Hinterland g-2

by James Clemens

  But now…

  Krevan crossed to the cold hearth, dipped a finger in ash, and scrawled two Littick symbols on the stone wall.

  Rogger stepped closer. “Keorn,” he read aloud with a frown.

  Dart mouthed the name silently herself. The weight of it added substance to what was once only vague shadow. Her father. She held back a shudder-sensing that it might shake her apart.

  Rogger turned his back on the markings. “It is rare for a rogue to hold his name. Usually the ravings burn away such memories. Even some of our esteemed Hundred-like the Huntress-had forgotten their names by the time they settled, lost in the burn of their initial ravings. Could this rogue simply have made up this name?”

  Krevan shook his head. “Sometimes the memories will back up out of the past. But the Wyr believed it was more than that, that this one had always known his name. It went along with their belief that there was something exceptional about this rogue who birthed a daughter. It was why they approached the Black Flaggers. The trail was cold, much time had passed, and the Wyr were desperate.”

  “And your rapacious guild is everywhere, from sea to mountain,” Rogger said. “Fingers and toes into all matter of trade. Who better to aid in this quest?”

  “Why didn’t you warn us of this?” Tylar asked.

  “At first, I was not sure where it would lead. To bind the deal required my sworn word. And even when I learned and suspected more, you were under the eye of the Wyr.”

  “Eylan…” Tylar mumbled.

  “Do not be so simple. The Wyr have more than just the one pair of eyes on you. Of that you can be certain. Any word sent to you would reach the Wyr.”

  “So gold bought your tongue,” Rogger muttered with a scowl.

  “No. Something more valuable than gold.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Revelations,” Krevan said. “The Wyr promised that if I brought the skull to them they would tell me much more about the Cabal, the rogue, and the girl.”

  The pirate’s eyes settled again upon Dart.

  “How do you know you aren’t being played the fool?” Rogger asked. “Paid to fetch the skull with false promises.”

  “Because they laid down a payment in advance. A tithing of secret knowledge. They knew more than just the name of the rogue who sired Dart. They told me who he was.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are aware of how the gods had relationships before they were sundered and their world broken. Before they arrived on the shores of Myrillia. Old pacts, old enmities. Remnants of the God War that sundered their kingdom.”

  His listeners nodded. Even Dart had heard of such rumored relationships, like between Fyla and the murdered god Meeryn. The two gods had once been lovers before becoming locked into their Myrillian god-realms, doomed to be forever near, yet forever apart.

  “The Wyr learned a secret about Dart’s father, one kept for the past four millennia. After Dart was born, her mother, near to raving and desperate to save her child, revealed her father’s true heritage.”

  “And what might that be?”

  Krevan turned full upon Tylar. “Keorn was Chrism’s son. Born before the Sundering.”

  As the words struck her, Dart felt her vision narrow. The blood drained to her heels. She felt a scream building somewhere deep inside her. It was Chrism who had forged Rivenscryr. It was he who wielded the Godsword and shattered the kingdom of the gods, bringing ruin and chaos to Myrillia.

  Rogger stood wide-eyed. “That would make…”

  Tylar finished his thought. “Dart is Chrism’s granddaughter.”

  Off by the hearth, Kathryn watched the small group tumble out of Dart’s garret. They all looked ashen, except for Krevan, whose countenance had, if anything, grown even darker.

  Barrin lifted his head from a paw and disturbed the young wyld tracker who had been half-slumbering against his side. Laurelle stood up from her fireside chair.

  “The skull is where?” the pirate boomed as he crossed into the room.

  “Still down in Gerrod’s study,” Tylar said, following on his heels.

  “We must fetch it.”

  Tylar shook his head. “Argent has closed off the Masterlevels. He has fires blazing across all the lower tower floors. We dare not breach the cellars. For now, the skull is secure in Gerrod’s rooms.”

  “Secure? In levels overrun by daemon knights? Someone might sense the taint of seersong in the bone, hunt it down. If we lose the skull, we lose any leverage to pry additional secrets from the Wyr.”

