Neither the sergeant nor I craned ourselves out beyond the merlons to watch our visitor enter the ward behind our moat and curtain. But we knew that she was inside our sanctuary by the sound of groaning beams and clacking gears that told us the drawbridge was once again being raised into its defendable position. The bridge met its resting nook beneath our feet with an ominous thud underscoring the finality of the event. A heretic has been admitted entrance to our fortress. Neither of us spoke, for there were no more words that could be said.
“Welcome to Panther’s Forge,” I heard a voice from below. I knew the voice and hearing it disturbed me. “We offer you hospitality. In accordance with the customs of our land, please accept this meat and mead as testament to our pact,” I heard the voice of My Lord, not his seneschal say.
“Return to your duties, sergeant,” I said as I disengaged from our embrace and ran towards the stone stairs that led back down to the ward.
“We prefer to eat and drink of the vines,” the voice I heard was melodic and unknown to me but distinctly female. The tone was not rude, but matter of fact with a slight air of arrogance as if explaining something that should already be known. “I accept your hospitality.” I heard her continue and saw her take a bite of the venison back strap and then sip a mead that was of such a fine quality that my lips had never touched it.
The Witch had accepted the hospitality, and it was offered by My Lord’s own hand. The avenues of being able to wriggle ourselves out of the conundrum that we were fixed in were becoming increasingly scarce.
Anonymity Gone 