by Inez Kelley
Myla did not see the servants scrambling from her resolute path or the winding stone stairs she climbed to the tower room. Her vision was focused on a faraway memory, a place of colors and light, of song and serenity. From this place outside time, she’d heard the call of a pleading mother and come to guard the tiny infant who grew into the man who now held her heart. But there were others in that realm, others who did not guard, but healed.
The stiff, dry parchment crackled as she unfolded it from the protected cedar box. The calling charm had remained hidden, tucked under a cradle mattress, undiscovered until that cradle had been needed again. Now it was not the infant bed she required, but the herbs and enchantment to summon a spirit.
The night crept upon the day and Myla ground, shaved and blended. She went herself to the kitchens, carrying back bowls of common herbs, and to the gardens, burrowing her fingers deep in damp earth for hidden secrets. A bit of ash scooped from the blacksmith pit joined a sliver of iron from beside his anvil. In the straw beside his woodpile, a feather leisurely waved in a soft breeze. This she tucked into the bowl, then she nodded to the watchful guards along the castle walls.
Hushed whispers filled the hallways as she peeked into the nursery. Batu curled into a knot with his favorite blanket pressed to his face. Myla brushed a lock of dark hair from her son’s forehead then turned to the crib and drew her blade. Bryton’s daughter lay on her back, rounded tummy plump and full, arms and legs spread wide. Her tiny pink lips pouted in a slumbering kiss tinged with a hint of milk. About her head, wild golden curls tumbled into a cloud.
Myla resheathed her blade. The child was too soft, too tender to pluck. She would find other means. Taric did not wake as she slipped into their bedchamber and pulled out his box of childhood treasures. Clutching her find, she returned to the small room that had once belonged to the most powerful sorceress on record. Now it served a magic queen of no less repute.
Embers glowed with orange heat and sent snapping bursts up the chimney as Myla made magic. Each precious ingredient thrummed through her essence like a drumbeat, the rhythm of creation. Whispered words in a mystic cadence filled the small room, vibrating off the stone walls with a musical melody.
A rushlight’s touch ignited the spell with a loud flash. Deep under her ribs, a power grew, stronger than a heartbeat and thicker than the smoke churning on the ceiling. It pounded and throbbed. She opened the shutters wide and the dawn’s first blush shifted to rose along the dusky night rim. Fragrant blooms and fresh-tilled earth wafted on the breeze and she drew a deep breath, filling her lungs with sweetness. With her arms held high and her mind open to the otherworld, Myla called.
“Ancient magic past and morrow, come now in this hour of sorrow.
Peace to staunch the wound that weeps, ease the pain that bleeds bone deep,
Peace as soft as feathered wings, bring to him a love that sings.
Hear my voice upon the wind, allow his battered heart to mend.”
A fierce gale blasted her face, cold and biting with a high-pitched screech. Along the courtyard, baskets tumbled from the laundry shed and dogs hunkered tighter to their corners. The night guard dipped helmeted heads and tightened their grips on weapons. Myla did not lower her arms.
In the pinkening sky, a lilac vapor grew closer. It darted into the room, circling her with stinging touches like a swarm of bees.
“Heed my call,” she entreated, and opened her palm. “Go to him.”
A braid of copper hair, cut from the head of a young boy decades ago, caught the glowing sunrise. The mist coiled up her arm, threaded through the braid and streamed back through the opened shutters. Myla watched until the newborn day swallowed the enchanted pollen. Exhaustion overcame her and her knees collapsed. The stone floor was cold but hope warmed her. Her call had been answered.
The bird was back. Bryton squinted into the sun and watched the play of light over the glossy feathers. He shook his head and snorted. It would be his luck to get bird shit on his shoulder when an entire prairie spread out around him. A frown tightened his mouth. He’d awoken to a bird staring at him from the elm trees. This couldn’t be the same bird, could it? Even as he discounted that, his gaze returned to the sky. The sickle-shaped wings and tapered tail of a falcon soared, looping casually in the blue as if waiting for him to catch up. Not the circling watch of guarding carrion nor the frantic buzz of feeding, the bird’s flight was unhurried, as if simply enjoying the wind. What was it like to be that free?
