“‘Not something to dwell on’?!” Declan echoed in disbelief. “Ryn, did you see those bodies? They looked half-eaten! How am I not supposed to dwell on that?! And are you going to tell me those men seemed like madmen, to you? I’ll bet my left arm they were being paid. They practically said as much.”

  At his words, Ryn partially turned his large head, fixing Declan with a single bright eye.

  There are wolves everywhere in woods like these, he said evenly, not looking away. Bears, even. Anything could have done it. More importantly, how is your arm?

  For some reason, as he spoke, Ryn’s words made more sense to Declan than he thought they probably should have. He found himself nodding along in quiet agreement, grunting in answer to the horse’s question.

  “Hurts,” he admitted, pulling the half-elf tighter to his chest and wincing as the movement made his elbow throb. “Nothing to be done about it now, though.” Declan had earned enough blade wounds in his life to know how to thread a decent line of stitches, but between the unsteady light of a hasty fire and the hurry they’d been in the previous evening, his closing of the gash could hardly have been considered his best work.

  Ryn looked back to the road, but bobbed his head sympathetically. Hold out another half-hour. The village isn’t far, by my recollection.

  Declan just nodded in reply, trying to shake off the odd haze that had settled over his thoughts, blaming the muddling on fatigue and too many hours without a decent meal.

  Sure enough, not long after, they thundered into the crossroads of one of the larger communes that had posted the bounty, a hamlet whose name Declan couldn’t recall. Unfortunately for their little party, however, it turned out the village healer had left the morning before for the city of Ebadon, two weeks’ walk to the north, to purchase supplies for the coming winter. The best the local elder could do—a wizened old man who looked as though a healthy breeze might have sent him sailing into the overcast sky—was mutter about some hermit out in the woods, and tell them that the owner of an inn a half-day’s hard ride north used to work as a surgeon in the King’s Vigil.

  Trying not to roll his eyes at the idea of hounding back through the forest in search of some sylvan hack, Declan turned them northward again with a frustrated groan.

  Ryn, on the other hand, galloped on almost anxiously, setting himself back into a heavy pace that would have winded any other horse, which Declan found all the more odd. More than once throughout that morning and the remaining day he caught his friend glancing over his rolling shoulder with a worried expression, eyeing the woman in Declan’s arms. It became so frequent, in fact, that Declan ended up calling the horse out on it, but Ryn—in what seemed to be a developing fashion—denied any excess interest in the half-elf. All the same, even after they’d fallen silent again the horse seemed unable to help himself from stealing a look back every quarter-hour or so, like he was searching for something in the woman, studying her face, her form, even the empty sheath at her hip.

  Eventually, Declan, too, found himself glancing down, wondering what in the world it was about the woman that had captivated his friend so thoroughly.

  Droplets of water streaked in lines along the pale, smooth cheek he could see, streaming down her neck and into the folds of her shirt. In the light of the day he had indeed found that her hair was a clean, silvery-gold which no pure-human would have ever been blessed with, and he was almost sad to see it soaked and plastered against his arm. More embarrassing, though, was the fact that every time he took in her face, Declan found himself again wondering what her eyes looked like. Once or twice throughout the ride he’d caught the woman muttering nonsensically through her absent delirium and thought he’d seen them flutter, thought he’d caught a flash of brilliant green in the grey of the day, but whenever he’d glanced down to check he’d noted no further indication that she wasn’t still out cold.

  Half-elves were a rarity in Viridian, and for good reason. The er’enthyl—the wood elves of the Vyr’en, the expansive forest realms to the south—were notoriously territorial of the boundaries of their lands, not to mention largely disdainful of their human neighbors as a whole. Declan himself had had a handful of run-ins with their kind, working with Holden’s Guard along the border as a younger man, and the encounters had always left him with a bad taste in his mouth. Despite being something of a wild, tribal people, the er’enthyl were also haughty and dismissive, looking down on him—and even the more grizzled veterans of the company he’d been a part of at the time—like parents might look down on poorly behaved children. They’d been dependably unhelpful, even when the Guard had spent several weeks hunting down a band of highwaymen who’d been causing trouble on both sides of the border, and hadn't given so much as a word of thanks or appreciation when the job was done.

