“Stefan’s always been the best,” Nail said. A breeze fanned blond strands of hair across his face. He flicked the hair away from his eyes—a quirk typical of Nail. In the soft light of the courtyard, he looked like a bigger, more muscular version of Aeros Raijael, something Stefan had first noticed on the beach of Gallows Haven when the White Prince had stood before Ava Shay. That Nail and Aeros looked alike was just another strange oddity in their already strange journey.
“Nobody shoots straighter than Stefan,” Nail reiterated.
Seita smiled at Stefan. He couldn’t tell how old the Vallè maiden was. In this light she looked as young and demure and pale as Gisela. He sensed some strength and wisdom in the delicate lines around her big eyes. One thing he knew for certain: though she hid it, he sensed some deep sorrow in her.
She bent her knee in a curtsy, then lightly touched his arm, her fingers delicate as flower stems. “I’m most honored to learn from the best.” At her flattery, Stefan’s heart leaped straight up into his throat. He handed the bow to Nail and walked up to the target to grab the arrows. Seita looked similar to the Vallè he and Nail had seen atop the frightful black mare on the trail above Gallows Haven. And Stefan had seen the haunted look on Nail’s face when Seita first dropped her cowl upon entering the Turn Key Saloon. Later, when Stefan had mentioned the coincidence to Nail, his friend just mumbled that all Vallè maidens looked the same, and then lapsed into silence.
Seita and Val-Draekin didn’t seem to be man and wife; nor did they show much if any affection toward each other. The demeanor between the two Vallè was purely businesslike. Ever since their arrival, it was naught but secretive talks in the back corner of the saloon between Val-Draekin, Seita, Roguemoore, Godwyn, and Culpa Barra.
Seita had gravitated toward the younger folk. She had spotted the carving of Gisela’s name on Stefan’s bow. Stefan had timidly shared the story of the attack on Gallows Haven, Shawcroft’s gift of the bow, and their subsequent trek into the mountains, how they had lost Gisela to the cold and Liz Hen’s brother, Zane, to his injuries. Seita had followed with many questions about both Zane and Gisela, wanting to know what type of people they were. She seemed delighted to find out they were both kind and brave. She then claimed it would do her great honor to learn archery with a bow named Gisela in her hands, but only if Stefan would agree to teach her.
So as dusk had fallen over Lord’s Point, the five young folk had emptied out into the practice yard behind the Turn Key Saloon so Stefan could teach her. The courtyard itself was built of gray stone and warped wooden gables weathered and split by the salt and sun and rain. The horse stable was a dark shadow to the left. The outer wall to their right was lined with wooden racks that held various gaoler swords and batons, plus an array of polearms, clubs, leg irons, cuffs, chains, and huge keys.
Stefan walked toward the others and set the arrows back into the barrel.
“I’ve never seen anyone best Stefan Wayland in an archery competition.” Dokie clapped him on the back. “But I wager you’ll be as good as him someday, Seita.”
“Bullocks.” With her chunk of bread and chicken leg in one hand, Liz Hen grabbed an arrow from the barrel with the other. She snatched the bow from Nail and got set to shoot, both hands awkwardly juggling arrow and food and bow. “Archery can’t be that hard. After all, I killed a Sør Sevier knight. And I got the sword to prove it.”
“I helped you kill that knight,” Dokie said.
Beer Mug barked and circled about Liz Hen’s feet, nearly tripping her. “Sit,” she ordered the dog, tossing the food aside. Beer Mug plopped back onto his haunches and eyed the chicken leg in the dirt, then Liz Hen, then the chicken leg. She nocked an arrow and fired from somewhere around her hips, not even taking aim. Her arrow zoomed out of the courtyard and over the roof of the Turn Key Saloon into the darkness.
“What was that?” Dokie grunted in disapproval. “By all the rotted angels, you probably just skewered someone in the thoroughfare out front of the inn.” He seized the bow, trying to pull it from Liz Hen’s beefy hands. They struggled together a moment, both tugging at the weapon. “Give it!” Dokie hollered, yanking hard. The bow slipped from Liz Hen’s greasy fingers, sending both boy and girl spilling over backward into the dirt. Liz Hen picked herself up and trundled back into the saloon, impatiently leading Beer Mug with a snap of her fingers.
