Watching from the side, he found it surprising how little the others seemed to be truly worried about the storm, the whispers of daemons, and the bustle of knights in the lower levels of Tashijan. Up higher, a certain degree of orderliness and routine persisted. To Liannora and her two lapdogs, Mistress Ryndia and Master Khar, it was all so much high adventure, requiring such brutal sacrifice as tolerating a meal served late.
And what a meal it was. The board was piled high enough to feed thrice their number. A covey of roasted grouse, stuffed with nut mash and corn, centered the table, surrounded by steaming loaves of oaten bread along with cheeses, both hard and soft, and boiled eggs painted in the Oldenbrook hues of blue and silver. A pair of scullions hauled off a large kettle-bowl of winter squash stew, requiring a pole through the handles to lift it from the table.
Such was the enormity of the fare that the captain of the guard shared a few plates with his men at the doors, who ate standing. While at the table, Sten and the Hands sipped tall crystal flutes of warmed sweetwine.
Brant suspected such largesse was mostly to keep the visitors calm and sated, as much a strategy of the warden as the flaming fortifications below. Chaos in the upper reaches would only hamper efforts below.
So he stayed silent during the long meal.
But Liannora was not satisfied with the fare alone. It seemed entertainment was also necessary this night.
“To keep these wolfkits, on our level, among our rooms, unbathed,” she sniffed and nodded to Sten. “If nothing else, it’s unclean.”
“They will be kept to my chambers,” Brant said.
“How can we know that for certain? Did they not worry themselves free of your giants’ charge, escaping away?”
Brant’s chair rested before the room’s hearth, the fire in full blaze behind him. He felt already near to roasted, and with his brow moist, he found little patience to dance with Liannora. “They’re staying here.”
“That is not your decision,” Liannora said. Plainly she remained upset at being snubbed earlier outside the castellan’s chambers, and now sought to punish him. “In all matters of our security and well-being, Sten is the final word.”
Ryndia and Khar nodded their agreement, murmuring their assent over their goblets of wine.
Brant turned to the captain of the guard.
Something in Brant’s eye gave Sten pause. “Mistress, perhaps it would be better…until the matter is settled below—”
Liannora touched his arm, silencing him. “These are indeed difficult times. We must try our best to be of service to Tashijan. Keeping the cubbies in these fine quarters will strain our welcome here. If any of us should become ill from our confinement with them…”
Ryndia lifted a fold of cloth to her nose. “I smelled them when I walked past Master Brant’s room on my way here. It all but made me swoon.”
Khar nodded, whistling a bit through his thin nose. “And their howling…pierced right through the wall to my bedchamber. I doubt my slumber this night will be undisturbed. Such disorder will surely burden my constitution.”
Brant scowled at the pair of Hands. Ryndia was as hearty as a well-fed cow, and Khar was known to sleep entire days away.
“If that be the case,” Sten began, avoiding Brant’s eye, “then we have a duty to rid them from our level. I’m sure my guards can find some lonely cage, away from the bustle, for the pair.”
Brant stood up, knocking his chair back, almost into the hearth’s flame. “They’ll not be moved.” He stared across the breadth of the table. “I will not play this game of yours, Liannora. If you’re upset with me, then state it plainly. Quit these little pokes.”
Liannora opened her eyes wider, the picture of innocence. “I’m certain I don’t know of what you’re clamoring about. I only seek the best for all.”
Sten sat more stiffly in his seat. “Master Brant, with all deference, I think it mightily rude of you to speak to the mistress in such a harsh manner. Plainly she only wishes everyone’s comfort here.”
Brant’s lips hardened. “Try to take the cubbies—any of you—and you’ll face my daggers,” he said in a low and certain voice.
Liannora waved a dismissive hand. “What did I tell you? He’s as wild as his cubbies. There is no reasoning with him. You, Sten, are witness to his threat against me. Such matters must be brought before the attention of Lord Jessup upon our return. And I’ll ask that you set a guard upon his door or I’d fear some attack during the night.”