The worn scabbard pressed in a sore spot and Bryton tugged at the sword, hitching it higher on his back. Rolling his head around his shoulders, he shifted. The tense muscle along his spine never released but it loosened enough to tingle and burn. The rough homespun rippled in the breeze and he scratched idly at his ribs. He wasn’t used to such cheap fabric, preferring thicker, finer blends even for his most basic tunics. However, they would mark him as a richer man than he pretended to be. The unedged, unadorned elbow-length loose sleeves hid his kill marks, and as long as he didn’t remove his shirt, no one would see his full dagger mark. Even his boots were a lower grade of leather. These earth-tone garments carried no sign he was the King’s Captain.
Jester kept the steady pace but grew tired of the mule slowing him. He tossed his head and pulled at the reins.
“Calm, boy, calm. No races today, no battles.” Bryton’s voice paled inside the rushing wind and he paused. Accepting it, he shrugged. So he talked to his horse. There wasn’t a soul around to hear him and Jester held his tongue. He never had to worry about his mount stabbing him in the back, not like Taric had done.
Grudgingly, Bryton admitted that Taric did it out of his sense of friendship, of brotherhood, but he was going to be sorely disappointed. Kneeling in the stables, bound by conflicting vows, Bryton had made a choice. Taric had other guards. Katina had had but one husband. He would honor that vow.
His hand strayed unconsciously to the pouch at his waist. He didn’t have to touch the tiny gold curl knotted with pink ribbon inside to remember the softness of his daughter’s hair. He carried that softness in his heart. She deserved more than a bitter man as a father. She deserved a life of joy and happiness.
Jester’s ears flickered and Bryton stiffened, scanning the open fields and faraway ridges. There was nothing but wheat, newly planted and still but ankle-high. It wasn’t even tall enough to wave in the brisk wind. His gaze fell to a tree line not far off. The tops didn’t sway and dance. He lifted his face and let the rush glide along his cheeks. He must be in the path of a low swirling wind, like a river made of air and scented with honey.
The breeze held a song. The horse’s back worked in a rhythmic pace beneath him and freed him to listen. Tilting his head, he strained to hear the melody. Sweet, like a dulcimer with soft-pitched notes, it grew in strength as he opened his mind. A drum followed—low, heavy and thumping, with a life force that echoed deep in his belly.
“I am called for you. I taste your pain. Your sorrow stains like blood upon the snow.”
The words jolted through him and his eyes snapped open. Hard breaths heaved from his chest and he hurriedly looked around for the woman who had sung those terrifying words. There was no one. Jester did not slow his gait and the wheat stood stone-still, although Bryton’s hair whipped about his head. A verse whispered against his ear.
“Be not afraid. I come to heal, to set you free. I bring you peace.”
The wind stopped as softly as it had begun, with no fanfare or tantrum. In its wake his body poised, ready to fight. He jumped at the falcon’s caw then spat a curse. What the hell was that?
Bryton tightened his hold on the reins and clenched his teeth. He was going batty. The wind does not sing. Spurring Jester to a faster pace, he ignored the tickling along his nape and the longing ache deep in his chest.
When he accepted Myla’s magic gift of foreshadowed knowledge to protect Taric, he’d had no idea what he was getting. The warmth that flooded his body with enchantment always left his skin
itching and his mind reeling, but he’d never felt this. The bone-rich vibration that ached with something he didn’t understand lingered long after he made camp.
The hissing and popping campfire thrust back the edges of night and he scrubbed his tired eyes. Maybe he just needed sleep. There were few nights he didn’t bolt awake, sweat dripping down his face and icy needles jabbing his throat. Whiskey helped numb him at first, but it lost its lure quickly. Heartache and hangovers didn’t help much when you had an infant to feed. Jana had been why he’d put the bottle down and taken up his sword. He couldn’t bring her mother back but he could avenge her.
Whooooooooo
The eerie call of an owl raised his head from his mostly uneaten supper of dried meats and flat bread. Though soft, the woodland coo prickled along Bryton’s neck. It was close. The night sounds grew loud as he listened for any clue where the bird might be. A flutter of movement just outside the fire’s glow increased to a swoop of wings that circled the camp before angling low. His body stilled at the owl’s soundless landing on a small outcrop of rock nearby.
