Free Patricia Briggs by The Hob's Bargain

court,” said Kith.
    I maneuvered Duck until I could see the old stone foundation through the dense growth. Somewhere we must have joined up with the trail that I used to take, because the view was a familiar one.
    The stones might have been the remains of some ancient farmer’s storehouse, but by some trick of fancy or weather wear, they looked as if they were the remnants of a tiny castle, complete with curtain wall and battlements.
    â€œGram called it the sprite’s court,” I said, “but I suppose we’ll never know. Grandpa trapped the high country in the winter; he said you could find unusual remains all over these parts—reminders of the wildlings who used to live here. He said he found a whole city once, nestled in a narrow ravine; but when he lost sight of it looking for a way down, he was never able to find it again.” I wondered if it really was a sprite’s castle.
    â€œYour Grandpa liked to tell stories,” said Kith repressively before starting off again.
    I grinned at Wandel. “Yep, and about half of them were hog hooey. But deciding which ones were which was half the fun.” More soberly, I said, “Lord Moresh’s brother disappeared on Faran’s Ridge. They hunted for him for weeks, but never found so much as a scrap of cloth.”
    The harper nodded. “There are many such tales here in the mountains. Too many to be dismissed as complete fiction.” He set the Lass on the trail at a trot to catch Kith, and I brought up the rear.

    T HE GROUND BEGAN TO SLOPE GENTLY UPWARD AND the woods cleared a bit. The thornbush disappeared from the mix of underbrush. Overhanging branches no longer reached clear across the trail, so I could sit up, a position that I found much more comfortable.
    Wandel brought his harp out. In keeping with the mood Kith had set earlier, he played a few tunes about the wild creatures who had held these mountains so long ago. I joined in with the ones I knew, ignoring Kith’s exaggerated winces when I lost the pitch. Ever gracious, Wandel ignored my mistakes.
    He switched at last to a tale of King Faran, the wizard-king who conceived of the highway. The ridge that formed the southwestern border of the valley was named after him because he was said to have won a battle there, though there was no real proof of it.
    He had been, according to Gram and to Wandel’s song, handsome and charismatic. He’d spent a long time as a warrior before taking up the additional robes of magery. Faran ruled wisely and well until the madness that inevitably twists bloodmages caught him—or so the stories said. I don’t know how a bloodmage could be a good king, mad or not. The tower he’d thrown himself from was still standing (or so I’d heard).
    I hadn’t heard the story Wandel played, but it had a catchy tune and merry verses. Kith unbent enough to join in. He added a few verses himself, most of which were of the kind I’d have expected a soldier to know.
    As we came out of the trees to the drier, grassy slopes of the foothill below the Hob, Kith stopped singing abruptly. Urging Duck beside the others, I saw what had brought on his silence.
    Halfway up the foothill, below the first cliffs, was a boulder twice the size of my croft. It hadn’t been there long. Looking up, I could see the raw places on the mountainside where it had broken loose and bounced. A shattered oak lay in aftermath of its passing, leaves still green with spring’s promise.
    I whistled. “I’d have hated to be here when it fell.” The sight of the boulder, a reminder that our world had come crashing down around our ears, cast a pall over our party. At least it dampened Wandel’s mood, and without his steady cheer, Kith’s grim nervousness infected us all.
    We were silent as we climbed the gentle rise to the Hob. The mountain was the tallest of those surrounding Fallbrook, but we didn’t need to go over the