  “Plus the Cabal might use the skull against us,” Rogger argued, siding with Krevan.

  “We must attempt it!” the pirate insisted.

  Kathryn stepped toward them. What new turmoil was this?

  Tylar noted her approach and motioned her to his side, plainly expecting her support. She came, prepared to give it, then rankled at such assumptions. They were long past such easy alliances. Still, she was as irritated by her reaction as much as by Tylar’s.

  “What is this all about?” she asked coldly.

  “Krevan wishes to make an assault upon the Masterlevels. To retrieve the rogue’s skull. It seems it may be more important than just a cursed talisman. But to breach the cellars may lay all of Tashijan open to what gathers below. Even Gerrod-” Tylar glanced around the room. “Where’s the master?”

  “Off to do your bidding. Gathering masters to repair the flippercraft.”

  Tylar nodded. “That’s what we must do first. Secure the towers. Prepare for this siege. Then we can worry about an assault below.”

  Kathryn turned to Krevan and Rogger. “This skull-I would hear its story in full, but tell me first, how calamitous would it be to have it fall into the clutches of the Cabal?”

  “Ruin across all levels,” Krevan said. He turned to Tylar. “The Wyr have no allegiances. They would trade their secrets just as well to the Cabal.”

  “And remember the ilk-beasts back in Chrismferry,” Rogger said. “The curse remains strong in those bones. If whoever created those daemons is down there with them…”

  “She is,” Kathyrn answered, drawing their attention back to her.

  Tylar frowned. “Kathryn?”

  “Lorr awoke for a short time.” She explained all she had learned, of a deception that spanned decades, riddled throughout the tower’s history. “Castellan Mirra is down there. She has been plying treachery for decades, weakening Tashijan from on high, while corrupting its roots in secret. I’m sure even now she’s gathering a wealth of Grace from the masters’ alchemical labs, a well of power to taint and forge into dire weapons against us. Such malignant cunning will expose the skull, find recourse to use it.”

  Kathryn noted Tylar had clutched the back of a chair as she related Lorr’s story. She read the growing horror in his face as he recalibrated the vast web of lies that had trapped them all here. Just as she had done earlier. She also saw the certainty firming in the gray storm of his eyes.

  “Then we have no choice,” he said. “The skull must be retrieved.”

  “It will be difficult,” Kathryn warned.

  Tylar’s mind was already spinning. “We’ll bring fire-torches and lanterns. We can burn a path through to Gerrod’s study.”

  Kathryn held up a hand. “That is all well and good, but that is not what I meant.”

  Tylar stared at her.

  “First, you’ll have to get through Argent. That will be the difficult part.”

  Tylar opened his mouth to speak.

  “No,” she said more firmly. “I know what you’re thinking. Bullying your way through. You can’t divide this house more than it has been already. Castellan Mirra has already succeeded in breaking the trust and fellowship of our Order. Do not serve her further by waging a war with Argent when the enemy is at our door.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  She sighed. “It is time we worked together to unite our Order. Argent was once a great knight. We’ll have to make
him remember that.”

  “Might be easier to pull a pig through a keyhole,” Rogger said.

  Kathryn touched the man’s elbow and silenced him. She kept her eyes on Tylar. He slowly nodded his agreement.

  A new voice interrupted from the narrow doorway. Dart leaned on the door’s latch, worn and haunted. She looked as if she had taken a beating, though not a mark marred her. Laurelle abandoned her place by the hearth and hurried toward her.

  Dart held her off with a raised palm. Her arm trembled. “The skull. You said it came from Saysh Mal.”

  Tylar nodded.

  “Then perhaps you should talk to Brant. He was raised in that god-realm.”

  Tylar frowned at Kathryn, not recognizing the name.

  “It was the boy who helped rescue her,” she explained. “A Hand from Oldenbrook.”

  “And he hails from Saysh Mal?” Rogger asked. Suspicion rang in his voice. “How long ago did he leave that realm?”

  Dart shook her head, unsure.

  Laurelle answered. “He arrived at the Conclave in Chrismferry some four years ago.”

