"Four mutton," Owain said. "With pie."
"Four, sir?" the innkeeper asked.
"Four," Owain said. "But pie for three."
"Yes, sir."
"Do you stay at inns often?" I asked as the innkeeper departed.
"Sometimes," Owain said. "Have to travel a bit in my line of work."
"What do you do?"
Owain stared into his mug for a long moment and I half expected him to brush off the question as he had last time.
"You may as well know," he said finally. He gripped his mug tightly. "I'm a mercenary."
"A what?"
"Men hire me to get rid of someone who is causing trouble."
"Get rid of them? You mean…"
"Kill them."
I was glad I was already sitting for I surely would have fallen over in surprise. Owain might be large but he was also the gentlest man I had ever encountered.
"How…" I stammered. "Why…"
He shrugged. "Someone's gotta do it. Money's good. I don't talk about it much though. People don't like it."
I squirmed on my bench, caught between unease at his revelation and self-awareness at my own nervousness. Only minutes ago, I had been thinking I didn't mind a broken lock because Owain would be there and now… I took a large swallow of ale, seeking to shut out my thoughts.
We sat in silence until Rhiwallon returned, wearing a clean shirt and another pair of those curious pants. An indignant and somewhat damp Bramble followed. Rhiwallon's red hair hung in a wet braid down her back and her cheeks were still rosy from the hot water.
"Who's next?" she asked, looking almost cheerful.
Owain nodded at me. "Go ahead."
The water no longer steamed but it was still plenty warm enough for a pleasant bath. I stripped down and scrubbed myself all over. My clothes were grimy and I would need to find a way to clean them. Wearing my only change of clothes and feeling much refreshed, I went back down to the bar.
Owain drained his mug and stood. "Guess I could do with a bath too."
"Water's still warm." I avoided his eyes, feeling lousy even as I did. How many people had he killed?
I felt Rhiwallon watching me as I sat down. I caught my breath, wondering whether I should apologise for my earlier comment about reading but likely she would find a way to take offence at that too. Instead, I waved to the innkeeper, trying to mimic the way Owain casually held up a finger to indicate how many mugs of ale he wanted. The service wasn't quite as swift and the man said nothing as he slapped a mug down in front of me. It tasted no better than the last but I drank it anyway, trying not to gag.
"He told me," Rhiwallon said.
"Yeah?" I stared into my mug.
"What he does." She was silent for a few moments although I still felt her gaze on me. "He said you took it hard."
"I was surprised, that's all." I sounded defensive, even to my own ear.
"He doesn't usually tell people. Says they get all strange, like you did."
"I'm not all strange. I'm just surprised."
"Get over it. He's still the same man."
I was stunned into silence and we sat without speaking until Owain returned. He motioned to the innkeeper for another round of drinks.
I wrapped an arm around Bramble who had jumped up onto my bench, drawing courage from her quiet nearness even though her wet hair seeped into my shirt. I tried to find the words to apologise to Owain but as I finally opened my mouth, Rhiwallon spoke.
"So, Diarmuid, you never did say what this mysterious quest is all about."
I closed my mouth with a snap. Owain had revealed his secret. Now it was my turn.
"I'm going to Crow's Nest," I said.
Rhiwallon rolled her eyes. "I know that, but you haven't said why."
I flushed, then took a deep breath. "I'm a bard."
"Caedmon may have mentioned that." She sounded dubious.
My cheeks coloured although whether it was with embarrassment or anger, I couldn't have said. "I'm also the seventh son of a seventh son."
She raised an eyebrow. "So?"
"When a seventh son of a seventh son is a bard, he has… abilities. Or, at least, he does in my family."
"What sort of abilities?"
"I can sometimes bring my tales to life. Not always, and I don't know how it works. But sometimes the tales I tell, well, they happen."
The corners of Rhiwallon's mouth twitched.
"It's true," I said.
"I didn't say it wasn't."
"You don't believe me."
"No."
