Brightly Burning

saw that Tuck was doing the same, so he must have been warned. Pol, the old hand at this, needed no warning; he must have buttoned himself up while waiting for them to come back from stretching their legs.

The wind picked up noticeably, and as darkness fell, it was impossible to tell where the road was, much less where Pol and Tuck were. Lan just put his head down and closed his eyes, keeping one hand just holding the reins loosely, the other rucked inside his cloak. Wind-blown snow caked his cloak and hood, and after a few futile attempts to shake it off, he gave up and allowed it to collect. As the light faded into a thick, blue-tinged dusk, and from dusk into full dark, there was no sign of anyone living along the road, although Lan knew that they must be passing by farms and even small villages. Candles and lanterns couldn't penetrate this weather.

:The only way we're going to find an inn is by running into it!: he said anxiously.

:No worries; we know where we are, even if you can't see,: Kalira replied. :Tuck's keeping track of exactly where the farms are in case we have to go to ground as someone's guest. He just opened up his shields a bit, without actually hearing anyone's thoughts; he can lead us straight to a farmhouse if need be. And Pol and Satiran have been this way a dozen times. It might seem like forever, but we'll be at an inn before they clear away the supper dishes and close the kitchen for the night.:

He certainly hoped so; with all of his precautions, he was still getting awfully cold. The wind found its way under his cloak in so many places it was useless to try to identify them and close them off. And luncheon was wearing mightily thin... he worried off one snow-caked glove with the help of his teeth, biting into the ice-crusted fingertips to hold it while he slipped his hand out. He certainly couldn't see well enough to keep track of a loose glove, and as for holding onto it with his other benumbed hand, already clutching reins and pommel; that was out of the question.

He fished his paper-wrapped package of bread and cheese out of his belt-pouch, unwrapped it, managed to stow the paper in his pouch and wriggle his fingers back into his glove without dropping anything. The cheese and bread weren't cut; a small, hand-sized loaf had one end cut out, a hollow made, and the cheese stuffed into it. That made less to drop, and it was easier for gloved hands to hold. He bit into it, getting drink as well as food in the form of the snow that coated every bite. The bread, cold-toughened and chewy, made his jaws ache, but it eased the hunger pains in his gut, and he was glad to have it. There was one thing to be said for tough, chewy bread; it didn't crumble the way pastry would. He had no way of cleaning up a mess at the moment.

Poor Kalira had nothing at all to sustain her, and he saved half of his bread for her, although it wasn't much more than a generous mouthful. He held it down near his knee and felt her turn her head and take it from him. With the bitless bridle that Companions wore, she could chew in complete comfort.

:Thank you, love,: she said gratefully. :That helps.:

He wondered how the others were faring. Elenor at least had her father's broad back to shelter behind; she couldn't possibly be as cold as he, Tuck, and Pol were. And she had Pol right with her; for all that he could sense, he and Kalira might have been completely on their own in this storm.

The wind howled and sobbed among the trees on either side of the road. At least, he assumed there were trees on either side of the road, since wind usually didn't make those sort of noises sweeping by itself, unintercepted across an empty plain. He thought he heard branches rattling above him, and hoped that none of them were weak enough to come down just as they were riding beneath.

:That would be bad,: Kalira agreed.

Her response didn't exactly comfort him.

Soon, he told himself. She said it would be soon. If nothing else, we'll have something hot to eat and drink, afire, and a flat place to sleep soon. But it was impossible to tell how fast or slow they were going, and there was nothing to give him any clue to the passing of time. If his life depended on it, he couldn't have told how long it had been since he'd eaten that bread.

:We're nearly there,: Kalira told him as he wriggled his numbing toes in his boots to try and get them a little warmer. :If we could see through this muck, we'd see the inn windows from here.:

Wherever here was. But his heart warmed, even if his feet didn't, and he sat up a little straighter in the saddle—which turned out to be a mistake, as he immediately let in another cold draft under his cloak. Still, nearly there was accurate; sooner than he'd thought, they were dismounting stiffly in front of a tiny inn, distinguished chiefly by the wooden wheat sheaf over the door. Their hostess herself, a round bundle of cloak, conducted them to the stables after helping Elenor inside.

The stables were nothing but a single, stoutly-built shed, but the shed had thick walls made of mud-brick and a thatched roof, and that freedom from the driving wind alone made it seem as warm as a cozy kitchen. With the help of the hostess, Pol and Tuck dragged in straw for bedding and hay for fodder, while Lan filled buckets of water from the pump and set up more buckets of grain, then stripped all three Companions of their tack and rubbed them down. With straw knee-deep on the floor and blankets of wool patchwork thrown over them, the Companions munched their way gratefully through their belated dinners, and the Heralds followed the innkeeper back into the tiny inn.

Tiny it might be, but it was a snug little place, nicely warmed by a good fire. Elenor huddled beside it, but she wasn't just warming herself, she was tending a pot that bubbled over it.

'Ye be my on'y guests, sir Herald,' the innkeeper said to Pol as they both took off their cloaks and hung them on pegs cemented into the wall of the fireplace. 'This's nout a big place, belike—' Her round face was anxious. 'Have'na got guest room; on'y me own bed above. Girl can sleep wi' me, but—' '

'So long as you have enough straw for us,' Pol replied. 'We'll make do on the floor, and be grateful.'

Her anxious face lightened. 'Ne need of straw—got featherbed beg enow for three. Pease pottage suit ye, or ye druther I kill a chicken?'

'Anything hot right now is far preferable even to a feast in a candlemark,' Pol laughed. 'Come along, boys, let's give our hostess a hand.'

The inn was nothing more than a single room, really. There was no kitchen; all cooking was done on the hearth. The brick floor was spotlessly clean, though, with any vestige of dirt dug out with ruthless strokes of a straw broom and sent out the front door. With a bake oven built into the sides of the large fireplace, itself big enough to comfortably roast a small pig, and warming shelves built into the upper level, she had everything she needed for a kitchen. Shelves beside the fireplace held her dishes and pots, water came from the pump outside. There was one table, rough-hewn and black with age, two benches, and four little stools. The room was dominated by the barrels ranged along one wall; beer, soft cider, hard cider, and one small barrel of wine. This was not so much an inn as a village tavern, a place to eat a little and perhaps drink a great deal, but not a place intended to