Free Knight's Prize by Sarah McKerrigan

things—Helena's upcoming
wedding, the abundance of salmon in the loch this year, the need for repairs to
the chapel, the raiding of two of Lachanburn's cows.
    Then,
just as Miriel was becoming lulled into a sense of safety by the soothing drone
of normal Rivenloch chatter, Lord Gellir decided to engage Rand in one of his
favorite conversations.
    "Anyone
told you about our local outlaw?"
    ************************************
    So
unexpected was the propitious turn of conversation that Rand nearly choked on
his bite of mutton. He managed to swallow without incident, nonchalantly
washing the bite down with a swig of wine.
    "Nay,"
he replied, frowning with what he hoped looked like casual curiosity.
"Outlaw, you say?"
    But
Miriel, the well-meaning but meddlesome wench, leaned forward to interrupt.
"Father, I'm sure he wouldn't be interested." She explained to Rand,
"'Tis mostly a lot of wild rumor and speculation, grown all out of
proportion."
    Rand
gave her a tight smile. He wondered how rude 'twould be to gently clamp his
hand over her mouth so Lord Gellir would continue.
    "Although,"
Pagan said, jabbing the air with his eating knife to make his point, "I
still say 'twas The Shadow who destroyed the English trebuchet."
    Suddenly
the room was filled with overlapping threads of argument, too tangled to
unravel. Everyone seemed to have an opinion on the matter.
    "I
saw him once," Colin put in. "In the crofter's cottage where Helena
held me hostage."
    Rand
blinked. Had he heard Colin correctly? Helena held him hostage? God's blood,
these Rivenloch women were intrepid indeed.
    Feigning
only the mildest interest, Rand nonetheless carefully tuned his ears to every
word.
    Helena
added, "He left one of his knives."
    "His
knives?" Rand asked.
    She
nodded. "Slim daggers, all black. He leaves them after he robs his
victims."
    "Not
always," Miriel murmured.
    "Not
always," Deirdre agreed. "But there's no mistaking his work."
    Rand
poked offhandedly at a piece of mutton. "Indeed? And why is that?"
    The
old man took up Rand's invitation, as if he'd been patiently waiting for
someone to ask him to relate a treasured, oft-told tale. "The
Shadow," he began, his bright blue eyes lighting up like sapphires in the
sun, "is as swift as lightning. Nimble as flame. Nigh invisible."
    "Nigh
invisible," Miriel muttered, "and yet so many claim to have seen
him." She rolled her eyes.
    Lord
Gellir continued, waving his long, bony arms to add emphasis to the story.
"He dresses all in black. From the top of his head to the tip of his toes.
Black as night, but for one narrow slit where his gleaming eyes peer out like
the Devil's."
    He
made the sign of the Cross then, and everyone mimicked the gesture, everyone
but Miriel, who seemed to be horribly embarrassed by her father's dramatic
rendition.
    So
far Lord Gellir was only describing what Rand had already ascertained. The
outlaw, known only as The Shadow, was quick, agile, and apparently obsessed
with black garb. But like Miriel, Rand didn't believe the man possessed any
attributes of a demonic or mystical sort.
    "He
can flip like an acrobat," Lord Gellir said, "land on his feet, and,
before his victim can so much as blink his eyes, cut his purse. …..or his
throat."
    Miriel
sighed in disgust. "He's never cut anyone's throat, Father." She
frowned at Rand, trying to convince him. "He hasn't. He's
actually quite harmless."
    "No
one knows where he dwells," Lord Gellir intoned. "He appears out of
nowhere, does his bold mischief, then vanishes into the woods... like a
shadow."
    "Has
no one been able to catch him?" Rand asked. "Has no one tried?"
    Helena
and Deirdre exchanged a swift glance then, one so subtle Rand almost missed it,
a look of sisterly communication only they could decipher.
    Then
Deirdre shrugged. "Miriel's right. For the most part, he does no
harm."
    "Forsooth,"
Helena added, "he's never bothered any Rivenloch folk, not really."
    Deirdre
chuckled. "Besides, what would poor Father have left to go on