Bramble squirmed in my arms and I realised I was holding her far too tightly. I released her and she stared up at me.
"But I think you believe it," Rhiwallon said and her tone was softer now.
I shrugged. "Like I said, I don't know how it works. I only know it happens."
"You need to fix something," Owain said slowly. "Something from a tale."
"I created a muse," I said. "In my head. It was a silly little thing to entertain myself but I pretended she was the source of my tales. Then, somehow, she came to life and escaped."
"She escaped from your head?" Rhiwallon's face said clearly that she didn't believe me.
Hot flames of embarrassment warmed my whole body. "Yes, and something went wrong. She's taken over Crow's Nest and she's making people kill each other. People are dying because of me."
"How do you know it's your imaginary muse?" Rhiwallon asked. "How do you know she isn't still in your head?"
"She isn't there anymore. She's nothing but a memory in my head now. She came to life but she's twisted. Wrong."
"But how do you know this woman you're travelling so far to get to is the one you made up?" Rhiwallon said.
"I just know," I said, miserably. "How does a parent recognise their child? It's her, I know it."
"You plan to stop her," Owain said.
I was surprised at the calm acceptance in his voice. He had discovered I too was responsible for death, and yet there he sat, drinking his ale and listening to my tale. If he judged me, I couldn't tell it from his face or words.
"How?" Rhiwallon asked. "I'm not saying I believe any of this, but how would you stop her?"
"I don't know. I'm hoping I'll figure that out. For now, I just need to get there. Make sure it's really her. Then… I don't know."
As the room darkened and grew chilly, the innkeeper lit lamps and soon the fireplace blazed, sending warmth through the room. Other patrons drifted into the room and soon the quietness was replaced with the steady murmur of conversation. A serving girl brought out our meals, four plates of mutton and three of pie.
Owain took one of the plates and carefully sliced the meat and vegetables into small pieces then set it down next to Bramble on the bench. Yet again it was he, not I, who thought to feed her.
My stomach rumbled as soon as the smell of roasted meat hit my nostrils and I ate eagerly. The mutton was tough, the vegetables clearly old and the gravy watery, but it was hot and filling.
We lingered a little longer after dinner. My stomach was full and the atmosphere was somewhat companionable, despite the stiffness between Rhiwallon and I.
I looked around the table. My journey's companions, although not what I might have expected: a mercenary, a woman running for reasons left unsaid, and a dog. Fiachra had said something else about my companions, that they would not all be what they seemed. And now I had discovered what that meant, for who would assume the gentle man across the table from me to be a hired killer?
I feel him moving towards me once again and he is no longer alone. I have seen his companions when I have visited him at night. The heart of one is filled with death, another has a heart that longs. The heart of the third contains a secret desperately hidden.
What do these companions mean to him? What would happen if I removed one? He told a tale once in which a sorcerer sent a magical construct to abduct a traveller. I could create such a thing. In his tale, the beast had eight legs and many eyes. It was large and venomous and filled with blackness. As I think of the beast, it appears before me. Solid. Hairy. Hungry.
Which companion should I remove? Perhaps the one with the secret. I remember her from the last time they met. I saw her then through Diarmuid's eyes, felt the emotions she aroused in him. She was the source of much confusion for him.
I send my beast towards Diarmuid and wait. I am intrigued to learn whether he and his companions will act in the same way as the characters in his tale. I don't yet understand why sometimes people act the way Diarmuid's tales say they should, and other times they don't.
In the meantime, my power grows with each day. At first, it was a trickle, like the merest hint of water seeping into a dry riverbed with the first of the winter rains. It eased through my limbs, moving ever so gently. As the days passed, the trickle became a steady flow and then a gushing stream.
The more I wield my power, the stronger the flow becomes. With my increasing power, I cleanse my surroundings. And the more evil I remove from this meagre village, the more my power grows. I do not let myself think of the inhabitants as people, for I fear I will pity them. Instead, I steel myself and do what I must.
