[Envinyatar]

Moonset, nearing dawn

‘Falmar was gone . . . The words echoed in his head, making it ache. She had asked him to care for her mount until she returned. And now the horse was gone . . .

Derufin slumped in the saddle, it had been a long night, with many miles covered. He was dead tired. Reins slack in his hands, he let the horse take the lead in negotiating their slow way back to the Inn. It was nearly moonset when they reached the stable. The Inn and yard were quiet, though from the thick stream of smoke he saw pushing upwards from the kitchen’s chimney, he knew Cook would be up and finishing the last of her baking before catching a few more hours of sleep.

The hens in their coop were quiet as he passed and even the rooster slept still. Derufin dismounted in the yard and led the chestnut as quietly as he could into the stable. Only the muted jangling of the bit and bridle being taken off and hung up on the stall post broke the peace of the other horses and ponies. Derufin wiped down the charger, keeping a soft, running commentary going on his actions. He needed to do that, as much to calm the horse as to calm himself. A fresh bucket of water, some sweet hay, and a blanket over the back to guard against chill and Derufin considered the job done. He stepped out of the stall, latching the gate securely and stood for a moment leaning against the cross post that held the saddle.

He considered whether he should go to bed or see what Cook would let him rustle up for himself. Supper was a dim memory, if not a complete phantasm of his imagination. Had he eaten? He could not remember.

Cook was just glazing the last of the sticky buns for breakfast when he walked in. So intent was she on the application of the sugary concoction that she did not hear him enter, and she stifled a scream when he called her name and nudged her on the shoulder.

‘Don’t ever do that again, you misbegotten man!’

He stepped back quickly as she took a swipe at him with the long handled wooden spoon she was using to stir the glaze. Droplets of sugary goo plopped themselves against his shirt, and he scraped a few off with his index finger, running an appreciative tongue over them. She pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and pushed him toward it. He stood there in an exhausted daze.

‘Oh sit down, sit down,’ she chided him, putting a plump sticky bun on a plate and pouring him a cup of hot tea. ‘You look all done in.’ Derufin took a gulp of the scorching liquid and left the bun untouched . .