Wren (The Romany Epistles) Read Free Page A

estate, but I suspect ye wouldn’t find a place
there. At least not a place ye’d want. Now if Lord Iselyn were around, it
t’would be a different tale.”
    The innkeeper approached and inquired if I would like to
eat.
    “The stew is mighty good and the ale is the best in the
valley.” The old man winked at me. “I like to take a nip of it myself every
once in a while.”
    Taking his hint, I ordered a trencher of stew and two
tankards of ale, one for me and one for him. The innkeeper nodded and
disappeared into the kitchen.
    “So, who is this Lord Iselyn?” I indicated the seat across
from me.
    “Ah, now he was a good man,” he declared as he reached for
his cane. Pulling himself to his feet, he hobbled over to the bench and sat
with a heavy sigh. “Yes, a good master. Oversaw the whole valley, ya know.”
    On the way through the pass, I noted a ruin high on one of
the mountainsides guarding the road. It had once been a great fortress, but it
seemed abandoned now, the fields overgrown and the outer wall decaying. And in
my dealings with the locals, none mentioned a Lord Iselyn.
    “I haven’t heard of a Lord Iselyn in these parts.”
    “Nor shall ye.” Leaning forward as though he thought to be
overheard, he whispered, “He is dead, poor man. Dead at the command of Orac the
Usurper.” He spat in the rushes and then looked at me apologetically. “Sorry,
miss, there is no love lost between he and me.”
    I knew of Orac. Only a few years before, he overthrew the
rightful king by military coup and declared himself the rightful ruler of
Trathlay. Rumor was he proceeded to milk the resources of his people to feed
his own outrageous habits. The whispers ran free about the new king’s tastes in
women, wine, and entertainment. I suspected that at least half of what I heard
about Orac was true.
    “Why would he kill one of his own nobles?”
    “Ah, but Mynth wasn’t one of his. He was loyal to Sigmon the
Just and the old ways of overseeing the land. When Mynth, Lord Iselyn, objected
to the new tax demanded of his lands, Orac sent an army to raze the land and
kill the noble. They came in the night, and by subterfuge, entered Iselyn.
Seeking out Mynth and his wife in their bedchamber, they slit their throats
while they slept before setting fire to the bedclothes. The night watch finally
noticed the flames. As everyone ran for water, the alarm sounded in the
village, but it was too late. The harvest burned in the fields while Mynth and
his wife burned in their bed. We suffered a hard winter that year.”
    “Shame on you, Alec,” the innkeeper scolded. “You know that
the walls themselves listen for Orac’s enforcer.” He slid a heavy trencher full
of thick stew with a floating slab of bread across the table. A waft of beef
and turnips flooded my senses and my mouth watered. A mug of ale followed,
liquid sloshing over the edges and covering the table as he thumped it down.
Plunking down the second before my companion, he shook his head. “Don’t fill
the lass’ head with tales.”
    “Othon Nartin, you know as well as I that these aren’t false
tales I am telling her.”
    “Aye, but the telling is dangerous nonetheless. Besides, not
all of the stories are true.”
    “I haven’t told her anything to fear,” old Alec insisted as
he lifted his tankard to his mouth. Draining the whole in three long gulps, he
set the mug down with a thud. Sending a sly glance at the innkeeper’s
retreating back, he leaned in close. “Old Lord Iselyn had a son, a lad named
Tourth. He still lives in the ruins of his father’s house. They might be
interested in exchanging a share of their meat and their roof with someone who
can contribute to the stores for the winter. Tell him that old Alec sent ya and
he will hear yar case.”
    Sitting back on the bench, he belched loudly. “I thank ya,
lass, for the ale. It warmed me for my journey home. My daughter-in-law will be
watching for me to ten’ the children while she sees to