  All in all, Declan wasn’t enamored with the elves he’d known in his time, and could understand the distaste many Viridians felt towards the older, long-lived race.

  Still, no dogma is absolute within any people, and laws and traditions might often be flaunted as easily as they might be upheld. Half-elves could be found within the boundaries of the country, if one was willing to look for them, or at least what most would consider “half-elves”. Oftentimes such examples were actually fourth or fifth generation bastards, bred along until hardly a drop of their ancestral blood remained, but the traits of their forbearers were powerful, and usually lingered on. The woman in Declan’s arms, on the other hand, was first-generation, second at most. He’d never seen hair like hers on anything but a pure-blooded elf, and he might have thought her one herself were it not for the conspicuous absence of the tell-all ears. She was breathtaking, even limp against him, strands of that silver-gold hair streaked across the wet skin of her face.

  Still, none of that explained Ryn’s obvious interest in the woman, and Declan thought his own patience wouldn’t suffer another snub if he asked and was denied an honest answer yet again.

  As the hours pressed on, noon passing into early afternoon, the rain began to fall harder, the showers turning into a full-blown summer storm. The woods around them began to dance and lash, the wind picking up to howl along the road, buffeting first this way, then that. Speaking became impossible aside from Ryn’s soundless warnings of sharp bends in the road or leaps over the occasional fallen tree across the path. The day dimmed, and soon the sun was so distant beyond a thick swath of clouds that Declan began to lose track of time, which was probably for the better. He had a good cloak, but between trying to keep the woman covered as best he could, the endless rain, and the splashing pound of Ryn’s hooves beneath him, it wasn’t long before he was soaked from head to boots. By the time he thought early evening had arrived, Declan was fairly sure his temper couldn’t have grown any blacker.

  Then, like a reprieve sent by the Mother Herself, Ryn’s wonderful words surged across his mind.

  Ahead. Less than a mile out.

  Declan squeezed his knees together in excited understanding, holding the half-elf to him even tighter as the horse drove forward with a burst of speed through the lashing rain.

  Three minutes later the glow of well-lit windows announced the presence of the promised inn, and Declan almost whooped in relief into the storm. Coming to a halt under the swinging sign that read The Woodsman’s Rest, he dismounted in a hurry, boots splashing down among the trickling streams that ran away into the woods before turning to carefully slide the woman off the saddle and into his arms. The moment they were both clear of his back, Ryn began to change, shrinking rapidly. Having anticipated this, Declan managed to catch the straps of the saddle and bags awkwardly in one hand just as they started to fall, almost dropping the half-elf in the process. He stood straight again in time to feel a heavy weight settle down on his right shoulder, digging into the leather of his traveler’s cloak. Glancing sidelong, he had to blink rain out of his eyes to make out Ryn’s form against the storm.

  A black hawk, slightly too large to be any bird of prey Declan had ever seen otherwise, looked back at him evenly over a gleaming, hooked beak. Its white-gold eyes glimmered in the sheen of its pitched feathers, over which water ran like oil on glass. Its narrow talons, curved almost cruelly as they clung to his shoulder, might have made him wince had it been the first time he’d born witness to them. Despite its fierce appearance, though, even as he blinked at it the bird extended one broad wing over his head and shoulders, momentarily shielding Declan and the woman from the rain.

  Put our things down by the door, Ryn told him, indicating with a thrust of his beak a dry spot beneath a slate awning near the entrance of the inn. I doubt anyone who might pilfer from us is fool enough to be on the road in this weather, and I can see to them later.

  With a shake of his head in an attempt to clear his vision of wet hair, Declan knelt and dropped the saddle and bags as instructed. This done, he stepped forward and shoved his way through the slightly-ajar door of The Woodsman’s Rest, shouting even as he half-tumbled into the warmth and clamor of the room beyond.

  “Innkeep!”

