan in earlier, grunted. “Ye just made it in, boy. And don’t thank me, thank ‘im.” He jerked his hand behind him, and Tristan saw Paedrig standing there with the familiar smirk on his face.

“You took a while in coming, and I supposed you might need help finding the inn at any rate.” said the bard. Behind Tristan a crew men resumed the gate-closing, until an almighty rumble shook the ground. “Follow me.”  

They started off into the muddy streets, Tristan dripping sweat and still panting. Draigoch and Kayla were lathered and both of their sides were heaving with exertion, and Gelert seemed winded as well. Evidently Paedrig had noticed: he perceptibly lessened his pace to a slow walk as he led them among the dim streets, empty now save for a few drunkards who roamed aimlessly about or snored into the mud.

Twice scantily-clothed women called down to Tristan from open windows. “You look weary, traveler…let me help you relax…” Tristan turned bright red and tried to stutter a response, but Paedrig exchanged friendly conversation with both. “Sleep well, Aiera, and don’t embarrass my young friend again.” he said to the second, winking. “And I’d stop soliciting soon if I were you; the night watch will be out soon, and you know they don’t take kindly to after-dark activity.”

 In the murkily-shadowed streets they walked on, Tristan feeling enclosed on either side by silent buildings with shuttered windows and locked doors. They began seeing men of the night watch, and Paedrig greeted all of them quietly with a confident smile on his face and a clap on the shoulder. Once or twice Tristan saw a few coins changing hands.  

“Why do they keep the townspeople in after dark?” asked Tristan presently. “The wolves can’t possibly get in here.”

“It wouldn’t be first time the beasts of the wood found a way in.” said Paedrig grimly. “And with all the talk of war in the air…” Silence fell, and reigned, save for the steady plodding of the horses in the mud and the creak of the litter.  

In this manner they made their way to the Silver Sickle Inn, until they finally reached it when the moon was well into the dark sky. Instead of taking them to the front door of the inn, however, Paedrig led them around the back, into the alleyways, and into the stables. A lit oil lantern greeting them upon their entrance. We’re expected, thought Tristan.

They unlashed the litter from the saddles and set it gently to the ground before leading the two horses to two empty stalls in the back. Gelert lay down in the hay as well, awaiting Tristan’s return without needing to be told to do so. Wordlessly Paedrig and Tristan lifted the litter, Tristan following where Paedrig led and stopping to awkwardly blow out the lantern so as not to waste oil. Bearing the burden between them, Paedrig and Tristan staggered outside, back into the alley, and circled to the side of the inn to a small hatch door set into the side of it. Paedrig knocked thrice with his foot, as his hands were occupied with holding the litter. After a moment the hatch door opened. “You first,” said Paedrig, and Tristan nervously backed down into the doorway and down a narrow, rickety ladder. Getting the litter, with two injured bodies in it, into the cellar without any mishap, proved to be difficult but not impossible.

Tristan, under Paedrig’s direction, set the litter down on a table, and straightened up to find himself in a low, dimly-lit cellar with a distinct smell of onions hanging in the air. “Close the door!” hissed a voice, and Paedrig closed the hatch door and bolted it.

Tristan turned to see a stocky smock-clad man lighting a few tallow candles from the single lantern that had lit the cellar before. Soon enough there was light enough to make out the bundles of onions hanging from the rafters, and barrels full of the pungent bulbs as well. The dim light threw dark shadows across the man’s face. “Now, what’s wrong with them?” asked the man, jerking a just-lit candle at Dryfan and Gaerith and spraying droplets of hot wax onto the dirt floor.

“We were attacked by the wolves of the Wood,” said Tristan. “The older one has no physical wound but won’t wake up. The young one was bitten in the leg. I cared for him as best I could, but his fever hasn’t broken.”

The man grunted. “What were you doing around them wolves, boy?”

“Traveling.” said Tristan, and added, a bit hotly, “There was no other option.” For a moment nobody said anything. The squat man rubbed his unshaven jaw with his hand and finally trudged over to Dryfan on the table. He rolled back his eyelids, tested his breathing with a licked finger held by his nostrils, and felt various places in the Cunning One’s narrow chest.

