Oath of Gold

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The village seemed faintly familiar, but most villages were much alike. Not until she came to the crossroads with its inn did she realize she had been here before. There was the paved inn court, and the wide door, and the bright sign—The Jolly Potboy—hanging over it. Her breath seemed to freeze in her chest. The crossroads was busier than she remembered; there was much bustling in and out of the inn. The windows to the common bar were wide open, and clear across the road she heard a roar of laughter she recognized. She flinched. They might recognize her, even in the clothes she wore now. She thought of the coins in her purse, and the meal she’d hoped to buy—but she could not go there, of all places, and order a meal of Jos Hebbinford. Nor was there any other place to go: she was known in Brewersbridge, and dared not beg a scrap from some housewife lest she be recognized.

Paks shook her head, fighting back tears. Once she had ridden these streets—stayed at that inn—had friends in every gathering.

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