  Dart glanced to her, startled, but Kathryn knew the dark-haired girl was held in high esteem back at the school, both handsome of figure and of a rich family. Raised to such a station, little probably passed beneath Laurelle’s notice at the school. Especially a striking boy. But now she seemed slightly abashed by her knowledge.

  Rogger mumbled to Tylar and lifted one eyebrow. “So he came about the time all fell to ruin in Saysh Mal.”

  Nodding, Tylar turned to Laurelle. “Do you know how he came to be so far from home?”

  She glanced to Dart and shifted her feet slightly. “Rumors only. You know the prattle that gets passed around school.”

  “Tell us.”

  Again a blushing glance was passed to Dart. “He arrived in chains. Exiled, I heard. Sent to the school to get rid of him.”

  “Who sent him? Who banished him?”

  “I heard tell it was the god of his realm.” Laurelle studied her toes. “She banished him, forbidding him ever to return.”

  A WREATH OF LEAVES

  “They still shouldn’t be here,” Liannora said. “Tell him, Sten.”

  Brant sat across the dining table. He would have preferred to have broken bread with the giants back in his rooms, but the captain of the guard had insisted the group all share the final bell’s meal together, for safety’s sake. All had heard the rumors of daemons beneath Tashijan. Brant kept silent about his own involvement.

  Watching from the side, he found it surprising how little the others seemed to be truly worried about the storm, the whispers of daemons, and the bustle of knights in the lower levels of Tashijan. Up higher, a certain degree of orderliness and routine persisted. To Liannora and her two lapdogs, Mistress Ryndia and Master Khar, it was all so much high adventure, requiring such brutal sacrifice as tolerating a meal served late.

  And what a meal it was. The board was piled high enough to feed thrice their number. A covey of roasted grouse, stuffed with nut mash and corn, centered the table, surrounded by steaming loaves of oaten bread along with cheeses, both hard and soft, and boiled eggs painted in the Oldenbrook hues of blue and silver. A pair of scullions hauled off a large kettle-bowl of winter squash stew, requiring a pole through the handles to lift it from the table.

  Such was the enormity of the fare that the captain of the guard shared a few plates with his men at the doors, who ate standing. While at the table, Sten and the Hands sipped tall crystal flutes of warmed sweetwine.

  Brant suspected such largesse was mostly to keep the visitors calm and sated, as much a strategy of the warden as the flaming fortifications below. Chaos in the upper reaches would only hamper efforts below.

  So he stayed silent during the long meal.

  But Liannora was not satisfied with the fare alone. It seemed entertainment was also necessary this night.

  “To keep these wolfkits, on our level, among our rooms, unbathed,” she sniffed and nodded to Sten. “If nothing else, it’s unclean.”

  “They will be kept to my chambers,” Brant said.

  “How can we know that for certain? Did they not worry themselves free of your giants’ charge, escaping away?”

  Brant’s chair rested before the room’s hearth, the fire in full blaze behind him. He felt already near to roasted, and with his brow moist, he found little patience to dance with Liannora. “They’re staying here.”

  “That is not your decision,” Liannora said. Plainly she remained upset at being snubbed earlier outside the castellan’s chambers, and now sought to punish him. “In all matters of our security and well-being, Sten is the final word.”

  Ryndia and Khar nodded their agreement, murmuring their assent over their goblets of wine.

  Brant turned to the captain of the guard.

  Something in Brant’s eye gave Sten pause. “Mistress, perhaps it would be better…until the matter is settled below-”

  Liannora touched his arm, silencing him. “These are indeed difficult times. We must try our best to be of service to Tashijan. Keeping the cubbies in these fine quarters will strain our welcome here. If any of us should become ill from our confinement with them…”

  Ryndia lifted a fold of cloth to her nose. “I smelled them when I walked past Master Brant’s room on my way here. It all but made me swoon.”

  Khar nodded, whistling a bit through his thin nose. “And their howling…pierced right through the wall to my bedchamber. I doubt my slumber this night will be undisturbed. Such disorder will surely burden my constitution.”

