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.
