The job!

He unconsciously shook his head. This was Royce’s job, not his. He had kept his part of the bargain, and all that remained was for Arista to reach the rendezvous. When she did, that would end the assignment and his career in the world of intrigue. Strange how the end brought him back to the beginning. Coming full circle could be a sign for him to make a fresh start.

Near the center of the village he could see the smithy, which was easy to pick out by its rising black smoke. He had worked those bellows for hours each day. Hadrian remembered the sound of the anvil and the ache in his arms. That had been a time when all he had known of the world had stopped at this tree, and Hadrian could not help wondering how different his life might have been if he had stayed. One thing was certain; he would have more calluses and less blood on his hands.

Would I’ve married Arbor? Had children of my own? A stout, strong son who would complain about working the bellows and come to this tree to kiss his first girl? Could I’ve found contentment making plowshares and watching Da smile as he taught his grandson fencing, like a commoner’s version of the Pickerings? If I’d stayed, at this very moment, would I be sitting here thinking of my happy family below? Would Da have died in peace?

He sighed heavily. Regret was a curse without a cure, except to forget. He closed his eyes. He did not want to think. He fell asleep to the sound of songbirds and woke to the thunder of horses’ hooves.

As night approached, Royce became worried. Once more they enjoyed the hospitality of the Bakers. Arbor was making a dinner of pottage while Dunstan ran a delivery of loaves to the manor. Arista offered assistance but appeared more a hindrance than a help. Arbor did not seem to mind. The two were inside, chatting and laughing, while Royce stood outside, watching the road with an uneasy feeling.

The village felt different to him. The evening had an edge, a tension to the air. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. He felt a nervous energy in the trees and an apprehension rising from the earth and rock. Before Avempartha, he had considered it intuition, but now he wondered. Elves drew power from nature. They understood the river’s voice and the chatter of the leaves.

Did that pass to me?

He stood motionless, his eyes panning the road, the shops, the houses, and the dark places between. He was hoping to spot Hadrian returning, but felt something else.

“The cabbage goes in last,” Arbor was telling Arista, her voice muffled by walls. “And cut it up into smaller pieces than that. Here, let me show you.”

“Sorry,” Arista said. “I don’t have a lot of experience in a kitchen.”