Sten was already on his feet. “Master Brant, you leave me little choice. I’ll ask that you retire to your chambers. Perhaps in the morning more sense will prevail, and you’ll apologize for such an affront.”
Two guards obeyed some hidden signal and came forward to flank Brant.
Brant only then realized how artfully he had been manipulated. The threat against the whelpings was only a feint, one meant to draw him out for the true attack. And he had fallen into the trap readily.
Liannora’s next words confirmed his suspicion. “And let him keep his cubbies—at least for this one night. I’m sure we can all endure their presence for the sake of peace and good grace.”
“Most generous and reasonable,” Ryndia said.
“More than he deserves,” Khar echoed on cue.
Sten nodded his thanks and faced Brant with an exasperated sigh. “If you’ll accompany us,” he said and headed to the door.
Brant followed. He had dug himself a deep enough grave.
Still Liannora could not help but cast one more dagger. “In the morning, we’ll settle this matter of the cubbies.”
Brant did not rise to this further challenge. He held his tongue and gladly left the small dining hall. The door closed behind him—but not before he caught a small twitter of suppressed laughter from Ryndia.
He also heard Liannora’s soft scold to her friend. “Oh, this is not over.”
Brant allowed himself to be escorted back to his chambers. Guards or not, he looked forward to escaping to the confines of his rooms. But as he neared his door by the central stairs, he noted a knight standing at the landing, framed in torchlight, reminding him of the greater danger they all faced.
Sten stopped at his door.
Brant stepped forward and grabbed the latch.
“Ho!” a call rose from the stairs.
All eyes turned. A group of cloaked figures pushed past the lone guard and entered the hall. Warily, Brant backed a step, especially when the lead figure shed his cloak’s hood. It was the regent again, Tylar ser Noche.
What now? Had something happened to Dart?
The regent’s eyes settled on Brant. “I would have a private word with Master Brant,” Tylar said, turning and acknowledging Sten, noting the crossed raven’s feathers at his collar, marking the captain’s station.
Sten also recognized the triple-striped countenance of the regent. “Certainly, your lordship.”
“Very good.”
Brant swallowed to find his voice. It seemed this long night was far from over. “Please use my chambers…” He waved to the door.
The regent nodded.
Brant undid the latch and pushed. He stood aside for them to enter. He recognized one of the regent’s companions, the thin and bearded figure from before. Rogger was his name, as he recalled. He gave Brant a reassuring pat as he passed inside.
The next figure stood a head taller than all of them, buried in his cloak. Brant did not know him. Behind the stranger, the last figure stopped at the threshold. It was a woman under the gray cloak, though her face was hidden behind ash.
Brant frowned. What was a member of the Black Flaggers doing here with the regent?
The tall man nodded to her. “Keep any ears from our door,” he instructed her.
She turned her back, standing before the doorway, fists coming to rest on her hips. She glanced over to Sten. The captain backed a full two steps before seeming to collect himself.
Brant instantly warmed to her and closed the door.
>
Behind him, a voice boomed a bit. “Who are you lot?”
Brant turned and hurried after the three men into the greeting hall of his chambers. The giant rose up from where he had been sitting cross-legged by the fire. He stood in his wool stockings, worn through at the toes, and had shed his greatcoat. He had a greasy turkey leg in one hand.
At his feet, a black nose retreated into one of his boots, dragging a worn snippet of bone. It seemed the whelpings had found a den for the night. A thready snarl flowed out of the boot, as wary of the intrusion as Malthumalbaen.
“It’s all right, Mal,” Brant said. “If you wouldn’t mind taking the whelpings into the next room and shutting the door. Where’s your brother?”
The large man pointed his turkey leg toward the back. “Had to use the privy, if that were all right?”
“Of course.”
“You say that now,” Mal answered jovially. “But wait ’til you go in there.”