There was a child. I sensed darkness in her heart. She reminded me of Diarmuid in a way. There was power inside of her, a power I didn't understand. But she didn't yet know her power, couldn't draw on it at will. I could not allow her to stay for she would contaminate the village. She might even destroy it.
Diarmuid told a tale once of a mother who was instructed by Titania to take her child into the woods and leave her there. So I followed his instructions. I charmed the mother of this powerful child and she took the girl to the woods. She stood and watched as the wild boars tore her child apart. Thus the girl and her strange powers were destroyed before she ever learnt to use them. And my village has one less evil to contend with.
On the third night after we left Owain's house, we stayed in the village of Shelby at an inn called The Cat's Whiskers. The inn looked rough and worn, the sort of accommodation where one should double check that their bedchamber door was locked before they went to sleep.
As best I could tell, somewhere around fifteen nights had passed since Diarmuid had started his journey. More than two sevennights and halfway to the new moon. Time was running out if his belief that he had to reach Ida before then was correct.
We procured two bedchambers at The Cat's Whiskers, bathed, and then gathered in the dining room. The room was perhaps half full, the crowd a little more hardened than where we had stayed previously. The tables and benches were battered as if often thrown to the floor and even the innkeeper looked like he had been tossed across the counter a few times.
The meal presented to us was a less than appetising array of half-cold mutton and watery soup. I sniffed at the mutton, suspicious about its freshness.
"Ugh," Rhiwallon said, wrinkling her nose as she stared down at her plate. "I can't eat that."
"It's not that bad," Owain said. His plate was already half empty.
Rhiwallon put a hand over her nose. "The smell of it is making me sick."
I sniffed my plate again. It definitely wasn't as fresh as it could be but it wasn't off. Owain had thoughtfully cut my serve into small pieces for me and I took a tentative bite. Tough and chewy, but edible. Certainly not worth the fuss Rhiwallon was making.
Rhiwallon pushed her plate away. "I'd rather starve than eat that."
Owain shrugged and reached for her plate. "I'll eat it if you aren't going to."
I was only half-listening. I couldn't quite figure Rhiwallon out. Her mood changed by the day. Sometimes she seemed tough and capable, like the night we met her in the barn when she threatened to stab anyone who sneaked up on her. At other times, she was jittery and irrational.
Before I could think further on this, a group of travellers entered. There were six, all lean men with a professional air about them. Rhiwallon spluttered and I looked up just in time to see the colour drain from her face. She inched a little closer to Owain and ducked her head. Her unbound hair fell forward and mostly covered her face. She clenched her hands together tightly but not before I saw how they trembled. I could smell the fear that suddenly wafted from her.
The men spoke to the innkeeper for longer than seemed necessary to arrange bedchambers and meals, and then arrayed themselves around a table at the far end of the room. The innkeeper brought them mugs of ale.
Rhiwallon seemed to sink down further. Owain's body shielded her from the men's view although if Owain himself realised anything was wrong, he gave no sign of it.
I jumped down from the bench. One benefit to being a dog was that people often didn't see me. Nose to the dirty floor, I inched closer to the men. One of them glanced towards me and I sniffed intently at a stale crust of bread. The man's gaze barely skimmed me before he looked away. I sidled closer.
"How much further do we go?" one of his companions asked. He downed his ale in a few gulps and the innkeeper swiftly replaced the mug.
Another man, one with an air of authority, shrugged. "We keep going until we find what we're looking for."
"Are you sure we're heading the right way?" the first man asked. "Surely by now we should have come across some sign of her."
The one who seemed to be the leader set down his mug and looked him in the eye. "We have our orders," he said and his words were clear and deliberate. "And we follow them. Anyone doesn't like that, they're free to leave. Without pay, of course."
I held my breath, hoping for more, but the conversation turned to more mundane topics, the chance of rain tomorrow and whether one of them needed new boots before the group moved on. The one who appeared to be the leader looked around the room, eyes narrowed as he examined each of the women. Owain's bulk still largely obscured Rhiwallon and the man barely glanced at her.