THE THORIAN SAGAS: 1. THE TRADER. (Completed).

Coniston.

Stoker knew the Inn at Coniston. It was run by a family he trusted.

Even though he had never stayed there before, he had changed horses, eaten there, and had conversed with them on each of his pauses through the year.

There was one such stop he knew about; at least one, in each of the nine intermediate waystations between Dorian and Fenn.

Never, would he willingly trust the hospitality of the cities themselves, though Fenn had never dealt with him in the formal way as a Thorian; not knowing about him as its warriors now knew him.

He pulled into the yard, seeing his steaming horses held for him. They were tired, and the cold and wet would soon get through to them, so they were even then being unhitched and led away to a warm stable where they would be rubbed down and fed, as they needed.

Erianne was asleep beside him with her hand holding tight onto his belt.

He did not want to disturb her.

While he could, he took out that claw on its necklace and dropped it over her head. There would be no immediate questions this way.

With her asleep, she would not be able to read too much of his thoughts if he encountered one of those suddenly weak moments when he would lose control of his own thoughts and emotions.

His dog approved of him doing that.

Stoker slowly extricated himself from her grip, leaving her holding his fingers, stepped to the ground and then reached in to lift her into his arms as his dog jumped down, and followed them into the Inn, shaking the water off his fur.

Stoker gave instructions to the sons of that family to bring all of his things; weapons, everything, from under his seat to their room, and to leave nothing in the carriage.

The landlord already had the largest room in the Inn ready for them, having been warned ahead of time of their arrival.

Stoker spoke for hot water for a bath, and also learned that food could be served whenever he wished; either here or downstairs.

With the weather being as it was, the taproom might be a little busier than usual with the woods' folk; the loggers, not wanting to be out in that blustery weather if they didn't have to be. This weather could last for two or three days, once it set in, and they would rather be at home.

He had no fear of them. He might even know a few of them. They would know his business when they saw a young woman with him, and would know enough not to bother them, or to be too boisterous or loud.

There was a large fire, blazing in the hearth of their room. It would not take long to dry everything out and for them to warm up again.

Despite being wrapped up against the weather as they had been, the rain had still beaten through to their skin.

Stoker laid her on the thick Sheepskin in front of the fire and loosened her damp coat as the dog looked on, taking advantage of the warmth himself.

Stoker shrugged out of his wet coat and laid his sword aside, but within reach.

She was unconscious to the world, sleeping the sleep of utter nervous exhaustion, having lived with this knowledge that she was to be a tribute for the last few days, and being unable to rest or to sleep because of it nagging at her, not understanding what it meant.

Had there been two or more tributes, they could have helped each other while he stayed to one side, but here, there was no one else, and she had not let go of him since that first moment of joining him on the driver's seat, always finding something to hold onto about him, whether his coat, or his tunic, or his sleeve.