Firelight caressed the dappled brown and tan feathers, the pale face with enormous eyes, the small pointed beak. Wings tucked tight around a powerful compact body and the round head cocked to study him.
“Welcome to my fire.” Bryton thought the bird might fly away at his words but it simply stared at him with an unblinking stare. A quick darting move angled its head but the scrutiny never dropped. “Hungry?”
He tore a hunk of meat from the strip in his hand and tossed it lightly toward the bird. It hit the ground with a bounce. The owl quirked its head, looked at the meat then jerked back to him.
“Okay, so dried beef isn’t to your palate. Want some bread?”
The thumb-size bit of bread hit beside the meat and the bird dropped its gaze. Bryton held his quick-drawn breath when the wings unfolded, but the owl didn’t dart to the sky. It hopped off the rock, picked up the bread in its beak and tossed it back to him. The chunk hit beside his boot and he smirked.
“Finicky for a bird, aren’t you?” The hunk of meat landed beside the bread. Bryton chuckled. “Well, I guess you’re not that hungry.”
He tossed the scraps into the flames and the fire sizzled with a loud hiss. Tiny little feet left no impression in the grass as the owl stepped closer. The bird didn’t appear sick. The glossy sheen to its feathers and bright shine in its clear gray eyes spoke of a well-fed, healthy animal. But nocturnal birds did not join camp circles. They did not examine a man like this one did, with intelligence and curiosity. A question bloomed in his mind. What if this wasn’t a real owl?
His mouth opened to speak but the sudden unfurling of powerful wings stole his words. With little more than a push, the owl rose silently into the darkness. Bryton scanned the nearby tree line, finally focusing on a limb with a near-hidden addition. Silvered eyes winked at him. It was nothing more than an animal.
Bryton rifled through his saddlebag and retrieved his pipes. He wasn’t very good but he liked the sound of music. The glossed wooden tubes pressed to his bottom lip and he blew softly, a solid note rising above the fire smoke. The song of the wind played in his mind and he searched for the tune. Once he found the first pitch, the rest flowed and he barely missed a note. It was haunting. It stirred that needy, restless ache in his gut but lulled his mind with a soothing cadence. The owl never left its perch. He fell asleep hearing the chords in his ear, the silvered eyes watching him, and with the pipes tucked to his chest.
Chapter Two
“The only good bird is served with gravy and potatoes,” Bryton grumbled.
He’d climbed from his horse just long enough to relieve his bladder, letting the reins dangle. Jester wouldn’t take a step without his order. Bryton had trained his mount with the same iron discipline he himself clung to. A rustling of feather on wind had angled his head up but he saw nothing until he turned to remount. He came nose to beak with a splendid falcon. The bird perched on his saddle, pointed talons piercing the leather. The rich brown mottled feathers gleamed like oiled glass, and its smoky eyes reflected his own image.
“Get out of here!” He flapped his arms but it did not flit away. He blew a harsh breath at it. The bird blinked but didn’t budge. “Move, you dumb-assed bird. You fly, I ride.”
The bird cocked it head and he could have sworn the thing was laughing at him. His finger nearly touched the curved beak. “You shit on my saddle and I’m having fried falcon for dinner, you hear me?”
The falcon’s attention pitched sharply to the side as a soft noise jerked Bryton’s head back. Riders approached from the west. With a mighty lunge, the falcon was airborne and Bryton swung his leg over the saddle. He glanced quickly over his mule, assuring himself that everything visible spoke of a man of mercenary means.
Four stout horses carrying men garbed in plain clothing over chain mail and an overladen wagon rounded a bend in the road. He knew the instant they saw him. One rider fell behind, pulling a pack closer to his back. Their clothing and wares suggested merchants but they, like Bryton, remained on guard. They slowed their approach, pulling to a stop just ahead of him. The driver ducked his head but could be no more than a half-grown boy. The flopping hat shaded his face but Bryton got the impression of smooth cheeks and wide eyes. Sparing him no more than that fast glance, Bryton faced the lead rider.
“Good day,” the man called. “Market bound, are you?”
