Free Meuric Page B

your parents.”
    A latch lifted and a woman appeared at the doorway. She was old and bent-over, her red tattoos so faded that they seemed to be little more than a pale pink. He could not but help notice, though, the triple-spiral tattoo over her left eye, the symbol of the goddess Fari. Her iron-grey hair was tied back and held in place by a gold torc. She gripped her fur cloak tight around her when the evening air touched her skin despite its warmth. She stared hard at Meuric without a word as if gauging his thoughts.
    â€œYou are a long way from home, Meuric of the Daw’ra tribe,” she said with a half-smile. “So is the Hand of Death here to take me to the Otherworld?”
    Meuric gave her a scathing look. “That is not who I am, woman.”
    â€œCareful how you speak to me, Meuric,” snapped the woman. “The goddess Fari herself protects me.” Genovefa started to take some backward steps. She glanced nervously at both man and woman, sensing the invisible power struggle going on between the two. The woman turned to her. “Be still, girl. You are in no danger here. I am simply letting him know that I recognise who he is.” She looked once again to the warrior. “Do you believe in fate, Meuric?”
    â€œNo,” he answered a little too quickly and she laughed.
    â€œWhat a fool you are,” she spat at him. “How do you dream these days?”
    â€œI sleep just fine, wicce!”
    She laughed again and turned to the girl. “Come, Genovefa. It is time to answer your questions.” She stepped to one side and held the door wide enough to allow the young woman to walk through. She was only too keen to get inside the house. The witch looked to Meuric. “Will you come in also? You too may find some of the answers to the questions that you seek.” He hesitated to respond and the crone disappeared into her home. She left the door open. “Your journey begins today, Meuric.”
    â€˜â€œYour journey begins today, Meuric,”’ he repeated. That was what the being had said to him in the Travelers’ Inn. He entered through the doorway, feeling the tingle of magick ripple against his skin. Once inside he stood to one side, his back against a wall in the dimly lit room. He waited patiently for his eyes to adjust to the poor lighting.
    â€œWards protect my home, Knight Protector,” sounded the witch’s voice. “Those who follow the Dark Ones, whether man or daemon, cannot enter my home.”
    Meuric looked about. The one-roomed dwelling was spacious for a Kel’akh roundhouse. Large enough to house a family, the old woman sat to one side on a fur rug at the end of a low table while the young woman Genovefa sat at the opposite end. She glanced nervously at the dark-clad warrior who stood silently by the doorway, his grey eyes scrutinising everything closely. In the centre of the room lay a small fire, sitting neatly within a small stone circle, the smoke from which meandered lazily through the small hole in the roof directly above.
    As was characteristic of a Kel’akh homestead, there was little decoration; a pile of furs lay for a bed, small low tables sat in various spaces that were used for greeting guests and for eating off, but it was her weapons that made Meuric take stock. They had been cleaned immaculately and mounted, displayed almost with a certain amount of veneration. It was these that the warrior approached.
    A wooden stand, representative of a man, stood against one section of the wall. On its head sat a helmet, on its body rested a breastplate and, judging by the contours, it could only be worn by a woman. Across its arms lay a sword, resting neatly within a fur-trimmed scabbard and at its feet lay a circular wooden shield reinforced with straps of bronze. Though each piece was plain Meuric could make out the small runic writing that could only be made from a metalworker within Ee’ay. He reached out to