‘Does that actually work?’Afanan whispered.
Llewyn shrugged.‘I’m careful about names.’
‘Naturally.’
Llewyn drank the rest of his ale in a long swallow, sighed, and stood.This was not the first time an astute villager had found out his fae nature.It rapidly complicated things, and had a tendency to turn them violent.Letting the bastard yell himself hoarse wouldn’t solve anything.
Considering the complicity of the village, violence might be warranted, here.Yet he would not slaughter anyone in front of children.They had known enough horror, growing up in this place.
Llewyn crossed to the doorway—followed by curious, frightened eyes that kept drifting away and back again.The alderman stood in the muddy commons before the inn.Light from the windows met the flickering torches of the crowd behind him.He carried a staff adorned with half a dozen horseshoes.The elders who had met him at the forest clearing were beside him, each with their own iron—the woman a skillet, the man an old rust-bitten sword.They led a mob of a dozen more people who clutched rakes and pitchforks and torches.
Llewyn bade the Grey Lady release her shroud.The villagers recoiled, their murmurs rising to astonished yelps.He would have been a vague silhouette in the doorway of the inn, the details of his appearance slipping through their minds from one moment to the next.Now they saw him fully: a scarecrow of a man with a long sword of pale, sharpened wood at his belt.
‘Gwyddien!’Trefor’s voice caught in his throat, but grew steadier as he spoke.‘Be gone from Nyth Fran!We are simple folk.We have no interest in the long, twisting games of you fae folk!’
‘I’m no more embroiled in the affairs of dark powers than you, Alderman,’ Llewyn said.
Trefor stepped forward and began swaying his staff from side to side.The horseshoes hanging from it clanked together.‘Be gone, gwyddien!’he wailed.‘Be gone!’
‘I saw what lives in the woods.’Llewyn stepped forward.‘I know what it takes from you.You pay too dearly for protection.’
A low droning sound issued from deep in the alderman’s throat.The old woman behind him held aloft her skillet and took up his chant, followed by the old man with his rusty sword.
‘This is absurd,’ Llewyn muttered.He crossed the dozen paces between the inn and the mob and drew his ghostwood blade.The magic that bound it to him made it dull or sharp, rigid or supple at the motion of his will.With a single swipe he cut the alderman’s staff in two.The horseshoe-laden end thumped to the earth.The mob gasped and backed away as Llewyn seized Trefor by the front of his shirt.
‘I’m going to kill that thing, foryoursake and the sake of your children,’ Llewyn snarled.‘Try and stop me, and you will pay with broken bones and bruises that will ache for weeks.Now send these people back to their homes and let me—’
‘Papa?’Siwan’s voice rose from the inn, tight and panicked.Llewyn glanced towards her, his attention drawn away from the mob for a moment.The alderman twisted and pulled away.There was a blur in the corner of Llewyn’s vision as the old woman brought her frying pan down.
The blow to the nape of his neck set lights bursting behind his eyes.His skin screamed as if it had been scraped with a hot coal.Panic rose as he rolled, lashing out half-blind with his ghostwood sword, willing it dull at the last moment.
The weapon met flesh with a meatythwak.Llewyn scrambled to his feet while the old man howled and doubled over, clutching his ribs, his rusted sword fallen to the mud.
‘You see?’Trefor shrieked, backing away and gathering Siwan to him.‘He assaults our elders!Come, good folk of Nyth Fran, bring your iron to bear!’
The mob slowly advanced, shouting and lowering their makeshift weapons to drive Llewyn towards the inn.He reached for the anatase in his pocket and willed his sword to be blunt but flexible.
‘What’s this now?’Afanan cried from the doorway.Seven of the troupers, including the young boy with ram’s horns, emerged from the inn and formed an arc behind Llewyn.Their hands rested on cudgels or knives at their belts.Afanan led them, toying with a white jewel pinned to her cuff.‘Is this how Nyth Fran treats its guests?I had looked forward to spending a few days here, but I see now we are not welcome.’
‘Be rid of them all!’the bruised elder croaked, limping to his feet.‘They stand with the gwyddien!’
‘A wild accusation!’Afanan said.
‘It is true!’Trefor said.‘He burns at the touch of iron.’
‘That old biddy bludgeoned him with a frying pan,’ Afanan pointed out.‘Who wouldn’t be rattled?’
‘No, I fed him milk in an iron—’
‘And what if it is true?’Afanan went on.‘Gwyddien are guardian fae.They hunt fell spirits and fiends.You would be better afraid of the quarry than the hunter.’
‘How came you by that lore?’the old woman snapped.‘Witch!In league with the gwyddien!’
Afanan’s fingers played on her cuff, twisting the gem.‘Only a humble playwright.Once an actress, now well past her prime.Will you leave this man in peace for the night?We will all be gone at first light, I promise you.’
Trefor seemed enough of a fool to throw his people against the sorceress and her troupers.One of the troupe, a burly strongman, held his weapons with a casual comfort that told of skill.The alderman clutched his daughter close.The corners of his eyes and mouth twitched.
‘We tried your way, Trefor,’ the old woman muttered.
