Lady Gwen

Grayfell pulled his hood farther forward and hunched his shoulders. It did no good. The wool cloak was soaked all the way through, offering only lip-service against the pounding rain that had been falling all day. His horse's head hung as it plodded through fetlock-deep mud. The grayness of the day rivaled twilight, which was still a couple hours off. As he had done throughout much of the day, when he rounded another curve he glanced up the road yet again, hoping for sign of a wayside or inn. What he saw instead was an old man astride a mule which was pulling a rickety old cart. The man seemed incognizant of the rain, though his mule was struggling against the mud. He flicked its rump idly and inconsequentially from time to time.

Grayfell hailed the man several times before he realized he must have been hard of hearing. He kicked his horse into a reluctant trot to intercept the mule. When he neared the disconsolate beast of burden, it slowed to a welcome stop and the rider looked up in surprise, but then smiled, revealing several missing teeth. Grayfell couldn't bring himself to remove his hood, but he spread the sides so the man could see his face and smiled in return.

"Greetings, neighbor," Grayfell called out in his most amicable tone. He was not unaware that his size could be intimidating, and though the man might not be able to see his armor under the soggy grey cloak, he might notice the clanking, or recognize the hilt of a sword disforming the drape of the cloth. Then, of course, there was the war stallion he sat astride. Now that there was company on the road, it had resumed its proud stallion stance. The man only nodded politely, and Grayfell wondered again about his hearing, but he charged onward. "Would you perhaps know of a decent inn or wayside on the road ahead where a fellow could dry out and have a bite to eat?"

The man nodded again, and Grayfell sighed in exasperation, but then the man spoke in a raspy voice. "Aye, there be several in the town below. I be partial to Hawk's Landing, myself."

"But that's where I've just come from," Grayfell explained patiently.

"Well now, and it's the road ahead of me, in'it?" the man challenged.

Grayfell opened his mouth to snap a sharp retort, then bit his tongue, schooling what little patience he had. "Indeed, but perhaps you know of somewhere in the direction you've just been."

The old man looked thoughtful and rubbed at his unshaven chin. "Well, there's the Hen and Chicks in Downcastle, but they be roadside bandits at the prices they charge."

"And Downcastle's my destination, good man, but it's a day's ride. Perhaps you know something closer?"

The old man just nodded. Grayfell fisted his hands to keep from wrapping them around the scrawny neck. "And where might that be," he asked, struggling to keep his voice even.

"Ah, ye not be wishing to stop there, traveler. The owner be a woman, and not a nat'ral one at that."

Grayfell actually considered that a potential bonus. Waysides seldom had women around, save possibly an owner's wife or daughter and that was more trouble than he was interested in courting. Had the weather not been so starkly dismal, he might have inquired as to the unnatural character of the woman, but at the moment, all he cared about was a warm fire and hot food. "Where is this place?"

The old man twisted about in his perch on the mule. "I reckon about three bends back. There's a sign hanging over the road and a cart road heading north."

"And what does the sign say?"

"Well, I ain't much for reading..." Grayfell straightened to his full height astride the already towering steed. The old man hurried on, "But I imagine it be the name of the place."

"And that would be?" Grayfell snarled through gritted teeth. Being sociable under any circumstances was not his strong suit, but given his current misery, he had reached the end of what little civility he could mustered.

"Why, Soul Eater. Didna' I mention that?"

Grayfell kicked his stallion to a gallop, yanking it away from the mule. He wasn't sure how the old man defined bends in the road, but it was almost an hour later when he found a badly weathered sign, hanging from branches over the roadway. Paint had faded beyond color recognition, given the dim light of the day, and even the carving of the letters was hard to make out in the splintered wood, but he could see enough to indeed guess that they spelled out Soul Eater. What hadn't seemed to be touched by age or weathering was the shape of the sign itself. Grayfell shivered slightly and blamed the all-penetrating wet and cold of the rain. He studied the sign a moment, but could find no other definition for the shape but that it was a woman with outstretched arms. Her hair flared behind her with raggedy ends that mimicked the raggedy hem of her likewise flaring skirt, where the wayside's name had been etched. Grayfell peered through the falling curtain of rain. He would have sworn that the arms were curving forward, toward him. Warped, he told himself sternly, shaking off the impression of a sign reaching out for him. What he couldn't shake off was how similar the outline of the sign was to a painting he'd seen many years ago in a southern temple. It had been titled Succubus. He turned onto the cart road. He wasn't going to let superstitious nonsense keep him from a warm fire.

