The wind rustled in the pines behind the inn. The stars were coming out fast, a winter night falling cold on the hilltop.
Not a very imaginative name. Pine trees. Highroad. Highcopse. Poetry. At least they were still green; the grey forest along the way had been starting to get depressing.
“All right, minstrel. Go on and tell me.
Eris looked at me, wary, while she rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand.
“What is it I’m telling you?”
“How it happened. You and her.” I waved my hand. “Go on.”
The Church rider was thin, green eyes, brown-and-silver hair. He didn’t have any armor on him, only a sword and a pouch. That’s where he’d be carrying one of several copies of the writ that advertised our heresy. Any copies that made it to Bridgeport in time would be read aloud and nailed to the […]