"Hello, stranger," said the couple in unison.
"You look near to dropping," the woman observed kindly. "We have plenty of stew, fresh-baked bread, and dark-brewed ale, though we are not blessed with children to share it. You would be most welcome to join us for a moment or an hour to ease your journey, wherever you may be headed."
'That's very kind," Bram said, "but-"
"They say I'm a pretty fair cook," the woman coaxed, a modest smile lifting her fleshy cheeks and crinkling shut her eyes.
"Fair?" boomed her husband, patting his round stomach. "There isn't a better one for leagues, I'll wager. Actually, there isn't another cook for leagues," he confided with a chuckle. "This is a lonely stretch of road, but my Gorsha would be the best cook even if the path was littered with a dozen cottages."
Bram suddenly felt as if he'd been traveling without food for days. He shook his head sadly. "I can't tell you how much you tempt me, but to be honest, I was told not to leave the path for any reason, and-"
The man waved his hand as if to dismiss the notion. "That's just a myth the brownies spread to frighten folks and make themselves laugh," he said. "People leave the trail all the time. Unlike the brownies, who are always taking a person's food, my wife and I ask for nothing but the pleasure of giving sustenance to weary travelers like yourself."
Bram was jarred by the man's use of the dreaded 'brownie" word. Suspicious, he looked back to where he'd come from, remembering the bug creature. "Perhaps," he said slowly, so as not to offend the couple, "but I've had a close call myself, without even leaving the path."
That's unfortunate," the husband said sympathetically, "but the world's a dangerous place wherever you are."
"Why do you stay here, so far from everyone, if you're lonely?" asked Bram.
The man raised his shoulders and spread his hands to take in his homestead. "Who could leave such beauty as this, and why would we want to? We've made it everything we've ever dreamed. It suits us, and if the price is a little loneliness, it is a small enough fee." The woman nodded silently by his side.
Bram was sorely tempted, and it took every ounce of discipline he had to recall Thistledown's words once more. He bit his bottom lip until it hurt, then forced the words from his throat, "Thank you again, but I must be moving on."
"As you will," said the man. He and his wife regarded Bram with pity, lifted their shoulders in resignation, and stepped back into their homey and inviting cottage.
No doubt to have some delicious stew, Bram thought, gritting his teeth as he continued down the path. They'd made no untoward move, neither mentioned his coin, nor turned into vile creatures when he refused them.
Bram spun around and looked at the beautiful cottage, his eyes seeking some sign of the couple. His orbs were drawn, instead, to a bright whiteness in the yard behind the small building, previously screened from his view by the cottage itself. He blinked and focused again. The whiteness came from a pile of bones-legs, arms, and skulls-piled as high as the cottage itself, and picked clean. Bram broke into a run again, thankful he had withstood another deadly temptation.
The young nobleman came to the second fork in the road just as a pack of unseen creatures, like enormous moles, burrowed under the path in lumpy waves. Instead of cracking apart, the brick path heaved up like a gently snapped rope, throwing Bram to his knees. He dug his fingers around the loose edges of a brick and clung to it to stay on the path. Breathless, Bram waited many moments after the rumbling and heaving stopped before he crawled back to his feet and hastened on.
At a distance, the third path to the left looked the same, a little wider, a little brighter, perhaps, than the first two. The sight instantly renewed his flagging energy, for he felt certain it couldn't be much farther to Wayreth after the fork. He approached the turn with lighter feet.
Bram heard rustling in the bushes in the right V of the fork and he jumped back, instinctively putting a hand to the coin at his waist. Up popped a man, waist- high in greenery. Eyes on Bram, the man pushed his way through the bushes toward the fork. When he emerged, the nobleman could see that the man was actually a centaur. The man's naked, muscular chest stretched back into the chestnut-brown body of a horse. Four hooves clattered on the cobblestones as the creature moved to plant himself in the middle of the fork. A sword was strapped across his back, and he held a staff before him defensively, his expression distrustful.
"Which way will you go, stranger?"
"Left," said Bram, trying to get a better look at the oddly beautiful being.
"You may not go to the left," the creature said.
Bram frowned at the centaur's tone. "But I was instructed to take this fork to the left."
"You can only go to the right at this fork," explained the centaur unhelpfully.
Bram shook his head. "I don't want to take the right fork. I was instructed to follow the left fork because it is the only one that leads to Wayreth."
"But you can't."
Bram's eyes narrowed. "I can't go to Wayreth, or I can't take this fork?"
A corner of the centaur's mouth drew up slightly. "It appears for you they're one and the same."
"Look, Mr. Centaur," Bram said with thinly veiled sarcasm, "the tuatha gave me a coin and said that it would allow me to go anywhere I wanted in the faerie realm, including to Wayreth."
"You have a coin?" said the centaur. "Then the tuatha spoke truly to you. Give the coin to me and you can go anywhere you wish."
"If you know about faerie coins," Bram said evenly, "then you also know I can't give the coin to you and still get safely to Wayreth."
The centaur shrugged. "Then you can't go left."
Bram slammed his hands on his hips. "Who are you to tell me where I can and can't go?"
The centaur lifted a brow and looked over his shoulder to the weapon on his back. "I'm the centaur with the sword."
And I'm the man with the vegetable peeler, Bram thought ruefully, recalling his little knife. "Yes, I suppose you are," he said instead.
The centaur continued to look at Bram expectantly, rhythmically tapping his staff in his hand.
Bram turned and stared back down the path he had walked. It looked the same behind as it did ahead. In fact, the intersection looked nearly identical from any direction. He paused, momentarily confused. He had come down the path and tried to veer to the left, which was now behind him to his right. An idea came; it was not necessarily a good one, for it interfered with his original plans somewhat, but it might pacify the centaur.
"What if I go back the way I came and take the right fork?" Bram asked. "Would that be acceptable to you?"
"I don't care where you go," said the centaur in a bored voice, "as long as you don't take the left fork."
"Yes, I hear that's not allowed," Guerrand said as he turned around and set off down the path.
Behind him to his left, the centaur shouted, "Where do you think you're going now? That's not the way you came."
The exclamation was punctuated by clattering hooves and a great deal of crashing and scraping, as the centaur bounded through the thick brush that hemmed in the Y intersection.