The Weaver's Source

Chapter 63

I kept close to Grigore as we approached Rothberg's outer wall and gaping gateway. The guards outside hung about, drinking warm mead and gambling in the dry crevice of their gatehouse. They had eyed us but opened the door without a word and let it swing shut loudly behind us. We wandered through the curving streets and I tugged the hood harder over my head. The hail was coming down heavily now and the small balls of ice pinched my skin painfully.

Beyond the great cobbled stone wall and the thick wooden gates lay hundreds of small houses littered on uneven earth, held up by platforms and craggy wooden pillars to keep them above the winter snow. The wood they were built from appeared thick with tiny windows and shutters and black shingle covered over the roofs.

One thing I noticed instantly was that smoke filled the air. It billowed out from several great buildings at the opposite end of the city where several massive mines littered the mountain face. Fires melted the iron ore and purified it and men worked smithies day and night, sending plumes of back clouds into the sky. It made me choke a little. The smoke was think and heavy and clung to the city, weaving through the wonky ill-built streets. Nobody else she saw seemed to notice or care though. Clad in furs and thick leather, the tough skinned and distrusting eyed people simply carried on about their business, breathing in the black air without a second thought.

I breathed a sigh of relief when Grigore stopped and looked up at a long single story building. Loud voices boomed from within and warmth wafted out the door as men came and went. I shifted my weight and glanced up at Grigore. He was scowling at the building, assessing if it was a safe place for us to enter.

"It seems fine." I said as I rubbed my hands together furiously, not telling him that I didn't care where we stayed just as long as it was warm.

Grigore's dark eyes slipped to my face, observing how red my nose was and how pale my cheeks were. With a grunt, he shifted the weight of Ursus at his hip before he marched up the creaking steps. He pushed the door open and dragged me inside, keeping me close.

Unlike most places, this inn remained rowdy at his entrance. The usual untrusting hush didn't befall these ragged bearded men at the sight Grigore, an obvious Weaver. They continued to drink and sing and talk loudly, bellowing to each other from across the room. I was a little surprised and if Grigore was he didn't show it. Instead he ushered me over to the barkeep, a large woman with a thick plait trailing down her back and with a face as rough as the men.

"A room?" She guessed with a wide smile which grew wider when she saw me hovering behind him. "Who's this frail thing? I've never seen a woman with so little fat or muscle on them. Why, you mustn't eat much at all." She said loudly, ignoring Grigore's answer.

I looked down at myself, noting that, while I was still on the small side, I had definitely put weight on, but I gradually noticed how tiny I was in comparison to the people of Rothberg with their heights that challenged even Lillith and rough muscle-set bodies, making me almost childlike. I glanced nervously at Grigore, wondering if I appeared even faintly like a woman to him, then quickly looked away, scolding myself for worrying about such a silly thing when he gave me a questioning look.

The woman clapped her large hands, bellowing loudly. "Hill! We need some food out here! This girly's going to starve otherwise!" An unintelligible growl come from the door behind her but a clatter followed as the man did as he was told. "You sit and wait for some food. I'll get you fed proper in no time." She said to me with a big grin.

"We need rooms, barkeep, not food." Grigore said stiffly, irked that he had been ignored for so long.

"It's food that you need. You'll have your room but sit and eat first." She said firmly and pointed to a corner of the room. "Go over there. It's quieter than most places."