Several times along the Blue Mile, men or women approached Daric and the others, trays hanging about their necks, selling all manner of trinkets or potions or food. Most had the darting eyes and twitching movements of folk who should not be selling on that particular stretch of road. As eager as they were, none approached Cal; not only was he huge, he rode a huge horse and held a big wolf by a leash. Daric couldn’t blame them. But Cal’s presence did not stop the peddlers pestering the soldiers, or him and Grady. Si’eth kept his head covered and skulked behind Cal’s ample cover.
At the end of the Blue Mile, the soldiers, the fifty or so who had joined them at Redgate, turned left toward the barracks. Daric led the others straight on to the palace quarter and the Silver Gates.
Daric dismounted. “We have to walk the last hundred paces, Cal,” he told the Cren. “Besides, I don’t think the gates are high enough for you to ride through.” Daric chuckled, and Cal smiled. It was a wonder more fuss was not made over the big man. It was one thing to see him in the wilds, but in the town, surrounded by “normal” folk, he looked all the more imposing.
Like Gieth’eire, the area in front of the palace wall was free of cover: a killing ground. The Silver Gate was actually three in one. The large gate measured five paces high and wide. Reinforced with silver-plated steel. From a distance, it looked like a solid slab. Above it, and inside the wall, a wheeled pulley raised the gate to allow large wagons and royal coaches to pass through. Within this gate was another. Hinged within, this second gate was large enough to allow horsemen to pass, two abreast. And within that, yet another gate, just large enough for soldiers to march through in single file.
As if that were not enough, a thick portcullis could be lowered behind the main gate, should the palace come under attack. In front, a ten-pace-wide moat, with sharpened wooden spikes at the bottom, ran the full length of the wall. Only a relatively narrow stone bridge allowed passage over the spikes.
There was only the one wall, the one north of the palace. To the east, a sheer cliff dropped a hundred paces down to the rocky coastline. To the south and west, the cliff fell fifty paces, this time down onto the town below.
As usual, two guards, liveried in the king’s armour, stood at attention outside the gatehouse. Daric nodded to them as he peered into the open window.
“Anybody home?” Daric looked into the dark, single-roomed gatehouse.
“He’s not there, sir,” a soldier said. “He’ll be back in a minute.”
Daric raised a brow; no guard in the gatehouse, that was ridiculous. How bad had things become? Daric looked at the guard, who appeared nervous. What was going on? That feeling he often got in his gut was back. He was just about to turn and suggest leaving when the small door in the centre of the Silver Gate opened.
Probably twenty guardsmen streamed through in single file. Every other man split left and right until two lines stood to attention either side of Daric and the others. As soon as the guards stood at attention, a fat man – a sergeant, who Daric thought he recognised – stepped through the gate.
“Captain Daric Re’adh. I arrest you by order of his Royal Highness, King Vierdan, Sovereign of the Most Exalted Order of the Empire of Moyathair, Leader of the House of Eidred, High Seat of Bailryn and Aleras’moya,” the sergeant said as if reading from a scroll. He seemed… reluctant.
Daric took a step back. His mind raced, searching for answers. “You’re arresting me? On the … on the king’s orders?”
Grady shouted at the sergeant, demanding to know why, but Daric could not focus. Of all the things he might have expected, this was least among them. A moment passed, and Daric caught hold of his wits. Turning, he waved Grady down. There was no point arguing, not yet, at least. The Gateman would not know anything. Cal was hiding Si’eth. Toban was growling, sitting between them. Gods, don’t talk now, Toban; that’ll really light the fuse. Grady took a step forward.
“I only have orders to arrest Captain Re’adh, Sergeant Daleman,” the gateman said. “But if you take another step, I’ll have to arrest you, too.”
