The Grape and Whistle loomed. Greven felt a mad desire to turn and run, to run as far away from this place as possible. He had an ominous sense of doom closing in. It was getting harder to fight the illness he’d suffered since birth, of course. He thought of it as a disease and rather than fighting his urges he’d given in to them, little by little. By exposing himself to his desires, he had taught himself how to stay on top of the driving need. The forest helped, and the forced removal from society that the telltale leprosy had required was the best remedy of all, but still he tempted fate, deliberately remaining close to the eye of the storm, in the hope that as the years passed he would master full control.
And he had. By the time he found the courage to follow the raven to the fringe of the forest that day, he was confident of his immunity to his weakness. And had demonstrated it. But he wondered now if Piven’s wild and powerful magic might somehow seek out the truth. He didn’t understand it—it didn’t make sense—but he found himself unable to spend great lengths of timearound the boy. He particularly hated his testiness around his child but lately he was having to dig deeper and deeper to wrestle his urge to walk out of the forest that hid him so well. Perhaps he should tell the boy. Piven might be able to help him.
Greven shook his head. It was a glorious Blossomtide day, and this meeting had nothing to do with that old fear. Still, he needed to summon his courage to force himself across the threshold of the inn.
Minton Woodlet was not a direct route to anywhere in particular but it did serve as a logical stopping point for anyone heading to or from the island of Medhaven. As he cast a glance around the main front room of the inn, he saw only strangers—all travellers, he assumed—aside from the familiar faces of the people who worked at the inn.
‘Ho, Jon,’ someone said and Greven looked over to the counter where the innkeeper was drying and lining up cleaned mugs for the day’s service.
‘Hello, Derrin.’
‘They’re out the back, in the courtyard. Warming their bones, they said.’ Derrin smiled. ‘They said they haven’t seen you for donkey’s anni. Family?’
Greven shook his head. He wanted to say as little as possible about these people he feared. ‘People I knew when I was very young.’
Innkeeper Derrin nodded. ‘Plenty to chew the cud over then,’ he said. ‘Shall I send you out a pot of dinch? They’re taking their time over a morning meal.’
Greven nodded. ‘A strong one.’ He moved to the back of the chamber and through a doorway into the back of the property where a picturesque walled courtyard opened up. A small, circular fountain in the middle was the focal point. Around it skipped two children, the boy older than the girl, who was presumably his sister. And sitting at the back wall, talking quietly, was a couple in their middle age. They both stood as Greven walked towards them, and Greven was taken aback to see that they appeared as nervous as he felt.
‘I’m Lark.’ He pasted an expression of puzzlement on his face. ‘You asked to see me?’
‘Clovis and Reuth Barrow,’ the man replied. ‘These are our children.’ He held out his hand.
Greven prided himself on being a good judge of character. The face of the man standing before him struck him as sensitive. Despite his broad chest and height, Clovis Barrow didn’t seem to be in any way threatening. In fact, it was the dark-eyed woman in whom Greven sensed real strength. He shook both of their hands.
‘Welcome to Minton Woodlet, though what interest it could possibly hold for you I don’t know.’ He forced a gentle smile. ‘This is a very sleepy hamlet.’
His amiable tone broke through the initial tension. ‘Will you join us?’ Reuth said. ‘We’ve just finished breaking a late fast but—’
‘Dinch is on the way,’ Greven said reassuringly. Curiously, they sounded more unsure about him than he felt about them. Why would they be so hesitant?
‘Please,’ Clovis said, gesturing to a third chair at the small table.
‘Forgive our mess,’ Reuth added, trying to clear away the debris of four meals.
Greven sat, watching his hosts fuss. They were both roughly the same age—the woman slightly older, perhaps—and now that he looked at them more closely he would put them at approaching fifty anni, older than he’d first thought. The woman was silvering at the hairline while the man’s hair and beard were streaked with grey throughout—and yet their children were young. Second marriage, Greven guessed. But what had this family to do with him? He waited, preferring to let them do the talking.
‘I know you must be wondering why we asked to see you,’ Clovis began.
‘I am,’ Greven replied.
‘Please don’t fear us, Mr Lark,’ Reuth assured, looking at her husband and nodding encouragingly.
‘I don’t,’ Greven lied.
‘We’re not here to cause trouble,’ Clovis continued.
‘Thank you,’ Greven said, determined to give little of himself away.
Reuth looked up as the door into the courtyard banged. ‘I think your dinch is here, Mr Lark.’
‘Call me Jon,’ Greven said, ‘since apparently we’re all old friends.’
The man and wife nodded, glancing nervously at each other. They were frightened, Greven realised. That made him feel more assured than he’d felt since the moment he’d first received word of being asked after. And Piven was safe in the woods, where no one would find him.
The pot of dinch was served. ‘Can I get you anything else?’ the girl asked his hosts.
They both shook their heads and she smiled sweetly and left. Greven poured from the pot, more for something to do than from a desire to drink. When the couple remained silent, he spoke up boldly.
‘Master Clovis, Reuth, I don’t know either of you but I’ve had to pretend I do in order not to confuse the folk I live alongside each day. Now whether you’re from Medhaven or as far flung as Percheron I could not care, but I require an explanation for why you are here, masquerading as old friends.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t care for secrets,’ he lied.
Reuth nodded. ‘Tell him everything, Clovis.’
Clovis cleared his throat and Greven gave the man his full attention, surprised to see the couple give a surreptitious glance around.
‘We are alone,’ he assured. ‘Whatever you have to say will not be overheard.’
‘I was at Brighthelm soon after the invasion of Penraven—so was my wife. We had been rounded up and taken with other Vested to learn our fate. Some of us they wanted, others they killed. There was no way of knowing which we’d be. It was a terrible time,’ Clovis said and Reuth placed a hand on his arm. ‘Anyway,’ he continued. ‘That’s all history. We were saved by a man called Freath—one of the close aides to the Valisars. We never fully appreciated his perilous position and how he endangered his life daily to keep us safe and to protect the Valisar sons.’
‘Forgive me. While tragic though it all was, I have to wonder at this point why I’m here…what your story has to do with me,’ Greven said, as politely but firmly as he could.
Reuth smiled. ‘Clovis is always one to tell a story.’
Clovis cleared his throat. ‘I shall finish it quickly then,’ he said but without any offence in his voice. ‘While Reuth was fortunate to be given an escape route by Freath, I was kept behind and became privy to some of Freath’s plans. I know not only did the heir, Leonel, escape the palace but I also know that the other adopted son who was simple of mind, also somehow got away. He was lost, in fact, for want of a better word. Freath was inconsolable and as I did not have the