“I just don’t know what’s gotten into her as of late.” Dokie dusted himself off, handing the bow to Nail. “I believe it’s your turn now.”
Nail picked an arrow from the barrel and set his stance. His release was smooth and his arrow hit home, a finger’s-width high of exact center.
“Excellent shot,” Stefan said.
“Thanks.” There was a smile on Nail’s face as he handed the bow back to Dokie.
“Do you not have archery in Val Vallè?” Dokie asked Seita.
“We do. It’s just not the type of thing taught to young Vallè maidens, if you take my meaning.” She reached into the leather purse at her side and pulled out a curious object. “My father did teach me how to use this.” The curious object in her hand consisted of two steel balls, both fist-sized, polished, and connected to each other by a shiny thin length of steel chain.
“What is it?” Curiosity stole over Dokie’s face. “Some strange elf weapon?”
“What did you call it?” Seita’s eyes suddenly grew dark as a storm cloud.
“An elf weapon?” Dokie continued affably. “My pa always wanted to see a fey weapon like this up close.” His smile was huge and unassuming. “He would be so amazed if he could see me now, with a Vallè holding such a thing.”
Seita’s sharp face softened. “There is no guile within you, is there, Dokie Liddle?” She laughed then, a bright, flowery laugh that filled the courtyard. “We elves call this particular fey weapon a ball-and-chain mace.” She began spinning the mace deftly in one hand, setting the two balls spinning around her arms in a swirl. They created a musical purr that echoed rhythmically off the stone walls, the sound almost as delightful as her laughter. Dokie was utterly pleased. Seita slowed the mace’s spin to a stop, then handed the odd toy over to him. Dokie attempted to twirl it, his efforts gawky and horrid in comparison. Seita let loose another lighthearted laugh. “My dear, you’re doing it wrong.” She placed her porcelain-like hand atop his, helping him hold the chain correctly. “You must roll your palm like so.” Her fingers interlaced with his. “It will build up the muscles in your forearm—make it easy to spin the balls.” The Vallè maiden leaned into Dokie’s shoulder, the two of them twirling the chain together.
Stefan felt his entire body grow rigid, surprised at his own sudden jealousy as Seita curled up behind his friend, helping the boy spin the chain-mace. Soon Dokie was twirling the toy on his own with some confidence, and Seita was clapping her approval. The boy, grinning like a plump tom turkey, eventually handed the mace back to the Vallè, who began twirling it about with a rapidity never before seen, stepping forward and back in an almost rhythmic dance. Soon she was prancing about the courtyard like an Autumn Range stag, spinning the ball-and-chain mace both above and behind her own head, dancing and leaping gracefully.
Suddenly she lunged forward, one of the balls snapping out in a whip crack of thunder, punching a hole straight into one of the gaoler’s heavy iron practice shields. She ripped the chain forcefully out and snapped it toward the shield again. The second time the ball shattered the iron shield like a pane of glass.
It was at that moment Stefan realized it was no toy the Vallè wielded.
But before he could even register the sheer, swift violence of her weapon, he heard a hoarse shout from the door at the back of the saloon. “Just what in the bloody Blessed Mother Mia is going on out here?” Derry Richrath, the owner of the inn, stood on the rickety wooden porch connecting the saloon to the courtyard, his face bulbous and red with anger under his mop of curly brown hair.
Seita hid the ball-and-chain mace behind her back and tilted her chi
n to the side innocently, a demure look in her eyes.
“You’ll be paying for that shield!” Richrath shouted. “I don’t like Vallè, ’specially when they bust up my property.”
Seita bowed. “I was only playing. Didn’t realize my own strength. Got carried away.” She held the chain-mace up. “See. It’s only a child’s toy. Harmless.”
“Don’t bullshit me. There ain’t nothin’ harmless about the Vallè. Just put the damn thing away before I bend you over my knee and beat your backside bloody with it. You can replace the shield later. I’ll give you the tally.”
“Fair enough.” Seita bowed again.
Richrath spat into the dirt under the porch. “I come to fetch you all to the dwarf’s meeting. He asked me to retrieve the entire lot of you. So you all best hustle inside now. That dwarf is one stodgy fellow who I imagine doesn’t want to be kept waiting.” He turned and clomped back into the saloon.