The gateman appeared solemn; he did not look as if he wanted to arrest anyone. It was clear to Daric the gateman recognised him, although he couldn’t place the man. Twice he named him “Captain,” despite Daric not wearing a uniform – and he knew who Grady was, too, so it seemed. Although they did not know Daric was a Major. How old were these orders? Daric decided Faelen and his associates must be behind the warrant.
Cal took a step forward and Daric gave him a surreptitious shake of the head. Not now, Cal; not here. He knew the big man was likely to toss the gateman to the side and rescue Daric. But that would not help matters one bit. Daric needed to get into the palace, and if that meant going in as a prisoner, then so be it.
“I’ll come quietly, Sergeant,” Daric told the gateman. “No need for trouble.”
The fat sergeant looked relieved. He stood to the side while the left column of soldiers marched back through the small gate. He gestured Daric to follow. The sergeant tucked in behind, and the other ten soldiers followed him.
“I’m sorry about this, sir. There’s really nothing I can do.”
“Do you know why, Sergeant? Is there a charge on the warrant?”
“No, sir,” the sergeant said, puzzled, as if he had only just realised that himself. “It might be—” The sergeant scrathed his chin. “I don’t know…? There’s always a charge.”
“Don’t worry about it, Sergeant. I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.”
* * *
Grady had watched as the sergeant led Daric in through the gate. Daric followed without complaint. Grady hoped his old friend knew what he was doing.
“Now what do we do?” Si’eth whispered. He still had his hood up. He was looking nervously up and down the outer courtyard.
“The Green Man,” Grady answered.
“The what?”
“It’s an inn. I know the landlord. We need to get off the streets. A Cren, a wolf and a Salrian: not a good mix. Once we’re safe, I’ll find out what the bloody hell is going on.
“And how are you going to do that?” Si’eth asked.
“The barracks. Someone will know something. I have friends there, I hope.”
“You hope! That’s not very encouraging.”
“It’s all we have for the moment, Si’eth,” Grady said. What does the man expect? I’ve just come back after two years and more. “Come. We can’t stand here talking; we have eyes on us.” He pointed up at the top of the gate where three guards were looking down at them.
Grady led them back into town. The Green Man was in the Dockland Quarter. As rough as the docks were, it was likely the safest place for them; neither Lord Breen nor the palace had much influence down there. Grady did not much like the thought, but then he had no idea how deep the rot had set. If they could arrest Daric – of all people – arrest him at the Silver Gates… Had the rot reached the guards, too?.
For now, Daric would have to look after himself. Grady was already thinking of a few folk he could ask for help. But none of them lived outside the barracks. At least he didn’t think they did. Maybe he could send word. No, it would have to be face to face, and that would mean talking to Mikelmoor. He grimaced at the thought. Mikelmoor was the worst kind of soldier; he’d turn in his own mother if he thought it was the right thing to do, and then scold you for questioning him. Which, in this case, is what made Mikelmoor the perfect choice; he was the only man Grady could be absolutely sure of. “Bloody hell,” he whispered.
“What now?” Si’eth asked.
Grady sighed. “Oh nothing; just remembered I owe someone a favour.”
“Does that matter now?”
“It might do. Depends on whether I can afford to pay.”
CHAPTER 3
Judgment Time
Brea woke with the rooster’s call, still with a cold throbbing in her feet and legs from the near two-day excursion into the Tunnels of Aldregair. Usually, she would ignore the infern
al bird’s cawing, at least for another hour or two, but not today. Besides, she would be sleeping later.
She yawned, and then rubbed her cheek. Even her jaw ached, likely from all that shouting. A dull light shone through the one small window into her bedroom, making a grey pattern of itself on her dresser. Yesterday’s clothes covered the top, lying right where she threw them after walking back from Tor’s den. I wonder if they are still arguing, she thought.
After three hours trying to persuade Tiama to let her into the Moon Pool, Brea finally left the cave an hour after midnight. The dragons and the Cinnè’arth were in the chamber, “discussing” what to do next. For all she knew, Arfael and Tor were still at it. She had never seen Rek’s father so angry; he all but pushed Arfael into the Dragon’s Hall. “We’ll not talk about this where anyone could hear,” Tor said when Arfael asked why. Angry and mysterious: normal behaviour for Tor, but never this extreme.