“I must have a word with the regent,” Brant said, nodding to Tylar, who had bent a knee to peer inside the boot, drawn by the curiosity.
Mal shifted straighter, eyes widening again. “Ach, then I should be joining Dral.” He stepped toward his occupied boot. “If you’ll excuse me, ser.”
So much for Oldenbrook’s surprise.
“Cubbies,” Brant acknowledged and stepped forward. “To be presented to you and the warden after the knighting ceremony.”
“Fell wolves, are they not?” Tylar asked, sitting back, a measure of surprise in his voice. “Handsome creatures. How did you come by them?”
“I rescued them from the same storm that besets us this night.”
“Might near killed himself doing it,” Malthumalbaen added.
Brant felt his cheeks heat up.
The regent shared a glance with his bearded friend and stood.
Brant motioned to Malthumalbaen, who bent down and scooped up his large boot, earning a few sharper growls. The giant carried them toward the back room. “If you need me, Master Brant…”
Brant took some solace in the giant’s support. Once they were alone and the door shut, he faced the others. “How may I be of help?”
Tylar’s brow remained furrowed, crinkling the topmost stripe tattooed at the corner of his eyes. “First, tell us more about your rescue of these cubbies.”
“And the storm,” Rogger added.
Brant stared around the room. The tall stranger stood with one hand resting on the stone mantel of the hearth, the other on the hilt of his sword. It bore a distinct serpent’s head carved from silver, not the black diamond of a shadowknight’s sword. Still, there was something vaguely familiar about the blade.
Avoiding this one’s eyes, Brant cleared his throat and briefly told the story of his search for the abandoned cubbies, of the strange nature of the storm, and of its deadly cold.
“So the storm was gathering force as it swept south,” Rogger said. “Sucking the life’s breath out of the land.”
“I warned Lord Jessup, but once the storm had passed, there was little to discover, swept under a blanket of snow.”
Tylar nodded and mumbled as he paced one length of the room. “It seems this storm has swept all of us here for various reasons.” The regent turned on a heel and again faced Brant. “But what I need to know more is what swept you here.”
“Ser?”
Tylar asked the question that Brant was loath to ever answer. “How did you come to be exiled, Master Brant? What swept you up on our shores?”
Stunned by the strange turn of the inquiry, Brant stumbled for words. “I don’t see how—?”
“You’d best answer the question,” Rogger said from the other side, balancing the tip of a dagger on a finger. Brant had failed to note the man slip it from any sheath.
“And what do you know about a skull?” the ominous stranger asked by the hearth. “The skull of a rogue god.”
Brant fell back a step as the world shifted under his heels. “What…?” The back of his legs struck a chair. He sank down into it. A hand rose to the scar on his neck, a warding gesture.
Three pairs of eyes bore down upon him.
A keening wail filled his head, threatening to drown him away.
“Tell us,” Tylar demanded.
Brant shook his head—not refusing, but attempting to stop his slide into the past. He failed.
It had been a wet spring in Saysh Mal, when the jungle wept and moss grew thick on anything that risked stopping in one place for too long. Such did not describe the three boys that day as they lit out down the soggy forest path, enjoying the warming day that held the promise of a long summer to come in the streaks of bright sunlight cutting through the canopy.
Flitters buzzed the ear and nattered the skin, requiring the occasional slap to neck or arm. A pair of squabbling long-tailed tickmonks caterwauled from the trees, stopping only long enough to pass on a scolding howl at the boys running below before continuing their argument.
“Brant, wait for me!” shouted Harp. He limped after the faster boys, encumbered by a weak leg, a birthing kink that could not be cured with any manner of Grace.
Brant slowed their pace, though Marron ran another few paces before stopping, swinging around with a wide smile. “If we’re any later, we’ll miss seeing the match!”
They had been released early from Master Hoarin’s class on mushrooms and molds to attend a marksman contest to be held at the midday bell. But to make it in time, they still had to hurry.
