Reynevan dismounted and tied his grey to a stake. A stableman grooming some horses nearby was so busy, he didn’t even acknowledge his arrival. But something else had caught Reynevan’s attention. On one of the posts of the porch hung a hex: three twigs tied into a triangle and entwined by a garland of wilted clover and marsh marigold on a messy tangle of colourful threads. Reynevan pondered on it, but was not especially surprised. Magic was everywhere, and people used magical symbols not even knowing what they meant or what purpose they really served. Most crucially in this instance, although inexpertly tied, the hex might have confused his talisman.

That’s why I ended up here, he thought. Bugger. Ah well, since I’m here…

He entered, stooping to pass beneath the low lintel.

The fish skins covering the small windows barely let in any light, casting the room in semi-darkness lit only by flashes of fire from the hearth. From time to time, a cauldron suspended above the fire overflowed, generating more smoke and further reducing visibility. Only one table in the corner was occupied: four men, probably peasants. It was difficult to tell in the gloom.

Reynevan had only just sat down on a bench when an aproned serving wench placed a bowl in front of him. He had intended to buy some bread and ride on, but the dumplings in the bowl smelled so enticingly of melted pork fat that he put one of the few coins Kantner had given him down on the table.

The serving wench leaned over slightly, handing him a lindenwood spoon. A faint odour of herbs emanated from her.

“You’re in hot water,” she murmured softly. “Sit tight. They’ve seen you. Move from the table and they’ll have you. So, sit still and don’t budge.”

She went towards the hearth and stirred the contents of the steaming, bubbling cauldron. Reynevan, worried, sat still and stared at the bits of fried meat in the dumplings. His eyes were now sufficiently accustomed to the gloom to see that the four men at the corner table had too many weapons and too much armour to be peasants. And that all four had their eyes fixed on him.

He cursed his stupidity under his breath.

The serving wench returned.

“There are too few of us left in this world,” she murmured, pretending to be wiping the table, “for me to let you be caught.”

When she stilled her hand, Reynevan saw a marsh marigold on her little finger similar to the ones on the hex on the post. The stem had been tied so that the yellow flower formed the gem of a ring. Reynevan gasped, involuntarily touching his own talisman of knotted spurge, red bartsia and caraway fastened to the button of his jerkin. The wench’s eyes flashed in the semi-darkness. She nodded.