Prologue
Amber light spread across the dirt floor from a fireplace embedded in the cottage's
sod-and-timber wall. It barely illuminated a rough table and stools, two low beds with
patchwork quilts, and other hand-me-down fixtures so old, no one remembered
whose father's father or mother's mother had first acquired them. And on the tail of
nightfall, a tall and black-haired woman in her twentieth year lit but one candle upon
the table, for even that was a luxury.
She was straight-boned, with deep brown eyes beneath eyebrows that arched high,
and strands of hair escaped her long braid. Beneath her wool coat, she wore an agestained
apron covering a blue dress. She swung a cook pot out from the fire on its iron
arm so the stew wouldn't burn, then stepped to the cottage's one front window.
Brushing aside burlap curtains, she cracked the shutter to peer anxiously up the village
path.
Few villagers moved among the huddled huts, carrying in firewood or heading for the
common well, buckets in hand. She closed the shutter, let the curtain fall into place,
and returned to the table to set out two clay bowls and wooden spoons. From the
shelves she gathered a cloth-wrapped bundle and a knife, then settled upon a stool.
She unwrapped a loaf of rye bread to cut away the dried end. There was nothing more
to do, and she watched the fire's flames recede.
When the knock came, she sighed in relief.
Before she stepped to the door, a hollow voice growled from outside. "Enough
pleasantries!"
The crack of shattering wood filled the small hut as the door slammed inward. Its top
leather hinge broke away, and splinters skittered across the dirt floor. She backed into
the table, nearly tripping over a stool.
Three shadowed figures stood in the opening, their features hidden by cowls and
cloaks. The tallest lowered his foot as the broken door ceased shuddering.
"That was not necessary, Father, " said the one next to him. Dressed in a charcoal cloak
and hood and crafted riding boots, his gloved hand was still raised to knock again. He
let it drop to his side.
The third figure hung back as the father entered and, in three strides, grabbed the
woman by the throat.
She clutched the table for balance as he bent her backward. His thumb levered her
chin sideways to face his companions as he studied her profile. Even with her head
tilted, she kept her gaze upon her assailant.
Candlelight partially exposed his face inside the hood. Nearly colorless crystalline eyes
stared back at her, and his features were paler than those of her own fair-skinned
people. A long aquiline nose ran down to a thin-lipped mouth. He wore steel
vambraces on both forearms, and beneath his cloak was a crestless, burgundy tabard
over a shirt of mail. She fumbled for better support on the table, and the base of her
palm scraped something sharp.
"This is the one?" he asked, but his question was not to her.
The one who called him Father took a step into the hut, allowing the third figure to
drift toward her.
His long, hooded robe swirled like black oil as he glided across the cottage floor.
Firelight made faint markings and strange symbols shimmer in and out of sight upon its
folds. Where his face should have been was a mask of aged leather that ended above a
bony jaw supporting a withered mouth. The woman saw no eye slits in his mask. He
reached toward her, as if he "saw" her, but his gaunt fingers stopped shy of her cheek
as she struggled to pull away.
"Get out of my home!" she shouted. No one gave her notice.
"Yes..., " the masked one whispered with a voice like windblown sand. "The one shown
to me. The one sent into my dreams by our patron. "
The father glanced back to his son.
"You should be pleased, " he remarked. "She'll make you an attractive bride. "
The woman's eyes widened. She wouldn't be the first or the last to suffer the whims of
a vassal lord assigned to a fief, but nobles did not take village women as wives.
"Bride?" said the son. "I doubt, Father, that your lackey"—and the masked one hissed
over his shoulder— "would bother with the customs attached to such a title. Take her
and let us leave. The sooner done, the better. "
The masked one's fingers inched forward, and she felt her captor's grip tighten to pull
her up. At the touch of fingertips on her cheek, her hand closed about the knife on the
table.
The robed one recoiled to the room's far wall before she even moved. She twisted
forward, thrusting low and upward. The knife blade slipped into the side slit of her