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pipe by the fire, which Tatrice thought was odd. She knew he was aware of them.
    The reeve took off his black jacket and hung it on a hook by the door. “Please, help yourself to some bittering tea.”
    “No, thank you,” Tatrice said. She turned to Bren. “Go ahead.”
    “Don’t mind if I do,” Bren said. He removed his leather gloves and took a tin cup from a peg on the wall near the stove. He rubbed out the cup with the tail of his shirt and poured the tea. Bren took a cautious sip of the hot liquid as he faced the chair of the stranger at an angle, just enough to see the man’s face. He swallowed the bittering tea hard as the two made eye contact.
    The stranger took the opportunity to stand, taking his pipe from his lips. “No need to be alarmed. We are all friendly here.”
    Tatrice gasped. The man standing from the obscurity of the chair was Toborne, or rather, the visage of Drakkius inhabited by Toborne. She recognized him from Brightonhold. Tatrice reached for her sword but realized they had left their weapons tied to their horses. She abruptly became aware of the fact they had left their horses and provisions unattended, something they would never do, especially if they were worried about bandits nearby. “Trickery. You have cast some sort of spell. What have you done?”
    Toborne put his pipe back into his mouth and held his hands out to his sides, palms forward. “No tricks here. If you are worried about your horses, they are already in the stables by now, safe and sound. All you have brought to Briarwick will be safely returned to you. You have my word.”
    “Your word is worthless,” Bren said.
    “Oh, now that isn’t very gentlemanlike. I am not the bad man I am portrayed to be.” Toborne put his hands down. “How may I prove it to you?”
    “Let us be on our way, that’s how,” Tatrice said.
    “You are not prisoners, my dear, no one is keeping you here.” He puffed on his pipe and gestured toward the door. “You may leave anytime you wish. I bid you good day.” He turned to the fireplace; puffs of white smoke lifted into the air above his head. Bannon took a seat behind his polished wooden desk and began packing a smoking pipe.
    The blissful aroma of the vanilla-scented tabac filled the air as Bannon lit his pipe.
    Several moments passed before Toborne glanced at Bren. “Still here?”
    Bren shared a look with Tatrice. She didn’t know what to tell him. Bannon took out two new briarwood pipes and pushed them across the desk. Tatrice abstained but motioned that it was all right for Bren to take one. Her husband eagerly took a pipe and began searching for his bag of tabac. “Here.” Bannon slid his pouch of tabac to Bren. “Why not try mine? It’s a special blend grown in south Adracoria.”
    “Thank you, friend.” Bren took the tabac and filled his pipe. “I was hoping to pick up one of these pipes while passing through.”
    “Aye.” Bannon winked. “Briarwick is famous for its fine smoking pipes. Keep it; it’s yours.”
    “Thank you, but I . . .”
    “Reeve,” Tatrice interrupted. “You had some questions?” She eyed Toborne. She knew he was dangerous, but the danger kept slipping from her mind. Toborne felt familiar, fatherly, and warm. She had to fight to keep her sense of danger about him.
    “That can wait. Sit down and rest.” He pointed to a wooden chair in front of his desk.
    “I insist.”
    The reeve took a long moment. “All right. How do you know the imprinter?”
    “We met her earlier this winter in Ormond’s Arch.”
    “Ah,” he said, “you two are married.”
    Tatrice was somehow offended by the comment. “Not by choice.”
    The reeve took his pipe out of his mouth and leaned forward. “You were coerced or tricked, then?”
    “Well, not exactly. We were unaccustomed to the traditions of Trigothia, and we stumbled into it by accident.” Her explanation sounded so ridiculous to her when she said it out loud. “I thought you wanted to ask about