CHAPTER ELEVEN
REUNION
It took Gywna, Jennadil, Lassendil and their prisoner two days to travel across Endaar Downs. It was open, unprotected country and there was no place for them to hide from the enemy. Luckily, the Morg were still behind them, although not far enough behind. Lassendil, the only one of the group to have fought the Morg, would halt periodically at the top of the highest of the rolling downs and listen intently, his acute Ennadil hearing straining for the echo of far-off drums and the faint vibrations of marching feet. Serranguard had been taken, he was sure of it—and so the Morg would not wait long before they set out for Falcon’s Mount.
His last image of the Morg, grappling for his feet, snarling and snapping, while Grey-Wing carried him away, still haunted him. He could not avoid facing them, if not once more, then perhaps many times before the end – whatever his end was to be. The thought chilled him and he quickened his stride, as if by putting more distance between him and them, the memories would fade.
At the beginning of the second day of marching across the open, featureless landscape, they met the East-West Highway. Rutted and potholed, the road stretched from Falcon’s Mount in the east, skirting the northern fringe of Delm Forest, through to Serranguard and onto Tarlock on Isador’s west coast.
The travelers followed the highway east and towards the end of the day, the outline of what appeared to be a tall mountain-peak, hove into view.
It was unlike any other mountain peak existing in Isador. Silver grey, with a faint mauve sheen, it cut a crisp outline against the washed-out sky. Only Jennadil had been here before—but still the towering fortress of Falcon’s Mount awed him, just as it did the others. As they marched closer, it became evident that the mountain was man-made, rather than a natural feature of Isador’s landscape. Closer still, it was clear they were not looking at a mountain but a great city.
Falcon’s Mount was a fortress unlike any other. Whereas most of Serranguard’s population dwelt in densely populated villages, scattered beneath the fortress, Falcon’s Mount was completely self-contained. It was a fortress-city constructed of granite hewn from the slopes of the Sawtooth Mountains. A spider web of walkways spiraled up the fortress’s craggy sides towards its pinnacle. Shaded courtyards, wide squares and flat-roofed dwellings of every size were carved out of the rock.
Falcon’s Mount lacked the grace of the Ennadil cities, or Serranguard’s red-hued beauty, but it was an architectural masterpiece and the City-States of Orin’s center of culture and learning. Jennadil had come here to complete his studies as a young wizard. He did not have pleasant memories of Falcon’s Mount—not for the city itself but for his experiences here. He sharply recalled the city’s austere beauty, the steep, winding stairways and Falcon’s Mount’s freezing library where he had spent hours huddled over dusty books in preparation for his exams.
Slowly, Falcon’s Mount inched closer and soon it towered above the group of footsore travelers. They were weak with hunger and thirst. Gywna, who had never before had this much exercise, ached all over. She longed to stretch out on a soft bed and sleep for a couple of days—and she also longed to shrug off her present company. The Ennadil did not irritate her but she found him distant and cold. Apart from being more handsome than any man she had ever seen, which was distracting, there was something about him that made her uncomfortable. Acid comments and complaints died on her tongue whenever his dispassionate blue-eyed gaze settled on her. The wizard on the other hand was a constant source of annoyance to Gywna. As if his unmanly behavior and flippant manner were not offensive enough, she now knew he was a wanted man for seducing her stepmother, whom she had never met but disliked intensely for no reason except irrational jealousy. Jennadil and the bounty hunter trailed at the rear of the small company. The bounty hunter had not spoken all day and they could get nothing from him—not even his name.
Gywna gazed up at the fortress and, not watching her step, tripped over a rut in the road. She stumbled forward and collided with Lassendil. He broke her fall and they collapsed in a crumpled and undignified heap on the hard road. Gywna’s face flamed when the wizard’s laughter stung her ears. Lassendil gave a quiet groan underneath her—she had knocked the wind out of him.
“Get off him girl!” Jennadil’s hand fastened around Gywna’s arm and he pulled her to her feet.
“Don’t you touch me!” Gywna snarled before turning to Lassendil who climbed lightly to his feet and brushed dust off his clothes.
