When news had reached them of a new Realm Holder, a male witch from Old Earth, there had been fear that the island’s main source of revenue would dry up, along with a more general fear of war, fire, and abject destruction. The other Realm Holders were not known for anything but death and despair. But this witch didn’t just like witchwood—he loved it. So, it was completely understandable that the village would want to hear the news as soon as they arrived and that the Headman would want a preview.
“Do you need to… freshen up?” Lentin asked uncertainly.
“We actually slept through most of the trip from the mainland,” her father said. The ship had left in the afternoon and sailed through the night, arriving in late morning.
“Then let’s proceed to the inn. I’m sure your audience is more than excited to hear of your adventures,” Lentin said, his tone slightly wistful.
“The telling of it will be all the better if everyone hears it at once,” Armond said, clapping the shorter man on the shoulder.
“And Nira has a part to tell?” Kuldennie asked, giving her a curious glance.
“A big part. She actually spent more time with the lord and his lady than I did, being busy as I was with woodworking and all.”
“She did? You did?” Lentin asked, astounded, as he turned to her.
She blushed again but nodded. “Declan and Stacia are really very nice.”
Her father immediately cleared his throat. “Ah, Lord Declan and Lady Stacia,” she quickly amended. Never mind that they both detested those titles and utterly forbade her from using them in private.
“It is safe to say that my Nira is much in their favor,” Armond said with a calm pride. All three village men looked at her again, like she’d grown wings in the short trip from the docks to the village’s biggest inn. “Ah, here we are. Good to see the place.”
“Good to see Dorian’s beer, you mean,” Kuldennie offered and her father just laughed as Eben moved jerkily forward to open the door for them. The headman led the way into the dark inn, followed by her father and herself, the constable just behind her.
With the exception of the two large village-owned warehouses, the Whitefish Inn was the biggest structure in Lileire, and easily the nicest. While the island’s inhabitants didn’t generally travel farther than a crab boat ride from the shore, buyers of wood, finished furniture, and seafood all frequently visited the island to view products or complete trade deals. The inn’s main dining room was therefore bright and cheery, and the adjacent pub room was warm and cozy. Nira immediately saw that both were full beyond capacity and she was suddenly glad that she’d heeded her father’s advice and foregone the fashion finery. Ostentatious displays of wealth were frowned upon by the island’s conservative inhabitants, as was outright bragging. Social ranking was very much based upon skill in one’s chosen trade, shrewd handling of personal resources, and clever conversation.
It seemed as if the entire village was crammed into the space, and in fact, the innkeeper, Dorian, had moved out all the round tables, replacing them with long trestle planks for both seating and dining. Immediately Nira blushed at all the eyes on her but then she noticed her best friend, Keply Slogan, sitting shoulder to thigh with Nattle Strawridge and she felt momentarily both dizzy and nauseous. Apparently, some things had changed.
“Our wayward friends have returned to us, safe and sound,” Lentin announced in a booming voice and the entire assemblage stomped their left feet three times in greeting.
Her father stood tall and straight, looking relaxed and comfortable in front of virtually the entire community. “I can smell Lottie’s cooking and hear stomachs rumbling from here, so I suspect we best get on with the telling of our tale afore we’re met with violence,” Armond said.
“You mean you can smell the suds on Dorian’s Stumbler’s Stout and hear the taps running,” Old Kenny Witterstock called out, causing much laughter.
Armond coughed several times. “Sorry, I find my speaking voice shutting down from all the salt air at sea,” he said. Dorian Stumbler, the innkeeper and brewmaster, stepped up and handed him a big clay mug with a foaming white head on top, and her father quaffed deeply from it.
“Ahh, much better. So… what do you all want to talk about? The price of witchwood? The demand for Devil’s crab?”
“Tell us about the Realm Holder, ya cog,” Mitt Rolly growled from his seat at the bar. The crowd echoed his request.
“Oh, him. Nice enough sort, but did ya know they’re getting fifteen silver more for your furniture than two months ago?” Armond asked.
“Always the showman,” Lottie Stumbler, the innkeeper’s wife said. “Just tell us if we’ve got anything to fear from this new Lord of the Land.” The room instantly quieted, faces going serious.
Her father nodded, his flippant manner stilling into calm thoughtfulness. “You don’t. Any of you. He’s not our enemy and thank the goddess for that,” he said.
Dorian brought him a stool but Armond held it out for Nira to sit on before taking a second stool that the constable handed him. “Let’s get to it then. We can either tell you of our journey first and answer questions after or just answer the questions now?”
“How about a few choice questions and then have you tell us the whole of it?” Lentin suggested.
“That’s fine. What would ye want to know then?”
“Well, what’s he like?” Mitt called out.
“He’s young, very young. Maybe twenty or so seasons under his belt. Mostly quiet and unassuming. You could walk right past him in a crowd and not realize he