† † † † †
Roguemoore, Bishop Godwyn, Culpa Barra, and Val-Draekin were all deep in talk when Stefan arrived at the table. Liz Hen, Dokie, and Nail had already taken their seats on the left side by the dwarf. Seita sat next to Val-Draekin and the bishop on the right. Culpa Barra sat at the head of the table, his black Dayknight armor seemingly cutting a dark hole against the saloon wall. Stefan took the remaining seat at the opposite end of the table, his back to the room. The central hearth burned bright and warm against his shoulders and neck.
Nail and Seita were closest to him, one on either side of the table. Mugs of thick birch beer sat before Roguemoore and Culpa Barra. Steaming tea of some sort sat in little cups before the two Vallè. Liz Hen bent over the table near the dwarf and poured clear apple cider from a ceramic pitcher. Smoke curled above Godwyn, who puffed on a long, drooping pipe. It was the first time Stefan had seen the man smoke, and he liked the fragrance. The saloon was empty but for the nine of them.
Culpa Barra leaned forward, black armor creaking, and spoke. “Each of us will have a great role to play in the coming days.” Ever since arriving with Nail ten days ago, the blond-haired knight had scarcely taken off his formidable armor, always girt with a wide belt and heavy leather baldric slung over his shoulder, a large Dayknight sword with the black-opal pommel at his side. “We set sail for Stanclyffe on the morrow. We travel light, on a ship built for speed. North to the Sea of Thorns and Stanclyffe.”
Seita’s eyes brightened. “I’ve longed my whole life to see the great cliffs of Stanclyffe.” She took a sip of her tea, seemingly content with Culpa’s announcement.
Liz Hen made a show of taking a huge gulping swallow of her own cider, and then set her mug down hard. “There’s been a mistake. I don’t think I should be here.”
“We are all meant to be here.” Culpa’s gaze was firm. “It has been agreed upon with much discussion. For we who are swept up in large and great events, the forces of our times, must now make many important decisions.”
“Well, that’s certainly cryptic,” Liz Hen said. “But agreed on by who? Certainly not me. I don’t know nothin’ about Stanclyffe.”
“We all are important to the coming journey.” Culpa pursed his lips, eyes sharp and firm. “All nine of us. Even you, Liz Hen.”
“For my part, I rather like that number.” Seita took a second sip of tea. “Seems just the right number of folk for a quest. In fact, I say we should call ourselves the Company of Nine. All the legendary quests in the Vallè adventure stories I’ve read began as such, in a tavern with a council like this, and a company of nine.”
“Except Beer Mug makes ten,” Dokie blurted. The dog lying at Liz Hen’s feet wagged his tail.
Liz Hen piped up, “Well, since I ain’t going no place, then neither is Beer Mug, and likely not Dokie, neither. So you really only got like . . .” She did a quick count on her fingers. “Seven, for your adventure.”
“But it will be a grand journey.” Seita smiled. “Like in the stories of old.”
“Except this is no Vallè storybook,” Roguemoore commented, cold tension in his voice. With his broad beard and sweeping brow, the dwarf always looked like some wise mystic of ancient legend.
“Well, I’m not going anywhere.” Liz Hen huffed, eyeing Seita darkly. “And I don’t like anyone trying to include me in their count, ’specially you.” She held up her hand again, toward Seita this time, then counted down on her fingers one by one, saying, “I. Don’t. Like. You. Never will.”
“I say we all ought to stick together,” Dokie blurted. “All of us survivors from Gallows Haven. I’d enjoy a good adventure, you know, something to do.”
“No, you wouldn’t, you stupid.” Liz Hen cocked her head at Dokie. “You can’t even take two steps without complaining about your itchy rump.”
Dokie flushed, eyes straying in the direction of Seita, embarrassed.
“Dokie is correct about one thing.” Roguemoore, rough palms spread out on the table before him, fingers clenching and bunching, craned his neck and looked down the table at Liz Hen. “You four who escaped from Gallows Haven shall all be coming with us.”
“But I already told you I ain’t going no place,” Liz Hen said.
“You’ve seen Forgetting Moon, Liz Hen,” the dwarf said, a grave look on his face. “You’ve seen the blue angel stone. Handled it even. And that is no small thing. Whether you like it or not, you are tied to the angel stone and its powers. All of you are.”