The cart road ran longer and climbed higher than he expected and when he emerged into a clearing, wind whipped the rain into his face with stinging precision despite the hood. He swore, wiping at his eyes. The sun, if sun there still was, somewhere behind the clouds, must have been setting. It had grown darker still, until all he could see ahead was watery lights shining through what he presumed were windows at the inn. He didn't have to nudge the horse forward. They might not be able to see buildings, but the horse could smell dry hay and was eagerly following his nose.

Once they'd crossed the clearing and neared the buildings, Grayfell could make out a barn with a door slightly ajar and a torch burning inside. He dismounted but held the eager stallion back, exercising his well-learned caution. He pulled his cloak back behind his sword pummel and paused in the doorway, peering into the dimly lit interior. Some eight horses looked up with mild curiosity and Grayfell cocked an eyebrow. Apparently, others had not heard the same rumors the old man seemed to fear. There was a rustling in a loose pile of hay and Grayfell's hand flew to his sword hilt, but after a moment a sleepy-eyed stable boy emerged and trailed a path of straw behind himself as he headed directly for the stallion, who was longingly peeking over Grayfell's shoulder at the inviting interior. The boy's eyes widened in admiration as Grayfell led the stallion further into the barn.

"Hay, sir?" he asked, not taking his eyes from the horse.

"And a brush down and oats," Grayfell said, flipping a small silver coin to the boy. For the first time, the boy looked up at Grayfell, then scanned down his tall frame over the hardened leather armor with its riveted brass plates to the brass handle of his sword.

"Yes sir!" the boy exclaimed. "I have fresh apples, too."

"Just one," Grayfell warned as he turned on his heel. He strode toward the large inn, as drawn by the lights in the windows as the stallion had been by the smell of hay. At least the building offered some relief from the blowing, stinging rain. The inn was fronted with a veranda that ran the full length and probably would have a wonderful view across the valley, should the sun ever return. The roof over the veranda formed the decking for porches off the second story rooms. All in all, it was the fanciest inn Grayfell had seen, outside of capitals and major trade centers, at least from the outside. From the inside, he could hear the sound of laughter and amiable voices, even before he reached the door. Like the stable, one of the main doors was slightly ajar; light leaking out onto the veranda.

Grayfell's off hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword as he slipped through the narrow opening, hoping to be able to study the room and its occupants for a moment before his presence was noticed. His hopes were dashed as the volume in the room immediately lowered and eyes turned his way. Still, his keenly trained senses picked up no particular sign of animosity or even undue suspicion, so he turned his attention to the long bar at the back of the great room. There was indeed a woman stationed there. She had looked away from a patron she'd been talking to and gestured toward the large fire at the end of the hall-shaped room. Her smile was faint, possibly distracted, but her voice was friendly enough when she called out, "Hang your cloak by the fire, stranger, and find a comfortable chair."

Grayfell scanned the room one more time, then complied, settling at a table near the fire, where he could keep an eye on the other patrons. He studied the woman as she finished her conversation. She was certainly no hag as the old man had alluded. She was tall and slender. Her hair was long and snow white, half of it curled into a bun atop her head and the other half drawn up and through the bun to cascade back down like a waterfall. She wore a modest woolen gown of dark brown or black, but with a utilitarian apron draping the front with some sort of colorful, fanciful design on it. Her face was lightly lined, more like from care than age. Even at a distance he could catch the sparkle in her eye and her hearty laugh as the man at the bar finished his joke, then she was headed his way. "Foolish old man," Grayfell muttered as he removed his sword belt for comfort and hung it about another chair. He kept the hilt within easy reach, but it was apparent the inn presented no threat. He wished he'd noticed the sign other times when he'd taken the low road, but then he was usually in more of a hurry and the weather was usually more clement.