  A respectable throng of customers—many looking as though they, too, had been seeking shelter from the rain—all turned at his voice, and the clatter and chatter that had filled the space with noise died down almost at once. Occupied tables filled the large common room, and a raised bar extended the length of the left wall, beyond which the sounds of an active kitchen could be made out through a door in the far corner. Clean straw was spread over the old wooden floor, and the place smelled of food and ale and the smoky haze of the lit candles bracketed overhead every few feet, dousing the space in dim orange light. At Declan’s shout, a squat little woman with a kindly face looked up from the table she was clearing of dirty plates, her natural smile freezing as she caught sight of the girl hanging limply in his arms.

  “Oh!” the woman exclaimed, dropping the dishes at once and hurrying forward, shooing away a number of patrons from the table nearest Declan and Ryn. “Away! Away, you lot!” The group clambered up and out of the way at once, taking what dishes and tankards they could grab with them. The rest fell to the floor with a crash as the woman swept the surface clear with a quick arm. “Here, boy. Oh, dear.”

  Groaning a world of thanks, Declan laid his unconscious charge carefully across the table, ignoring the continued pain in his left arm. He felt Ryn’s weight leave his shoulder as the hawk spread his wings and leapt gracefully to perch on a nearby chair, causing a half-dozen nearby customers to gasp and flinch back in surprise.

  To her credit, the plump tavern worker hardly gave the great black bird a glance as she looked over the sopping half-elf draped across the wood before her.

  “Graces…” the woman hissed as she checked the girl’s pulse, brushing the silver-gold hair away from where it clung to her pale face. “What happened?”

  “Took a blow to the back of the head,” Declan explained wearily, collapsing down in the chair Ryn already sat atop. “A nasty one. Are you the innkeeper?”

  He thought it was rather a fair question, given that the Vigil recruited the able-bodied of Viridian’s men and women both to the King’s ranks. The woman, though, shook her head, catching the eye of a serving girl who was standing nearby, staring open-mouthed at the half-elf with a stunned expression.

  “Dora, get Brohn,” she said urgently. “He'll be in the kitchen. Tell him we’ve got a wounded—” she glanced at Declan, gaze flicking to his arm before correcting herself “—two wounded customers. Quick now!”

  The girl—Dora—started as she came to her senses, then rushed off, slipping behind the bar and disappearing through the kitchen door already shouting. As she did, Declan looked down at his own arm, wondering what had caught the older woman’s attention, and groaned when he saw red mixing with the dripping lines of rainwater still trickling from his fingers.

  His shoddy stitch-work hadn’t held up to shouldering his way into the inn, it seemed.

  Apparently thinking the half-elf could survive without her attention a minute more, the plump woman hurried over as Declan gingerly slid himself out of his traveling cloak. As soon as his soaked shirt was exposed—the fabric of his left sleeve now dyed a blotchy burgundy—she took hold of the slashed remains of the bloody fabric and ripped it further open, revealing the ugly, torn threads winding into the bleeding gash above his elbow. Pulling what looked like a clean dishtowel from some pocket of her rough-spun dress, the woman tied the cloth above the cut like a makeshift tourniquet.

  “You’re sure you’re not the innkeeper?” Declan asked of her, impressed as the blood quit flowing at once.

  She gave a short laugh in response, lifting his arm to examine the injury more closely. “I’m an innkeeper, but not the one you’re after, I think. I’m Dia. My Brohn and I are the owners here, and I’ve picked up a thing or two from him over the years.” Satisfied, Dia let Declan’s hand down carefully, standing up again and eyeing Ryn as she wiped her hands on the side of her skirts. “Is this a hunting bird? I’ve never seen one like it…”

  “He is,” Declan answered automatically, gingerly pulling at his wound to exam it further. “A cliff falcon, from the Tears to the north. No need to fret. He’s harmless.”

  It was a brief, practiced story that he’d repeated an untold number of times in the last decade. The hawk—according to Ryn’s own repeated declaration—was the least favorite of the transformations Declan had ever seen his friend take, but it was a useful one. It did have a semblance to the large grey raptors that hunted the bluffs of the Mother’s Tears, the great ranges that capped Viridian’s northern border, and it allowed Ryn to stay at his side no matter the circumstances. Despite whatever reservations the beast might have for the form—Ryn had never told Declan why he found it so distasteful—the beast had admitted on more than one occasion that it was easier to room with a hawk than a horse on the road.

