The sky over Stonewell hung low and the color of wet slate. It pressed on the thatch and the low dry-stone walls and the clothesline of white linens that flapped without enthusiasm in a thin wind. Brown chickens scratched in the dirt by the round rough-stone well, indifferent to prophecy. Beyond the wall the wheat stood golden and unharvested, a sea that went on until it met the dark line of the forest, and above the forest, jagged on its hill, the ruined bulk of Castle Veyne kept its broken teeth pointed at the clouds.
Miren hauled the well rope with her sleeves pushed up past her elbows. The teal peasant dress had been her mother's; the coarse beige linen apron was her own. Her bright red hair, long and wavy, stuck to her temples with effort. The crank complained. The bucket rose. She was thinking about nothing more dangerous than whether the miller's boy would remember to leave three sacks for the elder's winter store when the rope jerked, once, as if something below had taken hold of it.
She froze.
Looking down into the damp dark circle of the well, she saw movement against the wet stones: a scramble of talons, a fold of leathery wing, a glint of dark scale. Not a rat. Not a fallen bird. Something climbing.
"Edric?" Her voice came out thinner than she meant.
He was already coming up the path from the lower field, staff in hand—a long thick wooden handle he used for everything from propping gates to leaning on while he argued. Shoulder-length tousled brown hair, loose unbleached linen shirt open at the throat, twenties and already carrying the look of a man who woke early because the world did not wait. Concern drew his brows together before he even reached her.
"What is it?"
She pointed down. From the bottom looking up, they would have been only silhouettes against the grey sky, two worried shapes leaning over a circle of light. The creature climbed on, small as a hen and twice as serious, dark-scaled, winged like a bat that had borrowed a lizard's pride. In one set of claws it clutched a torn, frayed piece of bright crimson cloth.
Miren leaned over and gently reached a hand down toward it.
"Don't hurt it."
Edric stepped forward, gripping his staff. "It's in our water."
The claws tightened on the red cloth. Edric's gaze snapped from the scrap to the distant hill, to the forest line, to the ruined castle. Dread arrived in his face like weather.
"The King."