Visioner

by K K Ness

  Hafryn resolutely ignored them.

  One of them muttered something under his breath as they passed.

  Danil glanced over his shoulder, and for a heartbeat, he saw a pair of tawny owls accompanied by three russet wolves. One wolf bared her teeth in a silent snarl.

  “Hafryn—”

  “Leave it. They’re personal guards for the House of Refel,” Hafryn muttered.

  Danil gaped. “They hire Eyrie assassins?” he hissed.

  “What? No, we spoke of this, fala,” Hafryn said with a frown. “Plenty of Eyrie are hired as personal guards for other Houses, and there’s no telling who among them are owls.”

  But Danil knew what he saw. Owl assassins resided in Corros.

  8

  Hafryn took him to a set of three rooms at the end of a quiet corridor threaded with seams of kiandrite.

  The roots of an old tree made the floor uneven, the worn tile cracked in places but smooth underfoot. Inside, a battered couch sat in front of a small hearth, and sunlight filtered in through curtains that led to a balcony overlooking the bridge and lake below. Turning about, Danil took in shelves filled with ornaments and scrolls, with a set of chests pushed up against the back wall. A curved door led to sleeping quarters with a pallet heavily layered with furs. Opposite was an alcove with a deep wading pool carved out of the rock. Heat seeped up through his boots, and Danil studied with interest the black pebbles in the floor inlaid in the shape of a warming glyph.

  Hafryn dropped his pack and collapsed onto the couch with a sigh. The lines about his eyes eased.

  With a rush of understanding, Danil said, “These have been your rooms for a long time.”

  Hafryn smiled slightly. “When Sonnen offers sanctuary, he means it wholeheartedly.”

  Danil traced the glyph on his palm. It seemed brighter since Sonnen’s reaffirming of it.

  “Many wear the House of Corros upon their skin, but few have had it personally placed there by our dragon prince,” Hafryn observed, watching him. “It’ll make folk nervous.”

  “Why?”

  Hafryn shrugged. “You received a great honor unasked, without any posturing or grand gestures. There are folk who will wonder at the sort of human who can achieve such things. It’ll certainly have meaning for the High Council.”

  Danil hoped so. He’d yet to shake the unease at being apparently snubbed by the council members. He shook his thoughts loose. “Those Eyrie in the hallway—are they your close kin?”

  An echo of a smile showed on Hafryn’s face. “We Eyrie have distinctive coloring. But no, I can’t say I know them.”

  “They seemed to know you,” Danil pointed out.

  Hafryn leaned back, stretching his long legs. “It’s easy for Eyrie to identify the exile of Corros,” he said dryly. “They take offence on principle.”

  Danil’s throat tightened at the unfairness of it. The Eyrie had no idea what Hafryn had done for them and the rest of Amas.

  Hafryn looked bemused. “It worries me less than you expect, fala.” His green eyes sharpened slightly. “But what you said in the corridor—about owls. Did you have another vision?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t think they’re quite visions. It’s almost like I can see both aspects of an Amasian at the same time.”

  “And you saw an owl Trueform?”

  Danil nodded. “Two, actually. The rest were wolves.”

  Hafryn rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We’ll let Sonnen know, but it’s even more important to keep this ability hidden. We can’t know what the Eyrie will do if they suspect their Trueforms are no longer secret.”

  “You’re not worried that there are owls here?”

  “They’ll bear watching, but if their task has nothing to do with us, then you can expect to be ignored. The Eyrie pride themselves on restraint.”

  Danil turned back to the shelves of ornaments. “You speak like you’re not one of them,” he murmured. He picked up a small figurine of a bear, its likeness reminding him of Blutark.

  “I’m not renowned for my Eyrie discipline,” Hafryn said with a smirk.

  Danil snorted. He set the figurine down, his eye catching on a tarnished belt buckle half-buried under a sheaf of papers. Pulling it out, Danil recognized the ancient Roldaerian script and battered edge. “What’s this doing here?”

  Hafryn craned his neck. “Hmm?”

  “This belt buckle,” Danil said, scraping the rust with his fingernail. “It’s a relic from the Great War. I found it in the deadlands last summer.” He turned about, eyebrow crooked. “You stole it from me.”