  Brant scowled at the pair of Hands. Ryndia was as hearty as a well-fed cow, and Khar was known to sleep entire days away.

  “If that be the case,” Sten began, avoiding Brant’s eye, “then we have a duty to rid them from our level. I’m sure my guards can find some lonely cage, away from the bustle, for the pair.”

  Brant stood up, knocking his chair back, almost into the hearth’s flame. “They’ll not be moved.” He stared across the breadth of the table. “I will not play this game of yours, Liannora. If you’re upset with me, then state it plainly. Quit these little pokes.”

  Liannora opened her eyes wider, the picture of innocence. “I’m certain I don’t know of what you’re clamoring about. I only seek the best for all.”

  Sten sat more stiffly in his seat. “Master Brant, with all deference, I think it mightily rude of you to speak to the mistress in such a harsh manner. Plainly she only wishes everyone’s comfort here.”

  Brant’s lips hardened. “Try to take the cubbies-any of you-and you’ll face my daggers,” he said in a low and certain voice.

  Liannora waved a dismissive hand. “What did I tell you? He’s as wild as his cubbies. There is no reasoning with him. You, Sten, are witness to his threat against me. Such matters must be brought before the attention of Lord Jessup upon our return. And I’ll ask that you set a guard upon his door or I’d fear some attack during the night.”

  Sten was already on his feet. “Master Brant, you leave me little choice. I’ll ask that you retire to your chambers. Perhaps in the morning more sense will prevail, and you’ll apologize for such an affront.”

  Two guards obeyed some hidden signal and came forward to flank Brant.

  Brant only then realized how artfully he had been manipulated. The threat against the whelpings was only a feint, one meant to draw him out for the true attack. And he had fallen into the trap readily.

  Liannora’s next words confirmed his suspicion. “And let him keep his cubbies-at least for this one night. I’m sure we can all endure their presence for the sake of peace and good grace.”

  “Most generous and reasonable,” Ryndia said.

  “More than he deserves,” Khar echoed on cue.

  Sten nodded his thanks and faced Brant with an exasperated sigh. “If you’ll accompany us,” he said and headed to the door.

  Brant followed. He had dug himself a deep enough grave.

 
Still Liannora could not help but cast one more dagger. “In the morning, we’ll settle this matter of the cubbies.”

  Brant did not rise to this further challenge. He held his tongue and gladly left the small dining hall. The door closed behind him-but not before he caught a small twitter of suppressed laughter from Ryndia.

  He also heard Liannora’s soft scold to her friend. “Oh, this is not over.”

  Brant allowed himself to be escorted back to his chambers. Guards or not, he looked forward to escaping to the confines of his rooms. But as he neared his door by the central stairs, he noted a knight standing at the landing, framed in torchlight, reminding him of the greater danger they all faced.

  Sten stopped at his door.

  Brant stepped forward and grabbed the latch.

  “Ho!” a call rose from the stairs.

  All eyes turned. A group of cloaked figures pushed past the lone guard and entered the hall. Warily, Brant backed a step, especially when the lead figure shed his cloak’s hood. It was the regent again, Tylar ser Noche.

  What now? Had something happened to Dart?

  The regent’s eyes settled on Brant. “I would have a private word with Master Brant,” Tylar said, turning and acknowledging Sten, noting the crossed raven’s feathers at his collar, marking the captain’s station.

  Sten also recognized the triple-striped countenance of the regent. “Certainly, your lordship.”

  “Very good.”

  Brant swallowed to find his voice. It seemed this long night was far from over. “Please use my chambers…” He waved to the door.

  The regent nodded.

  Brant undid the latch and pushed. He stood aside for them to enter. He recognized one of the regent’s companions, the thin and bearded figure from before. Rogger was his name, as he recalled. He gave Brant a reassuring pat as he passed inside.

  The next figure stood a head taller than all of them, buried in his cloak. Brant did not know him. Behind the stranger, the last figure stopped at the threshold. It was a woman under the gray cloak, though her face was hidden behind ash.

  Brant frowned. What was a member of the Black Flaggers doing here with the regent?