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I spied them in the branches above, shadows springing from tree to tree. Silently, in unison with the howling wind, bare limbs clattering together, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, masking their advance to the untrained ear.

“Is it always so windy this side of Mayenne?” My frosty breath dissipated before me. The wind swelled, revealing my crossbow underneath, and nearly taking my wool hat with it. I tucked my journal into my pocket, and pulled my coat shut.

“Always.” The guide prodded his black mare forward. He was tall and slender, dawning a white lace shirt and tan breeches, oblivious to the biting wind. Brown curls fell to his shoulders, green eyes matching the emerald stream behind him. “I am Darrien Laroche, son of Hadrian.” He offered a hand.

“No names.” I waved him off, preferring to linger in the shade of the tree. “After you, my friend.”