“For a time, yes,” I said. “It has been too long since we saw each other last. But after a while, I will ride home for Strapa. I have had enough of wandering for a good long while, I think.”
Mag did not seem to think very highly of this plan—or of me, in that moment, if I am being honest. She did not scowl, exactly, but I could see a flash of anger in her eyes. “It seems to me that Loren and the others need help. Will you not aid them?”
“I do not mean to, no,” I said. “I am not beholden to anyone. They hired me to bring them here to Northwood and nothing more.”
Before, I had felt certain about my decision. But I cannot deny I felt a small bit of guilt as I answered. Yet I was sure that I was doing the right thing, even if I had my qualms.
In our youth, Mag and I had been mercenaries, fighting on battlefields across all the nine kingdoms. A mercenary’s life is not for everyone, and it is especially deadly to those who have a place they call home. A king’s soldiers are different—they fight for their home, and that is what gives them strength. But in a sellsword company, such a soldier is death to have beside you on the battlefield. They will be the first to break at any sign of trouble. I thought I had learned a lesson in the Greatrocks. I thought my days of far-ranging adventure were behind me, and that I had become a man with a home, a man who would wander no more.
What a fool I was.
Xain did not say anything, but he avoided my gaze as he took a sip of his ale. I wondered what was going on behind his dark eyes—whether he was thinking of what I had confessed to Loren. That secret was too painful to think about then, and certainly nothing I wanted to tell Mag. But if Xain was indeed thinking such thoughts, he kept them to himself, for which I was grateful.
Mag did not speak, either, but she was less adept at hiding her feelings. She fell into a silence full of thought, taking many long pulls at her ale.
Sten, sensing the sudden discomfort at the table, tried to pick up where the conversation had left off, asking me about matters of small importance. I answered him easily enough, and we carried on that way until Xain, wearying, at last excused himself to go to bed.
When he had gone, Mag put down her mug and fixed me with a look. I steeled myself, for I feared she meant to reprimand me. But when I met her gaze, she smiled.
“How would you like to go to the Reeve?”
I balked. “Now? Tonight?”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “The moons are right for it, and the sky is clear. Sten and I went just a few days ago, and it was perfect. We meant to go again tonight, even before you arrived.”
“If we all go, who will watch the inn?”
Sten waved a hand. “My wife still has reputation enough to keep filching fingers from our stores and our coin. We step out fairly often, especially at night.”
“I …” My voice trailed off, and I shook my head with a smile. When had I become such an old worrywart? I took a deep breath and released it, and suddenly it felt like we were young again, like we had just come here to Northwood together for the first time.
“I would like nothing more in all the world.”
Mag led us out through Northwood’s south gate. The city had no reason to close them at night, for the land was untroubled in those days. The guards waved to us as we passed, and then they returned to their game of Moons. The country beyond the wall was open and beautiful, the farms well tended, though of course they were now deserted. A wide road cut in straight lines through the fields, turning with the borders of each farm, but always at perfect angles—and always taking us farther south, in the end. We were on foot, and so the journey took us a little longer than it would have otherwise, but in less than an hour we had reached the Reeve.
I do not know for certain, but I would guess it got its name because it used to be a place of official business. It was easy to see it as a place to deliver solemn proclamations. The Reeve was a large hill, and though it was not really all that tall, it was impressive. There was something in the shape of it that gave a sense of eminence, of importance. If Mag’s tavern was a kindly grandmother, the Reeve was an old man, wizened but still hale, his arms folded as he considered you, judging your worth with eyes still sharp with wit.
A footpath cut back and forth across its eastern slope. We climbed it to the top, which was flat but surrounded with large boulders. The boulders looked natural—certainly they had not been cut by any human tools—but they stood about the edge of the hill like a crown, as perfectly spaced as if they had been put there. Mayhap it was something done by ancient humanity, a relic of the time before time. Mayhap that was where the hill had received its name, as well. I did not know.
But I did know what had been buried at the top of the Reeve.
My eyes strayed to the patch of dirt as we passed it. There was no sign it had ever been disturbed—but then, it had been many years since a spade had last touched it. I shivered, though the night was warm. Sten avoided looking at the site altogether, and his beard twitched with a frown as we walked by it. Mag did not seem to pay any attention, either. But I
