smudge across the back of his hand as he did so, and her eyes narrowed. It seemed to her very much like the sort of smudge that someone who marked his fist with soot might have on the back of his hand. Either her visitor was one of the Cinderfists, which seemed unlikely since he did not strike her as a man who’d seen the inside of a foundry or had shoveled coal into a furnace, or he at least wanted people to believe that he was. Then the man leaned to one side, looking past Mirya into the hallway behind her. “And look! That must be your daughter.”
Mirya glanced behind her and realized that Selsha was standing just a few feet behind her, staring at the pale man. Her daughter must have come out from the store’s front room while Mirya was speaking with the stranger. She looked back quickly to the man, but he just smiled again-a smile that still did not reach his eyes-and said, “What a lovely child. You are quite fortunate, Mistress Erstenwold. Quite fortunate indeed.”
“Thank you,” said Mirya, her voice thick. She did not know what else to say. The idea of this man making small talk with her about her daughter chilled her to the marrow.
“You should speak to her about picking up things she finds in
Mirya shut the door firmly and shot the bolt. Then she hurried Selsha home, starting at every shadow along the way.
The next day passed without event, but at noon of the day after that Mirya thought she saw the hooded man watching Selsha when she came back to Erstenwold’s after playing with her friends in the morning. She stepped out into the alleyway and looked again, but the man was nowhere in sight. The encounter was unsettling enough that she dwelled on it all day long. She moved through the rest of her day in a distracted, pensive mood, her mind turning over the implications. She’d seen the man’s face, and she knew him for a servant of Cyric; if he wanted to be sure of keeping his identity a secret, he would have to make sure she did not speak of it again. Perhaps he was simply allowing her to see him to intimidate her … or it was possible he contemplated more stringent measures to keep his secret. By the middle of the afternoon, she called Selsha back inside and told her that she had to remain inside in the Erstenwold store and storehouse until she told her otherwise.
The next morning she slipped away from Erstenwold’s for an hour, hurrying up to Griffonwatch to speak to the Shieldsworn. Geran and Kara were both away at sea, but her brother Jarad had served as the captain of the harmach’s soldiers for years before his death, and they’d thought the world of him. She met with Sergeant Kolton and told her story, but the veteran had little he could offer her. “We’ve not found out much at all about who runs the Cinderfists,” he told her. “They’re a closemouthed lot, they are. Mostly men from Impiltur, and they know their own-there’s not a single native-born Hulburgan who works in the foundries. I might’ve guessed that an outlander priest of Cyric is mixed up in it.”
“So you’ve no idea who he is or what he might be up to?” she asked.
Kolton shook his head. “You know as much as we do, Mistress Erstenwold. I can make sure the Shieldsworn check on Erstenwold’s regularly, at least for a few days. If you see the fellow you spoke with lurking nearby, I’d appreciate it if you pointed him out to the harmach’s men. You’re the only native-born Hulburgan who knows his face, as far as I can tell.”
Mirya frowned at that thought. It might be very important to the stranger to remain unknown, and she could think of only one way that a man in his position might make sure of his anonymity. She found herself wishing that Geran was in town. It wasn’t in her nature to play the damsel in distress, but in the months since Geran had returned to Hulburg they’d slowly fumbled their way to something like friendship again, and perhaps a troubling flicker of something more than that-when it came to Geran Hulmaster she was not necessarily the master of her own heart. She knew herself well enough to keep any such nonsense at a very safe distance indeed, but she also knew that Geran would turn the Tailings upside down to ferret out the hooded man if he found out that someone had threatened her or Selsha. In any event, Geran was away on
Kolton took her silence for a reproach. The blunt-faced sergeant sighed. “We’re stretched thin, Mistress Erstenwold-you know that. There’s nothing the Shieldsworn wouldn’t do for you or your daughter, for Captain Jarad’s sake if nothing else. But if you’re worried, you might also speak to the Moonshields. They don’t like the Cinderfists much at all. I’m sure that Brun Osting can make sure a couple of his lads are close at hand whenever the Shieldsworn aren’t.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Kolton. I might, at that.” Mirya took her leave and drove back down to Erstenwold’s, wrapped in her thoughts as her wagon rattled through the rough cobblestone streets. She’d hoped that the Shieldsworn would know who the hooded man was, but clearly that wasn’t the case. That didn’t mean there weren’t people in Hulburg who might know more. There was one other place she could turn to … but that was a bridge she’d burned a long time ago. Mirya reined in the two-horse team just a few dozen yards short of the Lower Bridge at the end of East Street and sat there thinking things through. Then she tapped her switch to the horses and turned left, climbing up Hill Street instead of crossing the Winterspear and heading back toward Erstenwold’s.
