Chapter One
Mynowelechw Ayn
The Taverner
lla Æ’ Mhalim
Two weeks after the funeral the weather was getting colder and the woodpile was low, so the taverner of the town of Hathion-Kathuiolké, a widow by the name of Hinfane, was out in the backyard chopping wood. Tonight was going to be the night of the new moon and the sky was overcast; it would be a dark night, and who knows what dangers lurk in the wilderness after dark?
She decided to get the wood chopped before it got too late.
Later on she realised how fortunate it was that she had decided to do it early that night. Many things might have turned out differently if she had left the chore till later. But she knew nothing of this at the time. It was just a chore, a bone weary, muscle aching chore. Despite the cold, the sweat poured down her arms.
Her husband Gothur would have done this job.
She had not had time to grieve, because the tavern had to be managed by someone, and so it had fallen to her to do it, ever since Gothur had taken ill. He had not survived his illness. His last words were, “Hinfane, remember our love,” but now she could barely remember Gothur’s face, or even the sound of his voice, or the touch of his hand. Hinfane had no feeling any more. She merely kept her mind on the next job that had to be done. In a way, she was thankful for the hard slog of running the tavern, for it stopped her from thinking too much.
She heard something in the woods, the flapping of wings, then something scraping; like the feet of a beast raking the forest floor, but it wasn’t a reindeer. It was a four-footed beast, though - she could tell from the pattern of the steps. Thinking that a large wolf had scared an owl she grasped the axe-handle firmly. It did not sound like a snowdragon - their wings were faster; in any case, those crafty denizens of the icy, godforsaken desert had not troubled the tavern since her husband had fought them off, killing a couple of them in the process, soon after they had first purchased the ancient stone tavern from the previous owners, many, many years ago.
She waited, axe at the ready.
A whisper rasped in the darkness. “I mean you no harm, taverner. I come to offer you a bargain, two goats for a barrel of mead. If you agree, on the night of every new moon you will leave the mead in the copse of trees, at the south of the town, and I will leave behind two goats tied to a wooden stake. If you do not try to see me or find out who or what manner of creature I am then the bargain will stand. But if I find you watching for me when I come to get my mead - if you’re hiding in the bushes or behind the trees - or if you seek by any other means to find out who or what I am then the bargain will come to an end.”
Hinfane said, “Whoever or whatever you are – that sounds like an excellent bargain to me! I give you my word – I will not try to see you or find out who or what you are. There will be a barrel of mead for you waiting in the copse of trees on the next new moon. By what name do I call you?”
“Milélyn.”
And she heard the flapping of wings again, and she realised that these wings must be much, much larger than the wings of an owl.
So it happened that after twenty-seven days, on the night of the next new moon, she left a barrel of mead in the copse of trees and found two goats tied to a wooden post in the same spot in the morning, as the mysterious voice had promised. And as she took one of the goats out to the rear of the tavern to be slaughtered, she wondered to herself, what manner of creature could this Milélyn be?
She could only think of one creature under the sun or the moon that was so large that its feet raked the forest floor, able to fly, and walked on all fours, and spoke the ancient tongue, and had such an inordinate fondness for mead that it would risk anything, even for a single drop of the honey-brew.
Something mightier and more glorious and more golden and stronger and faster and more powerful than either the king of the beasts or the king of the skies – a beast that lions resemble in having fur and manes and tufts upon their tails and tremendous strength (though lions are weaklings by comparison) – a beast that eagles resemble in having feathered wings (yet not a quarter of the span) and sharp eyes (yet not quite so keen) and a beak and talons (yet not a fraction so deadly!)
A gryphon.
A Feather on the Breath of Ellulianaen Page 2