“Yes,” Bryton lied with ease. He must be closer to Shawton than he realized. The Spring Market Festival suddenly spurred his interest. Travelers, peddlers and minstrels would be gathered there. Tongues eager to wag about events and people farther south for the right coin or mug of ale. He deliberately leaned forward in camaraderie. “Do you head there?”
There was a beat, a pause, while the man gauged his words. Bryton fought an admiring smile. This was no dimwitted merchant. “That we do. I’m Domic Gerog of Windmere. We journey to do business. What business have you at the market?”
“I’m always open to new…ventures.” Bryton did not miss the rear rider sliding his gaze toward the canopied wagon back. They carried more than merchant gear. He pulled the name of his grandfather from memory. “I’m Javon Protus. What type of goods do you guard that require four armed men?”
Domic’s grip on his sword tightened but his dark eyes did not fall from Bryton’s. “Any goods are worth protecting these days. The southlands are filled with Skullmen. I’ll not lose my livelihood to line a thief’s pockets.”
The thinly veiled warning soothed Bryton and he allowed a smirk to inch out. “The king’s guards squelched the raids this far north and beat the Skullmen back.”
“Did little good for those of us far south, however.”
Bryton took no offense in the unintentional rebuke. He knew exactly how many debates and discussions had led to the difficult decision to pull the royal forces back for the winter. He and Taric had argued for weeks until they were hoarse and cross. But a season of fierce storms had decided for them. The Royal Guard stayed in the north, digging villages out of snowbanks higher than a horse and making sure each community had adequate grain and meat to survive. The effort had been continual with no letup until the melting had come. Then they switched to sandbags and flood control. Nature was often far more cruel than man. “The province guards weren’t sitting on their asses. The dead tally rose over the season.”
“True. But not fast enough. The Skullmen’s numbers are down but Windmere and Sotherby still belong to Karok. I’ll not let my family become his victims.”
“I’d take more care then and not let my woman drive the wagon.” The driver’s head jerked up and she sent him a horrified stare. “Peace, my lady. I mean you no harm. I hunt other game.”
His meaning was loud and three of the riders relaxed their stance but Domic did not. A blistering scrutiny scoured over Bryton’s skin. “You’re a bounty hunter?”
“I prefer tracker. It sounds more noble, and what’s more noble th
an sending child killers to their graves?”
The bloody memory of the massacre at Istimar hung unspoken. An entire village blotted out and the families there butchered. The largest and most vicious attack from the Skullmen was a gruesome mark in Eldwyn’s history that hadn’t faded. Two riders tightened their jaws and nodded approvingly at him. The driver lifted her face toward Domic. He glanced at her then removed his hand from his hilt, stretching it out in greeting as he drew his horse closer to Bryton.
“Then we welcome you to ride with us. This is my wife, Katina.”
The name cracked through Bryton like a whip and his spine snapped straight. She looked nothing like his Katina, his Kat. Her eyes were hazel and her mouth too thin. Her hair was too dark. Her skin wasn’t peached softness. She breathed.
The covering on the wagon lifted and three youngsters peeked from behind their mother. Domic sent them a glare and the flap dropped. “Those are my children. I’m a goldsmith. I’d have guards no matter but these days I won’t leave my family behind while I travel.”
Bryton nodded, trying to gather his suddenly scattered emotions. He grasped the offered hand. “Wise man, Domic Gerog.”
Still a half a day to Shawton’s borders, Bryton agreed to travel the distance with the small group. Jester fell into step beside the entourage. The day passed with quiet conversation. Bryton was careful not to glance at the driver but winked at one petite face peering out the wagon side. A silly laugh erupted inside the covering.
Domic shared news from the south that churned Bryton’s stomach and fueled his blood. The small group of Skullmen hit without warning but with brutal force. Homesteads, travelers and storefronts all through the southland feared who would be next. Witnesses were few as most died whether they fought back or not. Like illusive smoke, the band would then fade into the mountains.
The group made camp for the night and prepared a meal but Domic did not lessen his watch. His molasses eyes, dark as his skin, narrowed while he gauged his guards’ attentiveness. The armed men hovered over the children as they stretched their legs and giggled in innocent play. Bryton’s respect for the goldsmith rose. He liked Domic’s almost military vigilance. Although softening around the middle, Domic would have made a good soldier. He chose his men well. He also kept his voice low enough to not startle his children.