  “What?” Hafryn clumsily scrambled off the couch. “No, why would I do that?”

  “I remember it clearly,” Danil said, holding the buckle aloft. “You took it as payment when I had no kiandrite for you to steal.”

  Chagrined, Hafryn said, “We weren’t exactly allies then, fala, and you were so easy to rile.” A slight flush of pink showed on his cheeks. “Still, I must have forgotten to throw it away.”

  Danil fought off a grin and examined the row of shelves with greater interest. “Am I going to find a horde of stolen goods here, Hafryn?”

  “Not as much as you think,” the wolf muttered. “But maybe an item or two,” he admitted begrudgingly.

  Danil spied a collection of ancient arrowheads in a jar and grinned. “Well, I mind less now, knowing that you kept them.”

  Hafryn’s mouth twitched. “That eases my mind immensely. But if you’re done nosing through my secrets, we’ve a dinner to prepare for. Pretty sure I have a Balrani silk robe lying hereabouts that would suit you well—so long as we remove the tassels.”

  Danil suppressed a groan and trailed after him.

  9

  After a perfunctory wash, they emerged from the bathing pool to find clothes laid out for them on the sleeping pallet. To Danil’s relief, a soft jerkin of fawn and dark breeches looked tailored to fit, and he wondered who’d managed to get such details. Hafryn’s outfit was similar, with a green doublet which he matched with emerald earrings from a small box on the table.

  Danil smoothed down the soft material of his jerkin in an effort to ease the fluttering in his belly.

  Hafryn studied him, eyes warm. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Let’s not keep the everyone waiting, eh?”

  Danil nodded. They left Hafryn’s quarters and made their way across the maze of walkways and corridors. The swell of voices led them to a dining hall framed by a large oak tree similar to the ones growing wild about the camp back on the deadlands.

  A steward at the door, dressed in a silk doublet and puffed sleeves, made them pause before they were announced.

  “Hafryn of Eyrie, and Custodian Danil of the deadland tracts.”

  Sketching a bow, the steward opened the door and urged them inside.

  Finely dressed Amasians already sat at the long tables, and Danil wondered if they were underlings or scions of the various Houses. The vaulted ceiling was softened by clinging ivy and magelights.

  Danil made for a pair of empty seats at one of the lower tables, but a servant stopped him and instead guided him and Hafryn toward the raised table overlooking the rest of the hall.

  Behind the table, a statue of a sleeping dragon carved from a huge slab of kiandrite reigned over the dining hall. It glowed soft pinks and yellows in the mellow light but soon brightened with blues and greens as Danil slowed to a stop before it in awe. It pulsed brightly, a gentle rippling of colors flaring from the dragon’s chest and radiating to its wings. Its eyelids seemed to open to reveal irises of pure white, and Danil felt a strong presence welcoming him.

  Hafryn touched his elbow and steered him toward a chair.

  “Did you see that?” Danil hissed as a servant came to fill his glass with honeywine.

  “I think everyone saw how Aramanth’s statue reacted to you,” Hafryn said, bemused as people whispered and pointed from their seats.

  Trying not to flush, Danil said, “No, the eyes.”

  Ha
fryn frowned at him and shook his head.

  Danil glanced back at the statue to find the dragon sleeping once more.

  More Amasians filtered into the hall to take up the remaining seats. Sonnen arrived escorting a dark-haired woman resplendent in dark blue robes, her hair piled up high above her neck and interwoven with gold thread. She sat beside Danil, with Sonnen on her opposite side at the center of the table.

  “Danil,” Sonnen said, leaning forward. “This is Councilor Tresa of Corros. She speaks for the citadel on the High Council.”

  Danil mustered a polite nod, which Tresa returned. Golden baubles hung from her earlobes, catching in the light.

  “Welcome to Corros, custodian,” Tresa said, her voice a refined murmur. “Forgive me for not formally greeting you upon your arrival.”

  Danil smiled awkwardly. “Your welcome now is appreciated, Councilor Tresa.”

  Hafryn nodded to a servant who poured more honeywine into his glass. “It appears that we arrived earlier than expected.”

