trpeal

The room was long, the common room of a crossroads inn, with a fireplace at either end. A fire was stoked in one of them, keeping the dank chill of the autumn rain away but adding no cheer. A man stood contemplating the fire, his shadow stretching behind him on the floor, the tips of his goat’s horns blending into the darkness of the far end of the room. He wore a heavy traveling cloak, sodden with rain, over the dark blue tunic and trousers of a mendicant of the Order of Fehris Judicor. This man contemplated the fire, then the array of implements beside it, tools far more varied than those necessary for merely maintaining the fire and cleaning the hearth. Another man sat behind a rough table off to one side. This table and its chair were the only furniture in the entire room. The walls were bare, except for a single standard of the Order of Fehris Defensor, a large black × on a white field. “You have come far, Pater Angevin,” this man said, “and on foot, in this weather. Will