Authors: Tim Akers
“So why, then?”
Martin shrugged. “No one knows, but if it’s Volent, it’s dangerous business.”
“Well, at least we won’t have to face him in the tilting.” Ian leaned back to watch the gentle tournament. “That’s all I care about today.” Despite his words, however, he felt his stomach twist in anticipation—though he wasn’t about to let it show.
Before Martin could reply the first round of the gentle tournament began. The lines of girls danced forward, jabbing, countering with the hafts of their spears and yelling as their points struck home. One contestant was on the ground, her opponent cringing in front of a judge. Ian couldn’t imagine Nessie out there, her rosy eyes watering from a spear to the belly.
“Hannah does well enough,” Martin noted, drawing Ian’s eye to where the girl from Frosthold was sparring with a bigger opponent who had better reach and faster feet, but less form.
“She makes better use of the length of the spear,” Ian agreed, “but falls back too quickly. She must press her advantage if she’s to reach the next round.”
“That’s probably going through her opponent’s mind, as well,” Martin agreed.
There were several more passes between the girls, Hannah Thaen pushing forward, blocking the counterstrike and then falling quickly back. After a couple rounds of this, her opponent began to follow up on Hannah’s retreat, challenging the smaller girl with a system of rapid jabs that put Hannah on her heels.
The third time, however, Hannah didn’t fall back at all. After the counterstrike, she took one step back and then set her spear. Her opponent charged forward, expecting the retreat. Hannah’s spear took the girl in the chin. The judge stepped in as the girl fell.
“A rough penalty, that one,” Ian said. The head was off limits.
“Perhaps, but Hannah will take the round. Her opponent will be off her game after a blow like that one.” Martin leaned back and smiled. “Especially if Hannah continues to press.”
“You know this because you’ve studied the players?”
“I know this because I’ve played the spear with Lady Thaen,” Martin said. “A hundred times, if twice—and get your mind out of the gutter. Hannah’s a proper woman.”
“You’ve practiced the gentle art?” Ian laughed. “I imagine your father was thrilled.”
“Father doesn’t know. I asked too many questions of the girl after the last equinox, and she offered to show me. I have more bruises from those lessons than from years with my father’s man-at-arms.”
“And what’s the point of that? Practice in case you’re called upon to fight a legion of women?”
“Ian, you make fun of our delicate Suhdrin ways, but there’s a purpose to the things we do.” Martin gestured toward the field. “These women are practicing for a war that may never come, but if it
does
come, they’ll be ready. That’s our history. Sometimes the men all die, or are sick, or are off at war when the raiders arrive, and someone has to hold the walls.”
“Those raiders were usually Tenerran tribesmen,” Ian noted, “and the war more likely a crusade, with soldiers putting steel in the bellies of pagan children.”
“Aye,” Marcus said with a sigh. “Let us be glad that those days are behind us.”
“For now,” Ian agreed as lightly as he could. Then a cheer went up from the crowd. Hannah had won her match, so the judge was holding up the blue and gray of House Thaen. Martin nodded to the girl on the field and smiled, then huddled back over his mug of coffee.
“It’s as I said. Know your opponent, know the fight. Win a thousand times.”
“Then I’m glad you and I will never have to compete,” Ian said.
“The names for the lists haven’t been drawn yet, dear boy,” Martin replied. “We may cross blades yet.”
They both laughed.
T
HE ROOM WAS
quiet. The gathered host, men and women of Adair, including Gwen and her chosen blades, remained tense in their chairs. The priest, silent since their return to the castle, sat to one side, hunched over the table at the room’s center. Colm Adair sat on the Sedgewind throne, his finger tapping lightly against its arm.
“Did they see you?” he asked after a long moment.
“We put steel into their bellies,” Gwen said. “So yes, I think they saw us.”
There was a brief smattering of laughter around the room. The baron rose suddenly to his feet.
“Don’t be a fool,” Colm snapped. “You know what I mean! Did Sir Volent see your face? Does he know who rode against them? Will he be able to lay those bodies at our gate?”
“I don’t…”
“Because if this ends in blood, Gwendolyn Adair, it will be the last hunt you ride. Do you understand me?”