As for her dilemma, trying to persuade Tiama she had to go to the Moon Pool had been a waste of time. “You should not be thinking about that until you have rested,” is what Rek’s mother had told her, on the fourth or fifth time of asking. It was just like a dragon to lay down the law. This should all be over by now. Did they not realise Vila’slae was likely already on her way to Eiras?
Without thinking, Brea held her gut against a foreboding sense of the inevitable, even before she remembered what she must do later that afternoon. The Judgment. For five years, she had known about it, and for five years, none of the dragons would tell her anything, other than it was coming. A lot of help they are. Still, one way or another, it would be over by this time tomorrow.
Tor called it “Quickening.” Tiama called it “the Knowledge of Ages.” Altor said it was “a test of her character.” Whatever it may be, there was one thing for sure – fail, and no more Soul Guardian, no more connection to Rek or the other dragons. The thought of that almost brought the grumble in her stomach to her throat.
Suppressing another yawn, Brea climbed out of bed and began to dress herself. For two copper, she would have stayed where she was. But it did no good to stare at the ceiling, worrying. “The chicken won’t wring its own neck!” is what Affrair, her mother, would say whenever Brea tried to put off doing something. Standing at the washbowl, she splashed water on her face. Then, with hairbrush in one hand, toothstick and soda in the other, she started her fifty strokes.
Affrair was already up when Brea went to kitchen for breakfast. If the truth were known, her mother would doubtless say she had been up all night: she looked tired.
“Good morning, dear,” Affrair said. If she was tired, she did a good job of hiding it. Breakfast was already on the table; eggs, toast, strawberry preserve and, unless Brea missed her guess, Affrair was cooking the good bacon. “You sit down, my love. I’ll have this ready in a tick.”
Brea had to chuckle. “It’s not feast day, mother; why all the—” She cut herself off when she heard her mother sobbing. “Oh, Mother, no. You don’t have to worry.” Brea moved to her mother’s side and put a hand on her shoulder. Affrair would not take her eyes off the sizzling bacon, but Brea could tell she had been crying. “Please, I’ll be fine, you’ll see. ‘Everything as it should be’ – that’s what you say? Besides, I will not let this Judgment come between me and Rek.”
“That isn’t why I’m crying.” That brought another wave of blubbering. “You won’t be my little… girl… anymore,” Affrair said in between sobs and hiccups.
Brea wiped a tear from her mother’s cheek. “I’ll always be your little girl.”
“You’ll know more than I. You won’t need me.”
Affrair’s lip quivered and Brea tried to stop her own from doing the same, with little success. “‘Knowledge is not wisdom.’ Isn’t that another of your sayings? Course I’ll need you. I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous.”
Affrair blurted out a laugh and hugged Brea tightly enough to force the breath out of her lungs. When she finally let go, Affrair dabbed her eyes and sniffed. “Thank you for saying that. I was so… I don’t know, frightened you might leave.”
Brea’s eyes widened. “I’ll not be going anywhere for a long time, Mother. Well, nowhere that I won’t come back from, at any rate. I swear, you’ll be pushing me out the door before we’re done.”
Another half-laugh, half-blubber, came from Affrair. “I don’t know about that.” She put her kerchief away and straightened. Blinking away the tears still floating in the corner of her eyes, she pointed at the table. “Come on; eat up. You have a long day ahead, and likely a longer night, too. You will need your strength.”
Brea smiled, and sat, but could not help a sigh. Maybe her mother was right; how could she know what was to come? Things were moving too fast. What would she be like with the Knowledge of Ages inside her head? How could it not change her? She decided it would have to be a problem for later. Now, breakfast with her mother was the priority, and not least because of the good bacon.