“I tripped, I’m sorry,” she muttered.
“Did you hurt yourself?” Lassendil asked.
“Oh she’s fine,” Jennadil answered for her, laughter in his voice. The wizard’s demeanor seemed to alternate between moroseness and flippancy. “How unladylike Gywna—throwing yourself at a man like that!”
“Pig!” Gywna rounded on the wizard. “You judge everyone by your base moral standards!”
“Stop baiting her Jennadil,” Lassendil interrupted mildly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “You’d be good in a fight Gywna—you completely flattened me!”
Gywna’s face burned in indignant fury. She would make these two oafs pay for their disrespect. On the verge of angry tears, Gywna stalked ahead of the group.
Further on, more travelers, some on foot, others with carts loaded with their possessions, were passing through the city gates. Uniformed guards wearing blue and silver armor were stopping them.
Bringing up the rear, Jennadil hesitated; the irrational fear that these soldiers were looking for him made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. However, he could not turn back now without drawing attention to himself—and where would he go? He glanced sideways at the bounty hunter who was staring straight ahead, giving nothing away. Jennadil’s survival instincts screamed that going into Falcon’s Mount cut off any chance of escape—but then he was passing through the gates and the chance had passed.
It was then that he saw the distinctive green and black armor of Serranguard amongst the soldiers in the blue and silver of Falcon’s Mount.
Panic seized Jennadil and he froze mid-step. Gywna’s voice, high and excited, lifted above the crowd. “Why are Serranguard soldiers here?”
“Serranguard has been evacuated Miss,” a soldier at the gate replied. “Have you not heard? All citizens, including Lord Brin himself now reside here.”
Jennadil watched as Gywna’s face blanched before color rushed back into her cheeks—then she drew herself up and looked the soldier in the eye. Jennadil saw she was indeed Theo Brin’s daughter; her regal bearing and arrogance could only have been his.
“I am his daughter, Gywna Brin,” she announced.
Jennadil inwardly cringed. Why did she not declare that a bit louder? He was sure there was a prisoner down in the lowest levels of the fortress’s dungeons who had not heard her.
Serranguard soldiers rushed up to Gywna, disbelief and shock on their faces.
“We thought you had perished during the sacking of Brenna, milady,” one of the soldiers blurted out.
“I nearly did,” Gywna replied, obviously enjoying the sudden concern and attention she was receiving.
Then, as the shock of seeing their Lord’s daughter alive and well faded a little, the soldiers turned their attention to her traveling companions. Jennadil looked down at his dusty boots praying that no one would recognize him—but of course someone did.
“By the wraiths of my ancestors—she’s brought the wizard, Jennadil Silverstern, here with her!” A soldier shouted.
Jennadil remained immobile while Serranguard soldiers surrounded him with their swords drawn. He glanced sideways at the bounty hunter and saw that the man of Tarantel was smiling, silently victorious.
Jennadil’s gaze moved to Gywna—and she met his look briefly, her expression hard and her eyes hooded. Next to her, Lassendil was frowning, his body tensed and ready to aid Jennadil if the wizard did anything foolhardy like try to fight his way out of being arrested. To prevent
Jennadil from using magic, one of the soldiers held a blade to the wizard’s throat while another took his staff.
Ignoring Jennadil’s predicament entirely, Gywna stepped forward and addressed the soldiers. “Where is my father?”
“He resides in the City-Lord’s palace, guest of Lord Fire, milady.”
“Take us to him.”
Lord Fier’s palace crowned Falcon’s Mount; its pointed roof forming the sharp peak at the Fortress’s summit. A steep, winding road led up from the main gates. It was a long climb up to the palace, or would have been had Jennadil not been trussed up and slung on the back of a bullock-drawn wagon. The bounty hunter, calmly self-assured now that he was a free man, climbed up next to the wizard. Lassendil took a seat nearer the front, behind Gywna who had perched beside the driver. She appeared calm but Lassendil noticed her hands were tightly clenched on her lap.