Hulburg’s East Hill was a strange mix of old and new. Much of its seaward face had been ruined during the Spellplague of a century ago, replaced by the jumble of soaring green stone known as the Arches. On its western side a poor, working-class neighborhood clustered hard by East Street and the Winterspear; around the point to the east, the homes became little more than shanties housing the hundreds of men who toiled in the smelters and foundries a mile downwind of Hulburg proper. But the higher elevations of the East Hill above the crowded neighborhood overlooking the Winterspear were the places where Hulburg’s wealthy lived in grand old houses and gated manors. Mirya drove her team to a fine old house hidden behind a screen of low, wind-twisted cedars. She set the brake, slid down from the wagon’s seat, then climbed a short flight of stone steps to the house’s front door and knocked firmly before she could change her mind.
Nothing happened for a long moment, and Mirya began to wonder if anyone was home. But then the door opened, and a young woman with long black hair and a plain dress of gray wool looked out. “Yes?” she said.
“I’m here to call on Mistress Sennifyr,” Mirya said. “My name is Mirya Erstenwold. I’m not expected.”
The servant studied her for a moment before answering. “Wait here. I will see if the mistress is available.” She disappeared back into the shadows of the house-the front room was dark, with heavy drapes drawn over the windows-while Mirya waited on the porch. Then the servant returned and offered a slight bow. “She will see you. Follow me, if you please.”
The servant showed Mirya to a sitting room as dark as the foyer, and Mirya took a seat on a plush couch. She did not have long to wait. Just a moment later, a woman in an elegant purple gown glided into the room, her hands folded at her waist. She was perhaps forty-five years of age, but her hair was still a soft brown untouched by gray, and her face was smooth. Only the shadow of frown lines at the corners of her mouth and a cool, commanding sternness to her dark gaze hinted at her age. She looked at Mirya with a small smile then said, “Well, well. Mirya Erstenwold! You haven’t stopped by my home in years and years. I confess I am surprised to see you here.”
Mirya rose and bowed her head. “Mistress Sennifyr. Thank you for seeing me.”
“Not at all. We have missed you, my dear. Tell me, how is young Selsha?”
“Very well. She just passed her ninth birthday.”
“Indeed.” Sennifyr raised an eyebrow. “What have you told her about her father?”
Mirya kept a neutral expression on her face, but flinched inwardly. There were few things in her life that she truly regretted, but what she had done to the man who’d fathered Selsha was one of them. Sennifyr knew that, of course. She was the one who had arranged the whole thing, drawing Mirya deeper and deeper into her snares at a time when Mirya had been younger, more foolish, anxious to find approval in her eyes.
It was a mistake to come here, she told herself. Sennifyr had not forgotten any of her old cruelty. But to flee now would gain Mirya nothing. Instead, she made herself answer the question with iron truthfulness. “I told her that I knew him only for a short time and that he died soon after she was born. I’ll tell her no more than that for now.”
“Poor Mirya. You were always so strong, so clever, and so much was asked of you.” Sennifyr offered her a small smile. “The Lady chose a difficult path for you. I know it. But you must understand that you will find no easing of your pain as long as you refuse to go as you have been called. Surcease lies in surrender to the Lady’s will. It is never too late to return to the path awaiting you.”
“I’ve not forgotten it, Mistress Sennifyr. For now I choose to go my own way.”
“The day will come when no other comfort avails you, my child. The Lady knows her own, and once you have been in her embrace, you will always be hers. We will await your return.” Sennifyr folded her hands in her lap.