The woman stopped on the far side of his small table and rested her hands lightly on the back of an empty chair. "'Tain't a fit night out. How may I help you warm up?" The faint smile was back. Grayfell found himself studying her hands. It was his practice to judge a man -- at least in part -- by his hands. He could tell a fighter from a farmer, a scribe from a musician. He didn't usually pay much attention to women's hands, primarily because there was only one thing about women that interested him, and it didn't involve their extremities, but curiosity gripped him now that the fire was finally warming and drying his backside.

Her hands, like her face, didn't so much betray her age as her struggles in life. There was a scar or two, and hard work diligently opposed by nightly salves, if he had to guess. He looked back up at her eyes. Were they slightly bemused? He couldn't be sure, but it wasn't hard to guess that men's eyes usually wandered to a different part of her anatomy than her hands. He tossed some coins on the table. "A dark ale if you have it, something to eat, and a room if you have any left," he added.

"I have a room, small but comfortable," she replied in a voice that was low and mellow. Should be a singer in a nice town, he thought to himself. "And there is a late season lamb stew in the pot if you want something to warm your insides. Otherwise, I have bread and cheese."

"I'll take both," he said, leaning forward. "If you don't mind my asking, your apron is very pretty, but the design looks vaguely like script."

"You read script?" she asked, obviously pleased. She stepped back from the table and held the fabric wide for him to see. "A band of monks was passing through and one of them wrote out the name of my inn in fancy script for me. I used it as a pattern to embroider my aprons. I confess I added some embellishments."

He glanced up and realized she was blushing. He looked back at the apron and squinted, picking out the illuminated letters from her embellishments. "Soul Eatery?" he finally asked.

She nodded eagerly. "Good food nourishes and heals the soul, don't you think?"

Grayfell cared nothing about souls, but he nodded in agreement. "Indeed," he confirmed. He was rewarded with a fleeting but genuine smile then she turned and hurried to fetch his food and ale. Grayfell snorted. "Not a 'nat'ral one', hah! I should have wrung the old man's neck," he grumbled to himself. Grayfell leaned back in the chair and studied the men in the inn, wondering if one might be a suitor or companion. She seemed to have the same faint smile for all of them, like a mask for her patrons. That and her business-like demeanor seemed to suffice to keep the men respectful. They joked and teased, but they kept their hands to themselves. A short time later, she returned with a large bowl of stew, a mug of ale and breadboard with a steaming loaf on it, melting the cheese lying beside. She balanced it all with grace and ease.

"I'm sorry it took so long," she explained, "but I wanted to wait for a fresh loaf from the oven. The only rooms I have left are on this floor, at the back of the building. No view, I'm afraid," she said with a shrug, "but then, with this rain, you can't hardly see as far as your horse's ears, anyway."

Grayfell shrugged. "Can't even see that far when my eyes are closed in sleep."

"Good, then I'll ready the room as soon as I can get a moment." She delicately pushed two large copper pieces back toward him.

"What is your name?" he asked suddenly.

"Gwenafhyr," she replied absently. "Some of the regulars call me Lady Gwen, but I ain't got a drop of royal blood. I swear't on me poor maam's blest soul," she said, dropping into the low dialect to add emphasis to her statement. Grayfell caught a fleeting wry smile that time, then it was back to business. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Do you have any butter, by chance?"

Her brow wrinkled with the effort to remember. "If I do, it'd be goat. The cows aren't in high pasture yet and no one wants to haul a heavy wagon up the mountainside in the mud. If these spring rains don't let up soon, they'll put me out of business, sure enough."

"Don't worry about it then," he said with a wave. But he found himself hoping she would. Not because he particularly needed butter with his bread. He had simply discovered that he enjoyed talking with her, and as he watched her wend between tables back toward her kitchen, he found a view he could enjoy despite the rain outside. When she was out of sight, he pushed the two coppers back into the mix of coins.

As it turned out, she did return with a dollop of butter, but was called away before he could engage her again. The same thing happened when she brought a lantern from one of the other tables over to his. She never got beyond directions to his room. He tarried, drinking more than was usual for him, simply to have an excuse to interact with her, but she seemed to have rethought her earlier friendliness, studiously engaging her all-business persona. Grayfell sighed. I wasn't like the company of women wasn't easy enough to come by, even in a small town like Downcastle. And his eventual goal was Scaratchville on the coast. From experience, he knew he would have to peel the women off while there. He also knew it was because they would recognize him as a well-paid mercenary. None of them would care that he could read, or that he'd been across the seas to the anarchic Southern Empires, or across the north mountains to the Wastelands.

