“Not without waking me, they can’t,” Yost snorted. “Think I’d let people just stroll in or out without making certain they’d paid?”
The man nodded and laid down a steel piece, more than enough for what he had not drunk. He unhitched his plain brown horse from a post at the rear of the inn, and rode off into the quiet night.
He traveled swiftly through the fields and lands, avoiding hedgerows and muddy streams. The horse’s harness brought music with every motion of the animal’s long powerful legs, each stretch and toss of its head. Moving at a steady gallop, horse and rider traveled north.
Mereklar slept quietly under the brilliance of the two moons. Solinari’s light rained down, showering the towers with silver, brightening the dimmest corners with heavenly light. Lunitari’s glow spread over the city like a blanket, peaceful and content, throwing red shadows limned with shimmering silver.
The rider galloped up to the town gates and showed the guards an emblem he carried in his hand. Gold flashed in the moonlight. The guards let him pass. Without stopping, the man raced on to his destination.
On a small hill in the very center of the city stood a house unlike any other house in Mereklar. A rectangular shape, the house had a steepled roof, with two turrets rising from the front and back, and was built from yellow-brown stone instead of the pure white stone of Mereklar. Dark wood, weathered from wind and rain, held up the walls. Vines and ivy reached up to grasp the roof. Stained glass windows, shining with myriad colors, were lit from inside, creating strange, shifting patterns that seemed alive.
The rider dismounted and lashed his horse to one of the many trees that surrounded the strange house. He
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hurried up a path made of crushed white stones that shifted under his feet. Reaching the massive oaken door, apparently cut from a single living tree, he extended his hand to touch the doorknob— a piece of metal forged in the shape of a menacing cat.
The man withdrew his hand quickly. The iron of the handle was cold with the chill night air. Reaching out again, grasping the knob with a steady hand, he pushed slightly. The door did not open. Looking around the house for some sign of life, craning his neck to peer into the colored windows, the rider tried again. This time, the door opened easily at his touch. He had heard nothing. He drew his hand back, fear creeping up his spine.
Walking inside, the rider glanced around uneasily, listening again for any sign of life. There seemed to be none, yet someone — or something — had opened the door. He walked to the far end of the wood-paneled foyer and entered the main waiting room. A plush chair should have been warm, soft, and comforting. But when he sat in it, he felt unwanted, an intruder. He sighed pensively, crossing his legs and looking around nervously, uncertain when his hostess would arrive, uncertain if there was someone else in the dark, expansive home with him.
The only sounds he heard were his heart beating in time with an unseen clock— its water dripping down at regular, measured intervals—and the sighing of the wind through an open window. He had the eerie impression that the house was alive with blood and breath. The man started to get up and pace the floor, but changed his mind at the last moment. It was as if he feared disturbing the house.
He couldn’t gauge the number of minutes that passed. Time seemed to have lost all meaning. The man was beginning to get angry. He’d been told to hasten. At the far end of the room was another door, a duplicate to the one
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the rider had first entered. He grasped the handle and twisted it down, hearing the latch click loudly in the silence of the house.
The door opened into another room, similar in size to the first, lit by a solitary fireplace at the far end. Looking in, he could dimly see bookcases filled with hundreds of books, hinting at the knowledge of ages past. Suits of armor reflected with steel-tinted light, each holding a weapon—a two-handed sword, a halberd, a pike.