Prologue

Amber light spread across the dirt floor from a fireplace embedded in the cottage's sod-and-timber wall. It barely illuminated a rough table and stools, two low beds with patchwork quilts, and other hand-me-down fixtures so old, no one remembered whose father's father or mother's mother had first acquired them. And on the tail of nightfall, a tall and black-haired woman in her twentieth year lit but one candle upon the table, for even that was a luxury.

She was straight-boned, with deep brown eyes beneath eyebrows that arched high, and strands of hair escaped her long braid. Beneath her wool coat, she wore an age-stained apron covering a blue dress. She swung a cook pot out from the fire on its iron arm so the stew wouldn't burn, then stepped to the cottage's one front window. Brushing aside burlap curtains, she cracked the shutter to peer anxiously up the village path.

Few villagers moved among the huddled huts, carrying in firewood or heading for the common well, buckets in hand. She closed the shutter, let the curtain fall into place, and returned to the table to set out two clay bowls and wooden spoons. From the shelves she gathered a cloth-wrapped bundle and a knife, then settled upon a stool. She unwrapped a loaf of rye bread to cut away the dried end. There was nothing more to do, and she watched the fire's flames recede.

When the knock came, she sighed in relief.

Before she stepped to the door, a hollow voice growled from outside. "Enough pleasantries!"

The crack of shattering wood filled the small hut as the door slammed inward. Its top leather hinge broke away, and splinters skittered across the dirt floor. She backed into the table, nearly tripping over a stool.

Three shadowed figures stood in the opening, their features hidden by cowls and cloaks. The tallest lowered his foot as the broken door ceased shuddering.

"That was not necessary, Father, " said the one next to him. Dressed in a charcoal cloak and hood and crafted riding boots, his gloved hand was still raised to knock again. He let it drop to his side.

The third figure hung back as the father entered and, in three strides, grabbed the woman by the throat.

She clutched the table for balance as he bent her backward. His thumb levered her chin sideways to face his companions as he studied her profile. Even with her head tilted, she kept her gaze upon her assailant.

Candlelight partially exposed his face inside the hood. Nearly colorless crystalline eyes stared back at her, and his features were paler than those of her own fair-skinned people. A long aquiline nose ran down to a thin-lipped mouth. He wore steel vambraces on both forearms, and beneath his cloak was a crestless, burgundy tabard over a shirt of mail. She fumbled for better support on the table, and the base of her palm scraped something sharp.

"This is the one?" he asked, but his question was not to her.

The one who called him Father took a step into the hut, allowing the third figure to drift toward her.

His long, hooded robe swirled like black oil as he glided across the cottage floor. Firelight made faint markings and strange symbols shimmer in and out of sight upon its folds. Where his face should have been was a mask of aged leather that ended above a bony jaw supporting a withered mouth. The woman saw no eye slits in his mask. He reached toward her, as if he "saw" her, but his gaunt fingers stopped shy of her cheek as she struggled to pull away.

"Get out of my home!" she shouted. No one gave her notice.

"Yes..., " the masked one whispered with a voice like windblown sand. "The one shown to me. The one sent into my dreams by our patron. "

The father glanced back to his son.

"You should be pleased, " he remarked. "She'll make you an attractive bride. "

The woman's eyes widened. She wouldn't be the first or the last to suffer the whims of a vassal lord assigned to a fief, but nobles did not take village women as wives.

"Bride?" said the son. "I doubt, Father, that your lackey"—and the masked one hissed over his shoulder— "would bother with the customs attached to such a title. Take her and let us leave. The sooner done, the better. "

The masked one's fingers inched forward, and she felt her captor's grip tighten to pull her up. At the touch of fingertips on her cheek, her hand closed