  Her smile slipped a little. “I assure you, Hafryn of Eyrie, we were quite prepared.”

  “Interesting,” he tilted his head. “You ran quite a risk in insulting Custodian Danil with your preparations.”

  The woman stilled, frowning. She opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted as the steward’s voice boomed across the dining hall once again.

  “Lady Arlyn Nera, Emissary to Roldaer.”

  Arlyn entered wearing a crimson gown. The murmuring in the hall fell silent as she walked to the high table, her hands clasped demurely in front of her.

  Sonnen rose from his seat and bowed. “Welcome, emissary.”

  Arlyn curtseyed. “Thank you for your kind hospitality, Your Highness.”

  He motioned to a chair a few seats further down from him.

  With a slow, calming breath, Danil realized Arlyn was far enough away to be out of earshot. He wondered at the seating arrangements.

  A soft bell chimed to indicate the start of the meal. Servants filtered into the hall with trays laden with bowls. Danil murmured his thanks as the soup was set before him, the creamy broth layered with mushrooms and herbs.

  “Are the accommodations with Hafryn to your liking, custodian?” Sonnen said as he picked up a spoon. He ladled out a spoonful and nodded, and the hall was filled with conversation and the clink of cutlery.

  Danil met the dragon prince’s gaze, noting the gleam in his eyes. “They are, my prince.”

  “Call me Sonnen, Danil, as always,” he replied.

  Councilor Tresa raised a thoughtful eyebrow.

  The chair beside Hafryn was pulled back, and a newcomer sat down. Danil turned to be snared by bright green eyes and a head of dark red hair. Freckles dusted the man’s nose and cheeks, the red in his hair greying at the temples. The man smirked, eyes crinkling, and for a heartbeat, Danil saw what Hafryn would look like in another twenty summers. Behind the man was a ghostlike specter of a red wolf, one almost twice the size as Hafryn’s own Trueform. It stood at guard, nose to the air and seeming to miss nothing in the great hall.

  Then the vision was gone. Danil released a slow, calming breath.

  The man ignored Danil, his gaze instead settling on Hafryn. “Cousin.”

  Danil mouthed the word at Hafryn.

  Hafryn’s lip curled, though he hardly looked at the newcomer. “Viren.” His jaw rippled, his hand tightening to a fist around his bread knife. “How unexpected to see you here.”

  Viren picked up a napkin and smoothed it over his lap. “It shouldn’t be, cousin. I am Eyrie’s member of the High Council, after all.” He smiled, green eyes mild.

  The red wolf flickered into Danil’s sight again, closer than before. Although the man ignored him completely, the ghostly wolf now all but breathed against Danil’s elbow. Seated, they were almost of a height. Danil held its gaze, suspecting that to baulk would be a mistake.

  Back off, he told it.

  A flicker of a frown crossed Viren’s face.

  “I was under the impression you were otherwise engaged, Viren,” Hafryn muttered between clenched teeth. He threw a dark look down the table at Sonnen, but the dragon prince was engaged in conversation with two other shifters.

  “Momentous times demand that all of Amas comes together,” Viren said.

  “Very noble of you,” Hafryn muttered, tearing apart a hunk of bread with startling hostility.

  Viren smiled. “Merely duty, cousin.”

  Danil wondered if Amasian etiquette allowed brawling during a meal, then peered beyond Tresa to the dragon prince. Sonnen seemed determined to ignore the two sniping wolves.

  Tresa delicately cleared her throat. “Custodian. I’m told there was recently an incident on the deadlands,” she said before taking a delicate sip of her soup.

  Danil froze, startled. How did she know of the assassination attempt? He noticed Hafryn giving Tresa a carefully blank look.

  “The Roldaerians,” Tresa prompted. “They came upon you unexpectedly, I am told.”

  “A Roldaerian emissary speaking peace was certainly a surprise,” Hafryn interjected, tone careful.

  She smiled. “Certainly. But, tell me, how did they reach the deadlands without the knowledge of its custodian?”

  Danil stilled as the conversation around them grew quiet. At the center of the table, a low rumble issued.

  “It was Emissary Arlyn’s party, councilor,” Hafryn said. “They remained on Roldaerian land.”

