The Blood Knight - J. Gregory Keyes [129]
“Yes,” Stephen said. “We ran across something back in the Midenlands. A woorm. We may have its scent on us still.”
His hearing was only now approaching normal; he had yet to recover—if he ever would—the saint-touched ability to hear a whisper a hundred kingsyards away. But he didn’t need to have such hearing to imagine the creak of bows bending all around them. As the woman backed away, though, the dogs quickly quieted down, and she seemed to relax a bit. He heard her whisper something to them, and the beasts came back for a second smell. This time they seemed content.
Clearly these people made a habit of testing strangers to make certain they weren’t monsters; that meant either that they had good practical reasons for doing so or that they were hopelessly mired in primitive superstition.
Stephen wasn’t sure which he preferred.
“They’re tainted,” the woman said loudly, “but they’re Mannish, not monsters.”
“Good enough,” the voice from the wall responded.
Stephen imagined the wood of bows relaxing, and he felt his shoulders loosen a bit.
“My name is Stephen Darige,” he said to the woman. “Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”
The hood lifted a bit, but Stephen still couldn’t make out any features.
“A humble servant of the saints,” she said. “I am called Pale.”
“Sor Pales?”
She chuckled. “Pro suveiss nomniss…”
“…sverruns patenest,” he finished. “What coven did you attend?”
“The Coven Saint Cer of Tero Gallé,” she replied. “And you made your studies at d’Ef?”
“Indeed,” Stephen replied cautiously.
“May I ask if you are on the business of the Church? Were you sent to aid the sacritor?”
Stephen didn’t know how to answer that except with the truth.
“We’re on a mission for our fratrex,” he admitted, “but we’re just passing through your town. I don’t know your sacritor.”
His words were followed by a long, odd silence.
“You mentioned Ven,” the woman said at last.
“Yes. He said his uncle would give us a room at, ah, svartboch.”
“You would rather stay at an inn than at the church, where you would be lodged without fee?”
“I’ve no wish to impose on the sacritor,” Stephen replied. “And we’ll leave with the dawn. Our fratrex has provided us with funds sufficient for the journey.”
“Nonsense,” a male voice interrupted. “We have room for you in plenty.”
Stephen glanced toward the new voice and found himself regarding a knight in brass-chased armor. His helm was off, and in the wan torchlight his face was mostly beard.
“Sister Pale, you really should know better. You should have insisted.”
“It was my intention to, Sir Elden,” Sister Pale replied.
Sir Elden made a small bow. “Welcome, good brothers, to the attish of Ing Fear and the town of Demsted. I am Sir Elden of Saint Nod, and it would be my great honor to escort you to your secure beds.”
Though he desperately wanted to, Stephen could think of no possible way to refuse.
“That’s very kind,” he said.
The streets of Demsted were narrow, dark, cluttered, and mostly empty. Stephen caught a few curious souls peering at them from darkened windows, but for the most part the town was eerily still.
The single exception was a sprawling building from which the sound of pipes and harp skirled, along with clapping and singing. A lantern hung on a peg outside the door identified it—as Stephen imagined—as the svartboch.
“You’d not want to stay there,” Sir Elden offered, contradicting Stephen’s tacit wish. “It’s no place for men of the saints.”
“I’m happy to take your word for it,” Stephen lied.
“Very sensible,” Sir Elden said. “You’ll find the temple much more to your taste. Demsted itself can be quite a trial.”
“I was surprised to find a town of this size in such a remote place,” Stephen said.
“I don’t find this to be a town of much size,” the knight said, “but I suppose I know what you mean. They mine silver in the hills north of here, and Demsted is the market where merchants buy the ore. The Kae River starts here, as well, and flows into the lower reaches of the Welph, and thence to the Warlock. If you came from the south, over the pass, it’s easy to