Claws of Daylight

Twenty-Three

"Monster hunting has risen to fashion. Ever since the word of Rook's heroic deeds swept the country and resulted in his fame, others decided to try their hand at it. It seems to have become a craft, a trade. Many have been killed, of course, but others have worked hard at honing their skills. Still, none are so lauded or successful as Rook." — from an Olorian news pamphlet

~~~

As they trudged onward to the Way Fort the next morning, Rook couldn't stop thinking about Briar's head on his shoulder. More than that, the fact that it hadn't felt unwelcome.

It's just because she's Orla, Rook thought stubbornly. She must have cast a spell on me.

He chanced a sidelong glance at Briar. Her short hair was pulled into a small braid, though most strands had escaped and were blowing in the wind. Her neck was smudged with dirt and blood. Two pensive lines wrinkled the freckled skin between her eyes.

I'm betraying Cerridwen, Rook thought with morose.

Briar caught him staring and he quickly looked away, clearing his throat.

He sensed her smile before she turned her gaze back to the leaf strewn road. "Are you still skeptical about my sainthood?" she asked. "After what you saw last night?"

"No," Rook said simply.

She huffed out a sigh. "Then neither am I." She paused. "I should have ordered the Consecrated not to tell anyone what happened. They've probably already told a host of people that they saw Saint Orla."

"I doubt anyone would give the zealot's words much credit," Rook returned.

"The Amity might."

"They might be hopeful that the account is true, but the cult has no evidence to go on. Nothing to support it. It's purely anecdotal."

"Well, I hope you're right."

~~~

The smell of snow was sharp in the air when they spotted the Way Fort's watchtower, jet black stone against the deep gray of the sky. The place looked like any old inn on the side of the road, though it had no windows and was heavily fortified, surrounded by a tall wall adorned with thick metal spikes. Dozens of torches hung from sconces, waiting to be lit once the evening's dusk gave way to night.

The gates were still open, so Briar followed Rook through. A small courtyard greeted them. Fires already burned in raised pits. Sunflowers had been planted along the walls, their dried heads now nodding and wavering in the wind. Banners bearing the Olorian yew crest hung from either side of the door. Briar stared up at them, the heavy fabric snapping in the bluster, her chest hollowed out.

A stable hand took Salt and Slate and they headed in. Briar held her breath, balling her sweating hands into fists. If the zealots happened to be here, they would recognize her immediately.

Not only do I have to worry about people recognizing me as the werewolf princess, Briar thought, but now a divine being as well.

She angled her chin down as they entered the dark hall.

With no natural light from windows, the place was lit by hanging torches, lanterns, and hundreds of dripping candles. Furs were spread over the stone floor. The sneering head of a bear was mounted over the enormous hearth. Tapestries of monsters being slain hung all around, barely visible in the low, winnowing light.

A couple dozen people sat at long tables on benches lined with sheepskins. Briar studied each face quickly. She recognized none of them.

Relieved, she stood a little straighter. Everything would be fine.