A phalanx of Serranguard soldiers escorted them up to the palace. Their passing caused a considerable stir. Falcon’s Mount was far more crowded than usual and many of Serranguard’s citizens recognized the brown curls and pugnacious expression of their City-Lord’s only child. Many also recognized Jennadil—the wizard had been the subject of great speculation and gossip this past year. The price on his head was greater than any of them would earn in a life-time, and many of them watched with thinly veiled envy as the wagon trundled out of sight, carrying away the young wizard in the dashing green cape and the dark-skinned man perched next to him who would earn the reward.
There was a cool breeze that afternoon but Jennadil was sweating under his cloak. The thought of being under Theo Brin’s malevolent stare, once more at his mercy—or lack of mercy—made Jennadil’s stomach twist up into a knot.
Finally, the wagon rattled up the final incline through the solid granite gateway and into the palace courtyard. The bounty hunter pulled Jennadil off the wagon and kept a firm grip on his arm, as if still expecting the wizard to try to escape. However, Jennadil just stared at the ground as they walked. Fear had drained him of energy.
The soldiers escorted the group into the palace, through dimly lit, torch-lined hallways, until they reached a set of oak doors.
“Lord Fire has been informed of your arrival, milady,” one of the soldiers informed Gywna. “As has your father…they await you.”
The great oak doors were thrown open and they entered a high-vaulted hall. Sturdy, granite columns lined the length of the hall and high windows let in rays of the honeyed afternoon sun. Their footsteps echoed loudly as they moved towards a group of seated figures at the far end.
“Father!” Gywna rushed forward, as if to embrace the unsmiling figure cloaked in blue robes, before thinking better of it and dropping into a low curtsy. “Father,” she repeated breathlessly. “I never thought to . . .”
“It is a pleasure to see you alive Gywna,” Theo Brin spoke in an uncharacteristically gentle voice, before he touched her shoulder briefly. Gywna looked into her father’s face and saw he had aged in the years since she had seen him last. His eyes were rheumy and bloodshot and his face was drawn and tired, in a strange way making him appear more intimidating; yet he spoke to her with a tone approaching tenderness. Gywna felt an unexpected surge of joy and sudden tears stung her eyes. Maybe he did care for her after all.
For his part, Theo Brin barely recognized the young woman in men’s clothes before him. She had been little more than a child last time he saw her and now she carried herself with such self-confidence that he could see she had left childhood far behind her. A riot of brown curls framed her pale face and freckles sprinkled the bridge of her pert nose. Her hazel eyes, full of intelligence and spirit, met his unflinchingly. She wore a travel-stained grey cloak and a black cotton tunic and trousers. The Wraith Sword, sparkling like a silver jewel against her shabby attire, was buckled around her waist.
Theo Brin frowned—she was far more self-confident and bold than a young woman should be, and he found it obscene to see a woman stride about dressed like a man. He finished his inspection and fixed his daughter in a stare that was suddenly hard.
“Tell me Gywna, how is it that the Temple of the Guardians was burned to the ground and every last guardian slaughtered . . . save you? How did you survive?”
Theo watched his daughter set her jaw and knew he was not going to like the answer.
“I ran away,” she lifted her chin, as if daring any one to judge her, “and it is just as well I did for otherwise I’d be dead too!”
Theo frowned at the discovery that his daughter was as insubordinate as ever. Her years in the order had done nothing to break her spirit as he had hoped.
“We will discuss this further in private,” Theo growled. “For now we have more important matters to address. You are in the presence of Falcon’s Mount’s City-Lord girl; remember your manners and greet him.”
Gywna’s cheeks flushed and she turned to Lord Aran Fire, who had been watching the interaction between father and daughter with interest. “My Lord,” she curtsied.
Lord Fire, twenty years younger than Theo Brin, and tall and spare with expressive blue eyes and thinning blond hair, smiled at Gywna. “Welcome to Falcon’s Mount, Lady Brin. I only wish your visit was under more favorable circumstances.”
“Gywna,” Theo broke in impatiently. “I demand to know why you have traveled here in the company of these two men! Do you know who they are?”
“I only recently discovered their identities,” Gywna replied, turning her attention once again to her father.
