The door to the gathering hall opened and the two Hunters sent inside stepped out and to the sides and with his hand firm at her back, Dar eased his wife forward to enter.
He chose a table near the center of the hall, his back to the wall, the room in full view. Elara settled beside him without hesitation. His men took another table a short distance away, low voices, watchful eyes, while one remained stationed by the door, arms crossed, gaze fixed outward as if daring trouble to try its luck.
Food arrived quickly—stew, coarse bread, a pitcher of ale—set down with careful hands. No one lingered once it was placed before them.
Dar waited until the server had retreated before leaning slightly toward Elara. His arm brushed hers, needing to feel her safe beside him.
“Did you learn anything while you were among them?” he asked quietly.
She moved even closer until her arm pressed against his, wanting to feel his strength and warmth. “I told them I had heard a wanderer speak of fae folk being seen in the woods.” Her mouth tightened at the memory. “They grew upset. One warned me sharply not to repeat such talk.”
Dar’s gaze sharpened. “Upset how?”
“Afraid,” she said after a moment’s thought. “And angry. As if the words themselves were dangerous.”
He considered that, fingers curling around his cup. “Then perhaps it was not fear of rumor—but fear of truth.”
Elara blinked. “I had not thought of it that way.”
“People rarely fear lies,” he said. “They fear what might be uncovered if questions are asked.”
She studied him, seeing not only the Hunter, but the wisdom behind his hunts. “Then they may know more than they wish to admit.”
“Aye,” he said. “And we have given them reason to worry.”
The door creaked open.
Conversation in the room stilled at once.
A man stepped inside, middle-aged, broad through the shoulders, his cap clutched tight in his hands. He hesitated just inside the threshold, eyes darting to Dar’s men, then to Elara, then back again.
Dar did not move. He did not speak.
Silence did the work for him.
The man swallowed and took a few cautious steps forward. “You wish information about a wanderer.”
Dar inclined his head, just once. “I am listening.”
The man shifted his weight, cap twisting in his hands. “A wanderer came through Ancrum a few nights past. Short. Thick through the middle. Kept his hood up even indoors.” He hesitated, then added, “What struck me as odd was how quiet he was.”
Dar’s brow creased slightly.
“Wanderers are usually ready to spew a tale at the drop of a coin,” the man continued. “This one kept to himself. Drank his ale. Ate his bread. Said little, then moved on.”
“Which way did he go?” Dar asked.
The man shook his head. “I don’t know. He left before nightfall. I wasn’t watching for him.”
Dar studied him for a moment, then nodded once. “It is good you share this with me. You may go.”
Relief crossed the man’s face, and he wasted no time leaving.
For a stretch, no one stepped forward.
Then a young fellow lingered in the doorway as if uncertain he should enter at all. He kept his eyes lowered, his cheeks flushed, but he crossed the room when Dar’s gaze found him.
“You have something to say,” Dar stated.