Grayfell became lost in his thoughts and was only vaguely aware of the other patrons filtering slowly out of the great room. Some picked up lanterns and headed for rooms. A couple of men headed forlornly to the door and out into the rain, facing a long, wet ride to somewhere. The room became darker and darker as lanterns were taken to the upper reaches of the inn. It was long moments before he realized there were only two patrons left in a far corner of the room, engaged in an intense conversation, and the woman, who had taken up a seat at the fireplace, though at the far side of the hearth from his table. She had grasped an iron poker and was listlessly pushing at the still burning wood, banking the embers for tomorrow's fire.

He watched her for a while. She seemed as lost in thought as he had been earlier, and not looking for further conversation in which she would need to pretend interest. He studied her profile, finding it sharp, yet somehow appealing. It was not like the soft nebulous edges of the harbor women that seemed to suggest 'I will be whatever you want me to be.' Her silhouette suggested more that 'this is me, all in all, and I would just as soon you left me be.'

"Do you know what a succubus is?" he asked suddenly, as amazed at his forwardness and attributing it to the ale, as she must have been. The poker in her hand paused in its half-hearted work, but she didn't look around. "I just ask..." he hurried on, feeling uncharacteristically embarrassed, "because your sign, down on the road, reminds me of a painting I saw down south."

She glanced at him, then quickly back at the embers. "It needs repair. The sign. It was originally a woman holding a tray of food. The tray broke away in a storm."

"Ah," he acknowledged congenially. "It did seem as if it was reaching toward me."

She paused again. "That was a mistake." She suddenly became intensely interested in the formation of the banked embers.

He faltered in his thoughts. "Yes, the rain and all. Sets the imagination awhirl." He lapsed into quiet contemplation, watching the shadowy play of firelight on her face as the room became darker still. Then the damn ale spoke again. "You didn't answer the question. Do you know what a succubus is?"

She gave a soft scoff that was barely perceptible. "Do you think I'm a succubus? Do you think I need to drug men? Or seduce them in their sleep? Look at me!" she demanded, turning fully to him. She stood and took a step toward him. "Look at me!" she repeated and strode toward him till she stood over him at the table so that he had to crane his neck to look up at her. "Do you think I couldn't have had any man in this place, had I wanted? By my own charms, not magic."

"No, by no means," he exclaimed with his hands flying up in a gesture of surrender. "I was just making conversation. Really."

"Sounded like a challenge to me," she muttered stalking off. He watched in confusion as she went back behind the bar, then gestured at the two other men remaining in the room. As if they were familiar with her sign language, they immediately stood, taking up the lantern on their table and headed for a room, darkening the great room even further. With obviously angry gestures, she took up a rag and strode to the table, wiping it down. On impulse, Grayfell stood and crossed the room, cornering her after a fashion, between tables and taking the rag from her. She stood her ground, not intimidated in the least by the large man before her. He returned to his own table and wiped it down, then straightened, tossing the rag from hand to hand.

She remained standing, as if rooted to the spot, and stared at him. "I am not a succubus!" She was almost yelling to be heard across the gap between them. "Do you seriously think that I would be scrubbing tables and washing sheets and digging latrines if I was a succubus?"

"No," he said with a shake of his head.

She grasped the edge of the table she had just cleaned and yanked, pulling it down to the floor. "I know the rumors. I'm not stupid or deaf."

"I never said you were," he replied softly but clearly, knowing his deep voice would carry. Now that he was standing, moving, the ale was subsiding, even if the anger of the woman across the room was not. Indeed, she seemed to be looking around for something to throw. "Do you have someone to warm your bed tonight?" he asked, keeping his voice soft and even. He knew damn well he was better at dealing with raging half-human creatures than an angry woman. He even had an inkling that was the last thing he should have said. Certainly, he didn't mean it to come out like that. He just wanted to know if she was involved with someone. Did he have a chance with her? Wrong time, wrong question, wrong woman. Apparently, the ale hadn't subsided nearly as much as he'd thought.