December 29, 1371
December 29, 1371Only a fool rides at night in these times, especially with a burden as precious as mine. The sky was darkening as the shadowed walls of a burg rose beside of the road. It was York, not far enough from Ravensmuir to my thinking, but the darkness gave me pause.
It seemed that Ravensmuir breathed at my very back. Though my brother was dead, I had stolen from him. I half-expected his specter to demand some grisly compense of me. Though I am not a superstitious man, I would have preferred to have all of England and half the continent betwixt Merlyn’s corpse and I. The ominous shadows lurking on either side did little to ease my trepidation.
The rain began while I tried to recall how far it was to another settlement, let alone one I might find hospitable to
