Page 9 of The Tower of the Tyrant

* * *

Llewyn was not the only stranger to arrive in Nyth Fran that day.

A high roof forested with narrow chimneys marked out the common house at the heart of the village.An ostler showed him to the stable, puffing out his cheeks and pulling at his sweaty shirt.In a village this far from the First Folk Road—to say nothing of the enchantment—an ostler ought not be so overworked.

‘Busy day?’Llewyn asked, to mask his interest.

The ostler glanced up at him, his eyes fixing oddly on Llewyn, as though seeing him for the first time.‘Oh, aye.A troupe arrived.Three horses to stable and feed, plus a wagon to unload.But ’twill be worth it.We don’t get entertainers here often.’

‘Is there some occasion for their arrival?’

The ostler shrugged.‘It’s near harvest time.Figure they’re doing the rounds of the villages, and ventured a bit further afield than usual this year.’

A response that was no real answer.Nyth Fran could hardly be said to lie on the way to anywhere, and was too small to offer performers a healthy profit.The wagon in question occupied the centre of the stable.Its side had been painted with a broad lake reflecting the full moon, all in muted blues and whites.

Llewyn touched his ring.

the Grey Lady replied.

He could feel the twinge of her annoyance.

The common room of the inn bustled with activity.The troupers had set up a portable stage by the hearth and were now unpacking instruments and stringing up banners.A few—a youth of ten years with ram’s horns, a young woman harper with eyes slitted like a cat’s—had the bestial affect of those touched by the magic of the First Folk, the most hated enemies of the fae in ages past.Llewyn sat with his back to a corner, the better to observe the room and the villagers.The slightest oddity, the subtlest clue, might yield the key to unlocking whatever enchantment shrouded Nyth Fran.

His gaze settled on a woman at the bar, dressed in a cloak of blues and blacks to match the wagon, with a pearl as white as the full moon at her throat.To his shock, she managed to lock eyes with him—to lock eyes with a gwyddien, One Born of Trees, who carries the shadows with him and draws no unwanted eye.

A sorceress.

She smiled and crossed to his table, setting down her pewter cup of wine without an invitation.‘I see others have come chasing rumours to this backwater.’She sat and extended her hand.‘Afanan Luned, more widely known as Afanan of the Silver Lake.You may have heard of me.’

‘I have not,’ he said, masking his discomfort with banter.‘My failing, or yours?’

Her smile curled into an expression more cutting.‘If you are what I expect, then I should be glad to have slipped beneath your notice, and your lady’s.’

Llewyn brushed a finger against his ring and felt the bite of oak leaves in his flesh.

the Grey Lady said.

Afanan set her cup down daintily.Once again she was the congenial trouper, just making conversation.‘And what should I call you, traveller?’

‘Lyn son Phylip.’One had to tread carefully with names around a sorceress.

‘Odd name for a gwyddien,’ she observed, her voice casual but her eyes fixed on his.‘What is it the priests call you, down in Alberon?Tree-devils, yes?’She sipped her wine.‘Of course, they’ve names for my kind, too.No more flattering, and no more accurate.’

‘Then we’ve common enemies,’ Llewyn said.‘Did they drive you here?’

Afanan leaned towards him.The grey curls of her hair brushed the rim of her cup.She held like that, studying him, smiling slightly like a cat watching a cornered mouse, and he fought the urge to squirm.It had been a long time since anyone had been able to look at him that way.The gaze of most folk slid away from him—and from the ghostwood sword at his hip—like oil sliding over water.

‘We’ve a common quarry, I think,’ she said at last, her voice low.‘As I understand your lady’s purpose, she was right to send you here.What shrouds this place is no mere enchantment, but the influence of a fiend.Older than she, I would wager, though more limited in power.It protects these people from land-hungry lords with its shadow, chases disease from their water and air, and stirs their fields to flourishing.’

‘Parwys is a blessed kingdom,’ Llewyn observed.‘The druids, the power of their Old Stones, and the king see to that.’

‘The Old Stones failed to chase away the plague,’ Afanan countered, ‘where the fiend that guards this village succeeded.’

‘And you have come to bind it to your will, I suspect,’ Llewyn said, tired of banter.‘Tell me, sorceress, how many children have you seen in the village?No more than a handful.This thing—whatever it is—feeds on the young.Is that a power you want to bargain with?’

‘You’ve come to kill it,’ Afanan said.‘As far as these people are concerned, there’s little difference.’She considered him for a moment, sipping her wine, then leaned back in her chair.‘We both want to remove the fiend, no?You could observe my binding ritual, ready to kill it if there is any sign that I might fail.Not a necessary precaution, mind, but one I’ll indulge to make you feel better.There is no reason for us to fight.’