Theo Brin’s gaze shifted to Lassendil Florin. The Ennadil stood at the back of the group; his expression was offhand, but Theo saw his own dislike mirrored in Lassendil’s eyes. The City-Lord’s gaze moved on, to where the bounty hunter he had hired stood next to Jennadil Silverstern. Theo stared at the wizard for a moment before addressing the man who sat to his right.
“Arridel Thorne—meet your predecessor.”
“We have met,” Arridel replied, his expression giving nothing away. “Here in fact. He remembers I’m sure.”
Jennadil’s face was set grimly and he did not respond.
“So Jennadil,” Theo settled back in his chair. Behind the City-Lord sat Myra Brin and Vermel Ham. They were both silent but Theo could feel their discomfort—and he could see that Jennadil was carefully keeping his gaze averted from them, especially Myra.
“You thought you’d got away did you? If you’d had any intelligence, you’d have left the City-States of Orin, never to return!” Theo glowered at the wizard, as if expecting Jennadil to start crying and beg for mercy; but when no such reaction was forthcoming, he shifted his gaze to the bounty hunter. “Good work Dael. You shall be amply rewarded as promised.”
The bounty hunter nodded in assent; a man of few words it seemed.
“Excuse me Lord Brin,” Lord Fire joined the discussion at this point. His tone was cordial but there was a note of impatience in it. “I realize you have personal business to attend to with these two but I have questions of my own—questions which I’m afraid are more pressing than yours. Now that the Morg occupy Serranguard, they are but a three-day march from here. Since this is the first Ennadil we’ve met since the invasion, I must speak with him.”
Theo’s lip curled. “You won’t get much out of this one. Just ask yourself what he’s doing here instead of fighting in the Ennadil Territory. He probably deserted.”
“Let us hear it in his own words then,” Aran Fier’s good humor was fading. He turned to where the Ennadil was silently fuming. “Please introduce yourself and tell us what has befallen your people?”
“I am Lassendil Florin of Aranith,” Lassendil replied stiffly, “and I am no deserter. I met Lord Brin a year ago when I rode to Serranguard as part of an emissary, asking for help against the Morg. I am sure you remember, for another such emissary came to you as well.” Lassendil’s voice was clipped, as if he barely suffered being in the presence of, let alone speaking to, these people.
Lord Fie
r’s face grew grave but he nodded and allowed the Ennadil to continue.
“Like yourself, Lord Brin refused to aid us. Despite our efforts to defend our territory, one by one, our cities have fallen to the Morg.” Lassendil paused a moment, letting his words take their full effect before he started to recount, in detail, the destruction of Mithridel, the siege of Aranith, his father’s death and his rescue by Grey-Wing the giant blue owl. He even went on to tell of his meeting Gywna and Jennadil in Delm Forest. When he finished his tale, there was a moment of silence before Theo Brin erupted into laughter.
“What a story!” Theo Brin wheeze. “Rescued by an owl were you? You expect us to believe such drivel? No wonder the Morg have trampled your people . . . you and your kin obviously come from a long line of cowards!”
Lassendil’s face transformed as rage took him. He drew his long Ennadil sword in one smooth movement, lunged towards Serranguard’s City-Lord—and would have imbedded his sword in Theo Brin’s throat if the Wraith Sword’s blade had not blocked the arc of his sword.
The sound of clashing steel split the air and echoed through the cavernous hall.
Gywna stood before her father, her gaze locked with the Ennadil’s. Their blades were just inches from Theo Brin’s face. Serranguard’s City-Lord had shrunk back into his chair, the color draining from his cheeks.
Lassendil held Gywna’s gaze, and through the haze of anger which still consumed him there was surprise in his eyes. The girl’s reflexes were astoundingly fast.
“Enough of this!” Lord Fier’s voice echoed through the cavernous hall. “Put down your swords this instant!”
Lassendil and Gywna glared at each other a moment longer before obeying. Lassendil stepped back; his body was coiled, ready to strike if Theo Brin dared insult his people or his kin once again. He did not re-sheath his sword.
Lord Fire stood up and turned to Theo Brin.
The Children of Isador Page 12