The Sorcerer's Widow

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Kel shaded his eyes against the bright afternoon sun and gazed at the little cluster of buildings ahead. “Is that it?” he asked.

“I suppose so,” Ezak replied, walking steadily up the path. “We followed the directions.”

“It’s tiny,” Kel said, hurrying to catch up. “I see…” He paused and counted silently, jabbing his forefinger at the air, then said, “I see just six houses.”

“Four,” Ezak corrected him. “One’s an inn and one’s a blacksmith’s forge.”

“Four,” Kel said, musing. “Four? Just four houses?”

“Just four. But there are at least thirty or forty families on the farms around it.”

Kel glanced at the surrounding fields, and the scattered houses of the families that tended them, then turned his attention back to the village ahead-if so small a gathering could even be called a village. “This sorcerer lived in one of the four?” he asked.

“That’s what Uncle Vezalis said.”

“Who lives in the other three?”

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