Chapter 1

The only tavern-inn for three leagues was teeming with life on the cold winter night. The movement and light from within summoned an image of dozens of fireflies gathered in a jar.

Inside the log-stacked structure, seven men tall, the first floor bustled with laughter. Below, the rattle of dice in cups and the melodious lute accompanied a tenor voice on a small fireside stage.

Arvid entered through the heavy oak door and made his way to the bar, brushing snow off his cloak.

The whole tavern froze as if bewitched. There were only three sources of movement at that moment. One came from the stranger who leaned on the bar. The other was from the old bartender, who had turned to face her new customer. And the lute player, who made audible twangs as he fumbled to keep his stage composure.

But when the old woman behind the bar looked up at the unfamiliar face, she, too, froze. The color drained from her face as her eyes traveled from the man’s rust-colored eyes to his hooded cloak. The cloak failed to hide two points on his head.

“Hello, ma’am. I’d like a bottle of root whiskey and a room for the night, please,” he said as he ignored the crowd of people now focused on him.

“I—We don’t want no trouble here.” Her voice shook as she wrung the rag in her hands.

“Nor do I, let me assure you. A room for the night and a bottle of root whiskey,” he repeated. As he reached for his coin purse, he heard the obvious sounds of blades being unsheathed.

He held his other hand in the air and offered his purse for all to see. With a casual smile, he turned back to the bartender. Some men eased their white-knuckled grips on their hilts.

Wrinkles lined the old woman’s leathery face as she squinted at him, trying to decide. A decision she didn’t like one bit. Finally, she reached down and slammed a bottle on the counter.

The man smiled. “Thank you, ma’am. How much will the bottle and room be, then?”

“Seventeen singers are usual. For your kind, as there’s a risk-of-trouble fee, you see—” the woman sucked her teeth as if calculating a number. “Twenty singers. And if you upset the peace of my establishment, it’ll be twenty more and a swift holler to the constable.”

The stranger nodded as he placed twenty singers on the counter. As if on cue, the door opened again. A mountain of a man dressed in thick chainmail and a black cloak walked in. He nodded at the woman behind the bar and the whole tavern. His eyes settled on the man at the bar.

The constable grabbed the hilt of his broadsword at his waist and sauntered to the bar. He leaned against it, never taking his serious gaze off Arvid.

Arvid smiled and nodded in acknowledgment of the constable’s nonverbal warning. He glanced at the stairs in the back of the tavern and grabbed the bottle off the bar.

“Fourth floor.” She told him, “All the way to the end.”

“Gratzan,” Arvid said as he placed another coin on the bar. He wondered if the woman even knew her ancestors’ word for ‘thank you.

“For your… trouble.” Arvid smiled again and took his bottle up to his room.

The tavern’s noise resumed when he closed the door behind him.