Marron’s uncle had won the third match yesterday and this was the last spar. Half the villages had emptied out for the yearly culmination of hunting skills, to be held at the Grove. Wreathed crowns had already been handed out for skill with spear, dagger, and snare, for the most fleet of foot, for the most silent of step. This day ended with the crowning Hunter of the Way, the man or woman who had shown the most skill over the course of the four-day challenge. The Huntress herself usually granted this crown, but she had missed many such appearances over the past several moons, falling more and more into solitude and gloomy silences.
All hoped to see her again in her usual shining manner.
If only for the one day.
Perhaps this reason more than any had drawn a larger crowd than usual. If the boys wanted a good view of the final event—a display of marksmanship of bow and arrow—they’d need to hurry.
Harp huffed up to them, limping heavier.
“Take my shoulder,” Brant said.
The boy, younger by two years than the others, nodded his thanks, leaning his weight on Brant.
Ahead, Marron all but danced with his excitement. The family of the winner would be on the dais for the crowning. Marron had been chattering about meeting the Huntress over the past two days as his uncle rose in the rankings.
They took off again for the Grove.
Harp moved faster now. “You’ll be on the dais one of these years, Brant. ’Course, after you cross fourteen.” Brant knew the younger boy held his hunting skills in esteem, mostly because Brant let him come along on a few forays.
Few extended such invitations to the hobbled boy. His manner was odd, and whatever ailment had left him with a shrunken leg at birth had also sapped his strength. He was thin-boned and hawkish of features. And in a realm where swiftness of foot and skill with spear and arrow were valued, few found him a desired companion.
But Brant also knew that behind that weakened body hid a keen mind and a generous heart. There was a reason the boy had advanced two years in schooling. Sometimes Brant noted how his eyes seemed lost in some other place, gone off to somewhere deep in his mind. And a part of Brant envied his escape.
“You’ll definitely be Hunter of the Way one day. Surely-girly,” Harp said. It was one of his strange habits: rhyming when he was excited. Several of the boys taunted him about it, but Brant knew his friend couldn’t help it.
“Your father was crowned, wasn’t he?” Harp continued, rushing and gasping. “Twice, right?”
B
rant felt a sharp pain, puncturing his joy and draining it away. It had only been a little over a year, and the loss of his father still tore like a fresh wound. He fought back the melancholy that filled so many of his days and even more of his nights. He wouldn’t let it ruin this day. It was too bright for dark thoughts. Still, a shadow followed him. It felt like dread.
Ahead, Marron ran faster when the murmur of the crowd flowed to them, sounding like the great rustling of dry leaves. “I’ll save a spot!”
Fleeing his dark thoughts, Brant hurried after his friend, almost tripping Harp. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
They rounded a bend in the path, and the Grove opened ahead. It was a great natural hollow in the forest, ringed by ancient pompbonga-kee trees. They were the great sentinels of the cloud forest and grew no place else in all the Nine Lands. Their wood was iron strong but light as the mists that crept through the cloud forest. It was from such wood that all the keels and ribbing for Myrillia’s flippercraft were hewn, enriching the realm.
The nine mighty trees that circled the hollow were known as the Graces. It was said they were planted by the Huntress herself when she chose to build her castillion here at the edge of the hollow, in the bower of the most ancient of all the forest’s trees, a great behemoth that was already ancient when she settled this realm.
Brant led Harp out into the edge of the Grove. The giant pompbonga-kee trees circled the hollow, their branches forming a wreath of green over the natural amphitheater. In the center, it was open to the sky. The midday sun blazed down upon the center of the hollow, turning the green meadow below into an emerald sea.
Spreading up the slopes were crowds of onlookers, many with blankets spread, enjoying the spring warmth as much as the games. Down farther, ringing the center field, the crowd was packed shoulder to shoulder. Out here at the fringes, many had climbed into the branches of the Graces, where balconies and stands had been built long ago. Drapes of spring flowers decorated the levels and twined up the stair railings.