Bishop Godwyn added, “Aeros Raijael is in possession of the battle-ax and blue stone, and he is likely in possession of Lonesome Crown. You’ve heard us discuss Ethic Shroud and how it lies under Amadon Castle, where Hawkwood left it. And now we must retrieve Afflicted Fire and Blackest Heart from where Shawcroft left them. And we must recover them soon if Gul Kana has any hope of fighting off Aeros Raijael. That you are privy to such information makes you a target for the White Prince, as was King Torrence Raybourne also a target.”
“We bemoan the fact that Shawcroft gave his brother the green angel stone along with Lonesome Crown,” Roguemoore said. “Ser Torrence should not have touched the stone. Possession of such has proved a dangerous thing. Even the knowledge of such is dangerous. It is why Shawcroft left the other stones and weapons of the Warrior Angels where he found them.” He looked at Liz Hen squarely. “So lest you mistake our intent, the information you and your friends are privy to is most dangerous. You will be safer in our company.”
Stefan felt his heart tighten at the dwarf’s somber tone.
“There are other matters to discuss.” Roguemoore’s deep-set eyes roved over them all. “Val-Draekin and Seita have come to us at the behest of Princess Jondralyn Bronachell.” The dwarf turned to Nail. “You will be loath to hear that the injured knight you saw on the litter in Ravenker was none other than our beloved princess Jondralyn.”
Nail’s face remained impassive. Stefan was fairly certain his friend had scant idea who Jondralyn Bronachell was beyond her name. Like everyone in Gallows Haven, the Bronachell title held some power. But Amadon and the Silver Throne were faraway, abstract concepts; few in Gallows Haven paid much attention to the goings-on of royalty.
The dwarf continued. “As we already know, Hawkwood was taken captive by Leif Chaparral. And Culpa confirmed that Hawkwood was still Leif’s captive when he himself took his leave from Leif’s contingent.”
“Once in Amadon,” Val-Draekin added, “Hawkwood was sent to the dankest dungeon of all, Purgatory, with Gault Aulbrek.” The Vallè’s face was much like Hawkwood’s, sharp and fearless and keen. “I fear for Hawkwood, as I imagine he will be tortured for information and put to death in short order.”
“If Hawkwood is tortured,” the dwarf started, “he may inadvertently give away information related to our quest. We have been waiting here for my brother to arrive. I now feel we have been waiting in vain. Ironcloud has always prided himself on being dependable. That he has not yet arrived, or sent word of his whereabouts, can only bode ill—that, or he has finally discovered the
true fate of Borden Bronachell and now his attention is focused on other matters. In light of all this, we must hasten our journey and move on without him, though the information he carried would have been of great use to us, especially considering the loss of Shawcroft’s satchel.”
Every time the loss of Shawcroft’s satchel, or the loss of the battle-ax and stone, was brought up, Nail would grow stone-faced. Stefan noticed that the blond locks that always concealed Nail’s eyes had gotten longer. In fact, Nail almost hid behind his hair now. Stefan thought back to when Shawcroft would let Nail stay with his family for Eighth Day services. It was the only time Nail would ever trim his hair. They would ofttimes help each other shave, a process in which Stefan would take the knife and carefully set it to Nail’s face and vice versa. Nail admitted he’d rather suffer the shave at the hand of a friend than his own shaky hand, or worse, the hand of Shawcroft. The ritual had, over the years, become a sort of unspoken bond between the two. They trusted each other for the friendship. We are bound together, somehow, Nail and I. But ever since the sacking of Gallows Haven, Nail kept his distance from everyone, including Stefan, who only wanted to reassure his friend that everything wasn’t his fault all the time.
“I feel I must start out by being honest in my objectives.” Roguemoore looked around the table at each of the four youths from Gallows Haven. “Let us be clear. I aim to require of you kids great hardship. I aim to place you all in dangerous situations. The truth is, though the loss of Forgetting Moon and the blue angel stone was great, it may have been that the loss of Shawcroft’s satchel and the secrets hidden therein was an even worse tragedy. For the loss of that satchel has made our journey, and every decision regarding that journey, exponentially more dangerous for us all.”
The Blackest Heart Page 22