“You can’t mean to withdraw my title,” Gwen hissed. “I did nothing wrong. Unless you consider it wrong to stop the slaughter of innocent peasants at the hands of a madman?”
“I consider it wrong to provoke a neighbor whose business we barely know. The peace that stands is a fragile thing, daughter. If the cost of that peace is turning a blind eye to the Deadface’s blight, then that is a price I will pay.”
“I do not care for that kind of a peace,” Gwen said, bristling.
“Yet you are my heir, and it’s about time someone reminded you of your duty to this family, as well as to the fallen gods.”
Gwen seethed at her father. Sir Hogue cleared his throat and addressed the room at large.
“Perhaps the priest can speak to this. Was Sir Volent at fault? You were there, after all.”
“There’s nothing I can say that will help,” Frair Lucas offered quietly.
“As always, the church is silent on Halverdt’s depredations. What a surprise,” Hogue said sharply. Colm Adair gestured the man to silence.
“Brother priest, we appreciate your help in hunting the gheist, and your warning us of the creature from Gardengerry,” the baron said, “but I’m not certain this is the business of the church.”
“All business belongs to the church, in some way,” Lucas said. He stood slowly, pausing to rest his hand on the table before straightening. “This business more than most. Heartsbridge would not see war between Tener and Suhdra. Not over this.”
“Do you speak for the celestriarch? Can you level his condemnation against Sir Volent?” Hogue asked with a sneer.
“No, that is not my business, nor my place. I can only advise. But you have no interest in such things, so I must go.”
“Wait,” Colm Adair said quickly. He shot a look at his daughter, who was sitting quietly at the corner of the table, as far from attention as she could manage. “If asked, what advice would you give?”
“Simply this,” Lucas replied. “Apologize to the duke. Seek your damages through the courts of Cinder. Keep your swords in your belts.”
“And stand aside when Halverdt comes north to break us, I suppose,” Sir Doone said.
“If the duke marches north, you will of course have the right to defend yourself, but if the word we’ve had from Greenhall is true, Malcolm Blakley is there now, seeking to settle matters before they get out of hand.”
“That dog likes to be petted too much,” Doone complained. “How convenient that he traveled south before Volent came reaving.”
“It does seem fortunate timing,” Colm Adair said. “I would never accuse the church of such trickery, but Blakley finds himself in a ripe spot to settle this.”
“And that troubles you?” Lucas asked.
“He may make concessions to which we would never agree, simply to keep the peace. The Reaverbane has a taste for compromise.”
“You think the church planned this, then put him in place to surrender your rights, and then manufactured a situation that would force him to negotiate,” Lucas suggested. He shook his head. “Halverdt and Adair have been at each other’s throats for decades. There would be no need to manufacture that kind of trouble. Indeed, if Blakley steps in, you should count yourself lucky. He has the faith of the south, and the trust of the north. No man is better equipped to speak for you.”
“He has never spoken for me,” Adair said quietly. “Blakley has always seemed more interested in appeasing the church—and Gabriel Halverdt.”
“Ah, I see,” Lucas responded. “Fine. Clearly you have arrived at your own conclusions, and have no interest in what I have to say. That being the case, I will leave.”
“Where will you go?” Gwen asked.
“Greenhall. My vow knight is there. I must confer with her before we decide how to proceed.”
“Proceed?” Gwen asked.
“We’ve had three gheists within a breath of the Allfire, a time that is never troubled by such manifestations. Does that not trouble you, Huntress?”
“I find it… odd,” she allowed.
“As do I,” Lucas said. “My calling is to investigate odd things, so my search must continue. Be careful, Huntress. If Sir LaFey can not defeat this gheist from Gardengerry, it may find its way into your territories.”
“Where it will meet its death,” she answered.
“I pray you are right,” he replied. “And now, gentlemen, bladewomen, I bid you good day.”
Before they could respond, Frair Lucas stepped briskly away from the table and out into the hall. He was nearly at the stables when footsteps caught up with him. He turned to find a knight approaching him, a man of later years and with Suhdrin features. Sir Merret—the man who had ridden with them against the gheist.
“I was expecting Gwen Adair,” Lucas said.
“You will have to make do with me,” he said. “She has asked me to accompany you.”
“Are you coming to protect me, or to spy on me?”
“Neither. We are merely going to the same place.”