“He’s fine,” he said in his gravelly voice. “He just needs more rest. He’s suffering from severe exhaustion.” He did the same on Gaerith as he had done on Dryfan, then felt lightly around his wound and with a single, rough jerk tore Gaerith’s breeches to the thigh. He unwound the bandages around Gaerith’s wound, and Tristan inhaled sharply.

The wound was purple and swollen, and pus had seeped through the stitches. “Did you give him hathersage tea, boy?”

Tristan nodded, feeling as though his heart was beating in his throat. “And I put some dried leaves in the wound as well.”

The man hissed through clenched teeth. “Well then, boy, there’s nothing I can do. He’s been cleaned and stitched admirably, and he’s received all the right herbs. There’s something in the wound that won’t heal…this is beyond my skill. I’m sorry.” With that, he folded the blanket back over Gaerith’s body with a finality that stunned Tristan.

“Wait,” said Tristan. “You’re not going to do anything? He’ll die!”

The man sighed wearily. “There’s nothing I can do, boy. I am a surgeon, not a miracle-worker. I don’t have the knowledge to treat wounds such as these. I could amputate the leg, but at this point I think it will do more harm than good.”

Tristan rounded angrily on Paedrig, who hitherto had said nothing. “You,” he snarled. “You promised help yet there is none. You just wanted more time for your bloody poem!” He pounded his fist into the table with all his strength. It stung like fire, but he soaked in the pain, letting it fuel his rage. This has all been a waste of time, thought Tristan. Domen Rôr, Kai, Crosswick…this whole journey. I’m no closer to finding answers now than I was when I left, and yet it may cost my friends their lives!

“I’m going.” he said shortly, starting towards the hatch door. “I’ll saddle the horses, you bring Gaerith and Dryfan outside. I’ll find help myself.” Suddenly Paedrig was in his way, a dangerous glint in his eye. Tristan was vaguely aware of the surgeon standing off to his left with arms crossed.

“Easy, Tristan.” said Paedrig quietly.

“No! I’ve wasted enough time already in this bloody town. I never should have come here…or trusted you.”

“Enough!” thundered the surgeon. “I’ll have no more of this child’s temper under my roof. Leave him to it, I say, Paedrig, and may be suffer for his insolence.”

“Easy, Bors. We’ll listen to what he has to say.”

Tristan said nothing.

“Or maybe I could say a few words,” said Paedrig. “Once you get outside the city walls, Tristan, you will smell sulfur burning. We burn it from the walls of Crosswick to dull the wolves’ sense of smell, so they’re less likely to venture out into the open. Now, it usually works well enough, but sometimes, on nights like these, when the moon is bright enough…” He shrugged. “And that’s assuming you do make it out of the town gates. There’s a small chance you may make it to the gates unseen by the night watch, even with two injured traveling companions. But the only way out of this town is out the gate, and there are always guards there. You remember what they did to the Kindredmen, yes? They don’t talk too friendlily to outsiders, especially those skulking around at night. And without me, I don’t like your odds. Mind you, I’ve never been a gambler.” Paedrig took a step closer as Tristan seethed with rage. “Or perhaps you’d like these odds better. I have friends in places high and low. You wait until dawn and I lead you out of Crosswick and to someone who may be able to help you. She has a…gift for injuries like this.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth? You’re playing games, and my friends’ lives are at stake!”

Paedrig spread his hands open. “You can’t know, Tristan, but you must trust me. It’s their, and your, only chance.”

Tristan paused for a moment before bowing his head. “Very well.”

“Then you must excuse me. I have matters to attend to; debts to be recalled from old friends and favors to be asked for.”

With that, the aspiring bard climbed up the rickety wood ladder, opened the hatch door, and disappeared into the dark night, leaving Tristan alone in the gloomy, musty cellar with the glowering surgeon. Tristan sat himself down on a barrel in a dark cobwebbed corner and awaited Paedrig’s return, trying to ignore the soreness in his shoulder and the immense tiredness weighing on him.

The smell of onions filled his nostrils, and the steady sounds of his friend’s breathing filled his ears. The few dim tallow candles soon burned down to flickering stubs. Their light twinkled faintly, like faraway stars, until Tristan felt his eyes slide shut, and they winked out into darkness.