Raven's Throne

Prologue

The Wind’s Way Inn wasn’t famous in a national or even regional sense. Some would argue that it wasn’t even deserving of being called locally famous, but the old innkeeper who ran it found that this was a fact that was not worth worrying over.

People always needed a drink or a bed. There were sad days and happy days all year round, and there were plenty of people who travelled during them. Even though Loweston had two inns he had always managed to have one person in his building whether they were paying for a drink, some company, or a place to stay the night.

Even on the Day, he’d managed to keep his only customer in until he was about to close. Not that they’d likely have wanted to be out given what had happened. But it was a matter of principle to some degree. The innkeeper didn't like to think of himself as proud but his wife would be quick to say he was a proud old fool who didn't pay her enough. 

Besides, the only other inn nearby had been completely empty that night, and there was pride to be found in that.

The inn, formerly the Swallow's Tail, was a small, slightly shabby building that, in the eyes of some, was no competition for the newer, cleaner, and pricier one only a few minutes away. The Nest had famous musicians and was quiet in the evenings as people ate and left, leaving no trace of their passing through.

It was the Wind’s Way that people looked to for noise and what the old innkeeper considered to be real music. The musicians who played in his inn played the song, not the written notes. They played because music was their life and patrons would always pay. They didn’t do it for fame, they’d found out that was not going to happen long ago, they simply played and even if they weren’t as fast as the musicians who played at the Nest or were a bit out of tune; they could play the people as well as or even better than they played their instrument, and that was all that the innkeeper cared about.

Coin and making people happy in one.

Apart from the songs that drifted out of the Way’s windows, the easiest way to tell which inn was which for someone who was new or lost, was to look for the fights as the Way generally had at least two massive ones a week or listen for the telltale yelling of the cook as he berated yet another serving girl for some problem or another. 

Not that the innkeeper truly minded.

Even the brawls that resulted in damage and wounded pride, or just wounds, weren’t a concern. The opposite was true. He loved it all, the voices and scars the people had left.

They had left a piece of their life with his home and went on, or gone home. His inn hadn’t just been another blank set of walls with no life. His wife told him that meant that it was disreputable and dirty. He argued that it was perfect for the people he liked to be around most and it had character. This had resulted in a snort and a week’s worth of kitchen work for him. Not that he minded this either given that he’d known most of the people in his kitchen for his entire life and could easily carry on a conversation with them.

Abigail had two children and was worried that her son was about to join the army.

George had six children and thought that his wife was being unfaithful, which she was and everyone but George had noticed it. 

His children all had different eye colours and hair that ranged from blonde to black to red. Two had freckles. The other three were paler than snow whereas George was the colour of the stained apron he insisted on wearing for twelve years straight. 

The three of them were the only ones working that night, Abigail was making a stew of some kind while George screamed something about rosemary and the innkeeper, Richard, stood in the front of the restaurant and chatted with customers as he wished that he’d decided not to give Yven the night off.