“Oh? And what business do you have in Greenhall?” Lucas asked.
“My lord thought it wise to tell the duke of Houndhallow and the other Tenerran knights what has occurred,” Merret said. “In case there’s trouble.”
“Oh, there will be trouble,” Lucas muttered. “Very well, we ride quickly, Sir Merret, and we leave immediately.”
“I would have it no other way.”
* * *
Concerned as he was with Elsa’s safety, Frair Lucas was determined to reach Greenhall as quickly as possible. Faced with Sir Merret’s age, the priest fortified the knight as they traveled south, enabling them to steal hours from the night and keeping fatigue from man’s mind. As a result, less than a week found them at the verge of their destination, staring down at its walls.
Lucas brought them to a halt.
“This is as far as we go together,” he said.
“Afraid to be seen in the company of a knight of Tener?” Merret asked. The man’s voice was dreamy, reflecting the effects of Lucas’s magics.
“I think you have more to fear in being seen with me,” Lucas answered. “No, I would rather enter the city without the duke’s knowledge of where I’ve been. Gabriel Halverdt is a suspicious man, and will not trust any rider from the north.”
“Even a priest?”
“Well, this priest at least,” Lucas said. “And your business is too urgent for that. Continue on, but if asked by Halverdt’s men, make no mention of me.”
“What should I say to the duke of Houndhallow?”
“My opinion on that matters little,” Lucas said. “You’re only stirring trouble, but go, do what you must.”
Merret watched him for a moment, then spurred his horse down the road. As soon as he disappeared from sight Lucas turned, riding wide and fast around the castle. Entering the forest he saw evidence of the gheist and a great battle, but could not tell who had won. Yet the castle appeared to be secure, and the city was full of merriment and life.
He reached the southern road when his ears caught an unexpected sound. He ducked among the trees and drew the shadows tight, silencing his horse and cloaking his presence.
An armed host marched down the road toward Greenhall. Lucas couldn’t see as well as he hoped, but a column of soldiers, knights, and mounted men-at-arms came into sight. To his surprise they continued to pass him by for nearly an hour. They might have been traveling to join the competition, except the tournament had already begun, and from the noise coming from the city, most of the revelers already seemed to be in the pavilion ground.
When most of the host was past, a carriage rolled into view. Strong sides and arrow-slits marked it as belonging to a merchant or a lesser noble, but there were no markings on its sides, and no tabards on the guards who ringed it—men in heavy steel riding in perfect formation, their eyes keenly on the tree line, their hands couching long spears and shields, freshly scrubbed of any paint.
There were other men, too—four of them, riding in a loose circle around the wagon. They wore fine clothes, but appeared unarmed and without armor. One of them drifted close to where Lucas was hiding. As he got near, the man paused and tilted his head in the frair’s direction.
Lucas slid deeper into the naether, shivering as his flesh disappeared from the realm of blood. As soon as he did this, he recognized his own mistake.
These men wore naetheric armor.
The nearest man began to scan the forest, lines of naetheric force dancing through the trees. He was searching for a gheist, and not a brother of Cinder, so Lucas remained undetected.
The wagon and its guard came to a halt. After a moment, the door opened, and a man leaned out. He was simply dressed, wearing nothing fine, nothing sacred. He called out in a voice that demanded service.
“What’s the matter?” he called. “We can’t fall much further behind without drawing attention.”
“Nothing, my holy,” the closest man said. “Thought I sensed a gheist, yet the forests seem clean.”
“There are no gods in these woods,” the man answered. “At least, none we don’t hold.” He chuckled and reentered the cabin, then shut the door. After a moment the caravan continued on its way.
After they were gone, Lucas released his bindings. He would have to circle around the city and find another way in. Lucas had no interest in following in the wake of that man or his hidden army.
Lucas knew the voice of Tomas Sacombre, high inquisitor of Cinder when he heard it.
M
ALCOLM COULD SEE
Ian watching the gentle tourney, his head bent in conversation with Lorien Roard’s oldest son. Martin, that was the boy’s name. Malcolm couldn’t help but wonder what would become of their friendship, should Suhdra and Tener fall to warring. He had faced one-time friends on the battlefield, had even put the blade through their bellies when they wouldn’t yield.