  Tresa raised an eyebrow. “As I understand it, custodians have a sense of what happens across all of their lands. The custodian of Corros knows of happenings from here to the border and beyond.”

  Danil set down his spoon, feeling eyes on him. “Perhaps so, but custodians can sense only through their leylines—and the leylines of Corros have been established for millennia,” Danil said. “The deadlands haven’t had that luxury.”

  “Or perhaps your leylines are not as considerable as we have been led to believe,” Tresa countered.

  Danil frowned. “Kaul stole kiandrite from Amas to create those leylines, my lady. After his death, they were left buried and forgotten by all of Amas for centuries.”

  She opened her mouth to respond, but Danil raised a hand.

  “Those of us who protect the deadlands are few—scarcely more than two score, as I am sure you are aware,” he said firmly, his voice carrying. “And yet we are tasked with protecting an expanse of land that stretches for days. The leylines have lain untouched for centuries—is it your wish for the magi of Roldaer to have them?”

  “Of course not,” Tresa said with a serene smile. “But new leylines don’t produce kiandrite.”

  “The leylines may be young, but the magic within them is as ancient as those running beneath your feet,” Danil countered. Behind him, the statue of Aramanth pulsed brightly. “Not even your enchanters can predict what they will do.”

  She frowned at him, her eyes lingering on the kiandrite upon his chest as it matched the darkened blues and reds flashing across the crystal dragon.

  Pushing down his annoyance, Danil added, “Regardless of how insignificant you may think the leylines of the deadlands are, they were once part of Amas. I’m here to ensure they are not abandoned by Amas a second time.”

  Tresa gave him an assessing look, and Danil felt the eyes of others from the tables below. He forced himself to hold the councilor’s gaze.

  Sonnen gave a contented rumble as servants came to clear the bowls for the next course. “The well of kiandrite chose Danil, and he has not flinched.” His voice carried across the hall. “Nor can Amas, now that the leylines are free once more. It is up to the High Council to see the way forward.”

  Tresa nodded, mouth set. “Of course, my prince. We will do what is best for Amas. As always.”

  Beside Hafryn, Viren dabbed his mouth with a napkin. His green eyes gleamed as he studied the side of his kinsman’s face. “I was surprised to hear of your involvement in the deadlands, cousin. You’re quite dili
gent in serving the interests of Corros.”

  “It’s a matter for all of Amas,” Hafryn muttered. He turned his wine glass about in his hands. “Though I’m surprised to see you in Corros, cousin. Eyrie is a long way from here, and Roldaer’s magi would have little interest in it should they invade.”

  “As you say,” Viren said, eyes briefly flicking to Arlyn seated far down the table. “But war affects us all. I would prefer to know all avenues before committing my people to action.”

  “That’s the way of the Eyrie,” Hafryn muttered with a sigh.

  “Indeed,” Viren said, eyes amused.

  The servers came with steaming plates of meat on beds of greens artfully arranged like rolling hills. As before, guests waited for Sonnen to take the first bite before starting on their meals.

  Viren turned his wine glass upside down when a servant came to refill it. He scrutinised Hafryn with piercing intensity. “I’ve had few reports of you interacting with our brethren in recent seasons, cousin. Tell me, when was the last time you underwent the rites?”

  Hafryn hesitated, fork halfway to his lips. “A while, cousin,” he conceded.

  Danil resisted the urge to frown, unfamiliar with any Eyrie rituals or rites.

  “Ah,” Viren said, his voice softly chiding. “That must be remedied immediately. I expect you in the training salle in two days hence. One must always respect the traditions of their House.”

  “It’d be my honor,” Hafryn muttered, though nothing in his voice said he meant it.

  Viren merely inclined his head.

  Gently clearing her throat, Tresa turned back to Danil. “I am told you were born on the deadlands, custodian.”

  He nodded. “Farin, actually. It was a village on the edge of the deadlands.”

  “Was?” Tresa tilted her head curiously.

  Danil looked up. Her expression appeared disingenuous, but he suspected otherwise. “My people were slaughtered by the magi, my lady. At the time we believed the magi were working on their own, but later discovered that they acted on the orders of King Liam.”