ancient forest grew. Croy told Malden it was the last of its kind in Skrae, a thicket of ancient trees that cloaked the foothills of the Whitewall mountains. To find a forest that old anywhere else, Croy said, you’d have to go as far north as the dwarven kingdom, for the dwarves cared little for the surface world and had never cleared their land in the endless demand for firewood.
“This forest,” Croy told him, “has survived only because no one is willing to get so close to the Vincularium just to chop down trees.”
Malden had a choice to make, whether to part company here and lose himself in the streets of Helstrow—where surely there were things to steal, and a living to be made—or to press on with the party and become a grave robber (and, likely, a meal for a demon). While he was pondering that, however, he was asked for his opinion on another matter.
“The only bridge over the Strow is inside the fortress. We’d have to enter the gates to cross,” Croy said.
“That shouldn’t be a problem—you’re still a knight of the realm,” Malden pointed out. “Even a knight errant should be able to talk his way in.”
“The difficulty is on Mörget’s side. A barbarian in Redweir or in Ness is a curiosity, even a wonder. Inside Helstrow, he’s an act of war. One reason the king stays here is to keep his army close to the Whitewall, where he can respond quickly in case the barbarians flood through the mountain passes.”
“Is an invasion really that likely?” Malden asked.
Croy glanced over at Mörget, but the barbarian was out of earshot. “The people of the east live by conquest. They do not farm, so simply to feed their people they must constantly raid the freeholds and villages of their neighbors. Mostly they harass the hill people north of here, on the border between Skrae and Skilfing, but they’ve long had their eye set on richer bounty. If they were allowed through the passes though … yes. I am certain they would try to conquer us. The threat they pose is real—and kept in abeyance only by constant vigilance on our part.” Croy shook his head. “If Mörget is discovered in Helstrow, we’ll be taken as spies or traitors or worse. And you’ve seen him. He’s hardly inconspicuous.”
“Is there another option?”
Croy frowned, a rare expression on his face. “The Strow is too deep and runs too fast to ford anywhere on its length. We can head downstream a few miles, build a raft, and pole the horses across—but that’s not without its dangers. The current is so swift we could be capsized, and all drown.”
“When choosing between two evils,” Malden said, “my mother always said, make sure you get paid in advance. It seems to me we cannot predict what will happen if we enter Helstrow. Any number of things could go wrong. The river may be treacherous, but at least we know what we face.”
“I think you’re right. But it will add a day to our journey. Thank you, Malden.”
“For my counsel? I’m surprised you even asked for it.”
Croy smiled at him. “You count yourself so worthless, sometimes. You’re one of the most canny men I’ve ever met,” he said. He reached over and slapped Malden on the back. “I know you weren’t born a nobleman, Malden, but you have true honor in your soul. I’ve seen it. There are great deeds in your future.”
Guilt washed through Malden’s veins, a feeling he’d hardly expected. If Croy knew what kind of dishonorable things he dreamed of, concerning Cythera … “I think you do me too much credit.”
Croy shrugged. “I suppose no man can take the measure of his own mettle. Once we’re across the river we’ll discuss this again.”
Malden wasn’t sure what to make of that. Did Croy suspect something? Was he trying to put Malden off his guard? There was no way to know.
Croy stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled loud enough to hurt Malden’s ears. “Ho, friends!” he shouted. “Up ahead the road forks. Turn south!”
“South?” Mörget asked. “Away from our destination?”
“Put faith in me,” Croy asked, and the barbarian just nodded.
The two warriors trusted each other implicitly, Malden realized. Mörget didn’t question Croy’s instructions unduly, because he knew they shared a common interest. And now Croy was trying to bring Malden into that same confidence. It gave him chills.
And a very strange sort of pride. Not that he intended to live up to this newfound trust. But it was … nice, perhaps, to have a man like Croy think highly of you.
Malden laughed to himself. He’d been spending too much time with the knight errant. He was starting to believe in Croy’s folly himself. Best to nip that in the bud.
The road duly forked, and Croy wheeled the wagon to the south, so that the setting sun was on their right shoulders. The horses were dragging their feet by the time, a mile later, they pulled into the stable yard of a milehouse. They were on the road to Redweir now, and Croy told Malden that the milehouses on this road were named for the Nine Learned Arts. The sign out front depicted the constellation known as the Troll, and the house was called The Astrologer.
Inside, the walls and ceiling were decorated with tin stars and instead of the usual dreary room they found music and warmth and a boy carrying two flagons of ale. He nodded them toward one of the available tables. This place was not crowded by any measure, but at least it saw some decent custom. The men gathered at the tables were mostly merchants and tradesmen, travelers on the road between Redweir and Helstrow. Men who might have a coin to spend. They were laughing and their faces were bright with drink.
“Now this is more to my liking,” Malden said, and called for food. What came to the table was pottage again, but a bit of bacon had been stirred into the bowls to gave the stew a measure of flavor. Malden downed his bowl in a hurry and ordered another, as well as more ale.
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