narrow room with a view of the bay. It was simple, but clean. Emerahl haggled the price down to a reasonable rate, then asked for water to wash in.
The woman sent her daughter away to fetch it, then turned to regard Emerahl with shrewd eyes.
“So what brings you to Yaril?”
Emerahl smiled. “I’m looking for a young man named Gherid.”
“Gherid? We have a Gherid here. Use to fish with his father until all on the boat drowned but he. Now he works for the stonecutter. Is that the one?”
“Sounds like it.”
“What you want him for?”
“I hear he tells an interesting tale.”
The woman chuckled and shook her head. “Used to. He got fed up with people picking holes in his story and won’t say a word now.”
“No?”
“Not a word. Not for money or favors.”
“Oh.” Emerahl looked around the room as if wondering what she was doing there.
“You’ve come a long way,” the woman soothed. “You may as well try. Perhaps you’ll get something out of him. I’ll take you to see him when you’re done washing.”
She left the room and the girl arrived with a pitcher of water and a large bowl soon after. Emerahl washed herself and changed into her second set of clothes, then washed her first set and dried them by drawing magic and using it to warm and stir the air around them.
When they were dry, Emerahl draped them on a chair, then tied her collection of pouches around her waist, wrapped her tawl about her and left the room.
The next room was as narrow as hers, but even longer. The space was divided into sections by screens and the farthest proved to be hiding a kitchen. There she found the widow.
“Ready?” the woman said.
Emerahl nodded.
“Come along, then. He’ll be at the stonecutter’s place.”
She followed the woman to the door, then out into the cold air. The houses, built of the same black stone, seemed to hunch against the rock wall as if afraid they might slide off into the sea below. It gave the town a sinister, anxious look, yet all the people Emerahl and the Widow Laylin passed smiled and greeted them cheerfully.
The staircase grew steadily steeper as they neared the top of the cliff. The widow had to stop three times to catch her breath.
“Wouldn’t think I lived here, would you?” she said after the third rest. “You’re doing well enough.”
Emerahl smiled. “Travelling makes you fit.”
“Must do. Here we are at last. They live at the top because it’s easier to carry his wares down than to bring them up again.”
Instead of a road there was a rubble-strewn “yard.” Emerahl followed the woman through this to where two gray-haired men were chipping away at large slabs of rock.
“Megrin,” the Widow said.
One of the men looked up. He appeared surprised to see Emerahl’s companion.
“Widow Laylin,” he replied. “Don’t often see you up here. Need any work done?”
“No, but my guest wants to have a chat with Gherid about The Gull.”
The man looked at Emerahl and straightened. She smiled as she sensed his admiration. The second man had turned to face them. He had a surprisingly young face, though it was set in a scowl. Emerahl looked closer and had to suppress a laugh. The gray in his hair was dust. He was just old enough to be considered a man.
“This is Limma,” the widow continued. “She’s a curer.”
Megrin turned to regard the young man, whose scowl deepened.
“Why do you want to talk about The Gull with me?” Gherid asked.
Emerahl met and held his eyes.
“I heard you met him.”
“So?”
“I would like to hear your story.”
“Go on, Gherid,” the widow urged. “Don’t be rude to a visitor.”
He looked at the woman, then the stonecutter. The older man nodded. Gherid sighed and shrugged in resignation. “Come with me… Limma, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
She followed him back to the stairs, then upward. Intense emotions began to spill from him as they climbed. Guilt and fear combined. She caught snatches of his thoughts.
… I can’t kill her! But I must, if she …
Alarmed, she hesitated, then drew magic and formed a shield around herself. Why would he think he might have to kill her? Did he think she would try to harm him? Or take something from him? Surely he didn’t think she could force him to give up any information he didn’t want to give.
I’m a curer. A sorceress. Both might mean I have the power to make him tell me things he doesn’t want to, either through drugs or torture.
Either way,