  Or a wolf, Declan thought with a private smirk, grimacing as the pressure of the cut-off blood flow began to build in his arm.

  “Is he… uh… trained?” Dia asked, glancing from Ryn’s sleek black form to the straw-covered floor beneath his perch.

  Despite his fatigue and discomfort, Declan couldn’t help but laugh, doubly so when Ryn himself swelled in silent indignation as he caught on to the matron’s concerns.

  Before Declan could answer, a broad, bearded man wearing a stained burlap apron over an ample stomach appeared in the frame of the door behind the bar, drying his hands on an old rag and casting about with a worried expression. Catching sight of them, he hurried over at once, already eyeing the unconscious half-elf. With hardly a glance at Declan the man tossed the cloth over his shoulder and bent over her, listening for breath.

  “Back of the head, dear,” Dia guided him quickly, returning to the table now that she was sure Declan wasn’t about to bleed out in her common room. “He says she took a blow to the back of the head.”

  With a grunt the bearded man—whom Declan assumed to be Brohn—tilted the woman’s limp head gently to the side, peering under it. It was at this point that Declan noticed the scene had drawn something of a crowd, a good score of the Rest’s patrons lined up in a half-circle around them, many standing on tiptoe and craning their necks in an attempt to see what was going on. The closest were the four or five individuals who’d vacated the table for them, but others had rapidly crowded in, including several rugged looking woodcutters, an older man with lank grey hair and a fur-lined cloak, and a stout woman in the regalia of a King’s messenger.

  Unfortunately for them, Brohn apparently had no patience for onlookers given the circumstances.

  “WHAT ARE YA’ ALL GAWKIN’ AT?!” the innkeeper thundered suddenly, standing straight and making everyone except Dia jump. “GET BACK TA’ YER OWN MEALS AND LEAVE THESE TWO BE!”

  At once the customers scattered like mice, fleeing in all directions. Brohn, in turn, looked to his wife. “Rothwort, Dia, if ya’ please,” he requested much more calmly. “Should be some in our room.” His eyes moved beyond the woman and found Declan’s bloody left arm. “Damn… And yer sewin’ kit, when ya’ can.”

  The woman nodded and hurried off at once. Recognizing the herb, Declan groaned.

  “Rothwort?” he asked tentatively, grimacing. “Is that necessary?”

  His question earned him a dry chuckle from the innkeeper, who moved to stand over him, extending a large hand.

  “Brohn,” he said by way of greeting. “And aye, it is, for you at least. By the looks a’ it, ya’ been riding all day with that shite stitchin’ job, meanin’ you’ll be lucky ta’ avoid infection if’n we don’t do somethin’ ‘bout it otherwise.” He gave a wry smile. “It’s the rothwort, or I can cauterize it for ya’…?”

  Declan gave a pained grin in return, accepting the hand. “Declan,” he answered the introduction. “And you offer that like cauterizing wouldn’t be preferable.”

  Brohn gave a quick, booming laugh that seemed almost to make the candles around the room shiver and dance. “Ya’ musta’ seen yer fair share a’ battle, for ya’ ta’ know rothwort so well,” Brohn said, his smile holding for a moment. Then his face grew somber, and he looked over his shoulder at the unconscious woman. “Wha’ happened, lad?” His eyes fell back on Declan’s own wound. “I’d stake me inn on the fact tha’ one’s been clubbed, but tha’ arm a’ yers’ been carved up by a blade, sure as the night is dark.”

  Declan nodded slowly, a bit of the weariness that had weighed him down during the ride returning. He leaned back, feeling Ryn hop sidelong across the head of the chair behind him to give him a little more room.

  “Contract job,” he told the larger man simply. “Bounty that could have gone better.”

  “Bounty?” Brohn frowned, tossing a thumb back at the limp form of the half-elf. “For her? She cut ya’ up like that?”

  Declan shook his head quickly, clarifying. “No, no. A notice put out by some of the villages south of here. Same ones that recommended you, actually. They’ve been dealing with disappearances for the last couple seasons. Turns out they were kidnappings.” He gave a dry, humorless laugh, then winced as the act made his arm shift, lancing pain through the tourniquet. “Doesn’t matter, though. Won’t be a problem for anyone anymore.”