“Go on, Ben,” one of the men prodded. “Don’t stop there, there ’ent no knickknacks around here no more. You’re trying to gull us, you are.”
Ben smacked his lips and grinned. “I remember the day he gave m’grandma a moon catcher.”
Jerrol stilled as the man burbled on; Jennery flicked him a glance before leaning forward like the other men to listen. Birlerion stared at the table, his knuckles white with the strength of his grip on his mug.
The pot boy went back to work and began to collect the empty mugs. As he reached for the mug in front of Jennery, Jerrol caught his eye by holding a copper coin between his fingers. “Boy, who’s the moon catcher man and where does he live?”
“Him? That’s the smith. He lives next to the hostelry.” The boy reached for the coin before scampering off.
Jennery leaned forward. “What’s the matter?”
“Can you follow that spiky-haired fellow showing an interest, and see if you can find out who he is and where he goes? Birlerion and I need to talk to the smith. He talks a little too freely about things that should not be mentioned. Meet us back here,” Jerrol said, draining his mug.
Chapter 9
Black Hen, Greenswatch
At last, the barkeep called time, and his customers started to straggle out into the damp night. Many eyed the glimpse of the moon peeping through the clouds surrounded by a glowing haze, maybe thinking about catching moonbeams for themselves.
Jerrol grasped the smith’s sleeve. “Friend,” he said. “Let me walk with you. I want to check on my horse, which is in your stable.” The smith squinted at him and lurched as the fresh air took its toll. He was grateful for the strong arm keeping him straight. Birlerion followed behind, watching the street.
“A word of warning,” Jerrol said. “Old magic should be guarded, not bandied about in public alehouses. Do not underestimate its power to influence people.”
“Old magic?” scoffed the smith. “None around here, there’s nothing but stories no matter what the Father says.”
“Guardians protect and in turn are protected,” Jerrol intoned. “Keep the line. Watch for the Lady.”
The smith froze mid-step and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Jerrol stopped beside the smith in the middle of the street, aware of Birlerion slinking through the shadows, his presence reassuring. “The Guardian will need protecting, as will the moon catcher. They are few. Too few,” he said. “You shouldn’t have spoken of it tonight. Men will covet it and expect you to lead them to it. Don’t lead them to the Guardian.” He placed his hand on the smith’s chest. “The time is coming, you must hold your promise and guard the line.”
The smith swallowed. “What line? There is no line.”
“Jerrol? Come quickly. I smell smoke, lots of smoke!”
Jerrol stiffened, as Zin’talia’s fearful voice reached him. An icy shiver flashed down his spine. “You fool,” he whispered, “we are too late,” and he took off, sprinting down the high street towards the hostelry situated at the junction at the bottom, Birlerion on his heels.
The smith staggered along behind him, straightening up as he smelled the wood smoke drifting in the cool night air. “No,” he wailed as he rounded the corner and saw the flames licking up the side of the wooden boards that clad the hostelry. The squeals of agitated horses in the barn blended with the clanging of the emergency bell. People tumbled out of the nearest buildings, dressed in whatever clothes they could grab, as fire threatened all nearby buildings, being built from wood.
The people began forming a bucket line, from the well to the burning building, rushing to splash water on the hissing flames. Jerrol loomed up in front of the smith. “Sylvie, your mother, which room?”
“W-what?” The smith stared at him. “How do you know my mother?”
“Your family, man,” Jerrol shook him, “whereabouts would your family be?” He flung his hand towards the burning building.
The colour drained even further from the man’s face. He started towards the steps as two small girls came tumbling down into his outstretched arms. “Gilly,” he shouted, over the roar of the flames, “where’s your mother?” He hustled them away from the building.
“She went to help Grandma,” the young girl cried, holding onto her father’s arms as her body shuddered in terror.
His arms full of children, the smith looked at Jerrol. “Help them,” he pleaded, “they’ll be upstairs at the back. Her room looks over the courtyard towards the trees.” He turned the children, leading them away from the heat of the scorching flames.
Jerrol paused long enough to divert a bucket of water to dump over his head, shuddering at the shock of the cold water, before running up the steps. He flinched as a roaring tendril of flame reached towards him. He gritted his teeth, tossed his dampened cloak over his head, and darted around the fire and into the house.
The smith handed his children off to one of the women hovering in horror. As he turned, he grabbed Birlerion’s arm and pointed him towards the barn. “Quick,” he yelled, “the horses!” Then he ran into the burning building after Jerrol.
The front door led into a communal living space. The hangings had all gone up in flames, and fiery tendrils ran greedily across the beams. Jerrol’s cloak blocked most of the heat as he dashed through the parlour and headed for the stairs. The heat was intense, but the smoke was worse. It was thicker downstairs. It thinned as he reached the top of the stairs and stumbled across a woman collapsed on the floor.
He turned her over and searched for a pulse; she was still breathing. He levered her over his