* * *
The common room of the Whistling Shepherd was busy when Brea walked in an hour later; busy but quiet. All but Arfael were sitting at the tables or arranging their belongings, spreading them out on the dark tile floor. Bre’ach was cleaning his boots. Olam sorted through the clothes that Affrair had washed for him. The two other Salrians were cleaning and sharpening their knives. Ealian – or was it Alacin? – was reading something while he ate; and Lance, the barman, darted between tables, taking away empty plates and delivering cups of steaming tea. Only Gialyn sat doing nothing.
They had each decided what they were going to do next during the march back from the Tunnels of Aldregair. The two Salrian hunters – Brea did not think they were hunters but didn’t see the need to argue the point – would wait a few days before going back to bury their friend. After that, they had agreed to come back to Braylair and help with the evacuation, before going home to An’aird Barath. Olam, after a long argument with Ealian – or was it Alacin? – had chosen to go to Bailryn with the dragons. Bre’ach would be joining him, “to fight at his father’s side,” apparently. Why a Salrian ex-soldier would want to go to the city was beyond Brea but, again, she didn’t argue. Alacin, being the more powerful of the two Raics, would go with Arfael to try and rescue Elspeth.
Well, Arfael wanted to save Elspeth; Alacin wanted to stop Vila’slae from making another Shard from the original Barrowstone. Although, in truth, Alacin’s reason for going didn’t matter; Elspeth was Ealian’s twin sister, so Alacin – living in the back of Ealian’s mind, if that could be called “living” – would be going to Eiras whether he wanted to or not…
…And that was why Gialyn was sulking. He had insisted on going, too, but both Arfael and Alacin squashed that idea as soon as the young man mentioned it. Brea couldn’t help but feel for him; she was sure he loved the girl.
Ignoring Gialyn for the moment, Brea sat at the table opposite Olam. The older man smiled at her. Despite the way they had met, she had come to trust him, even if she was still a little wary of the Raic. “You won’t be able to take all that,” she said, pointing at the large pile of possessions piled in front of Arfael’s huge backpack. “It must weigh more than me. The dragons haven’t flown this far in over a century; we must keep the weight down.”
Olam gazed at Arfael’s now-empty pack, and then at the pile of his own belongings. Of the two of them, Olam’s were by far the more numerous. Seemed Arfael had made do with just a few clothes and a huge spoon and fork – he would not need them anymore. “You are right, but I must take my books; they are very rare.”
The look in his eye told Brea the older man was asking a question, rather than insisting. Smiling, she shook her head. “Sorry, Olam, but you can pack them up and put them on one of the carts heading for Redgate. We can send for them later. They will be safe.”
Brea wanted to giggle at the sullen look Olam gave her. He reminded her of Brin, her father; he always had his nose in a book. Every other memory she held was of him reading a story
to her when she was little. She still didn’t know what happened to him. Affrair wouldn’t speak of it, no matter how many times Brea asked. Insisting on an answer was the only time she could remember her mother becoming genuinely angry.
Suppressing the thought, she asked, “Have you seen Arfael?”
“Not this morning, no. I heard him come in a few hours ago. If he has any sense, he will be sleeping.” Olam bit his lip and stared at the open book in his hand. “I do not know what is happening to him, Brea. I do not mind saying that I am worried; he was never this agitated, despite having had many a good reason to be.” Closing the book, Olam stared at the ceiling where Arfael’s room would be.
The once-huge Arfael no longer had to sleep on two beds in the dining hall. He had taken a room upstairs, and from what Brea had heard, hardly left it, except to fetch food, which he would then take back to his room. For the first few hours after his… change, Arfael had been chatty and open; but as the day wore on, he had become more and more distant, and was now only talking to Tor – if shouting was the same as talking. It was as if a dark shadow had fallen on him. Maybe one of the memories he had recovered after his change had worried him. Yet if that were so, he was in no hurry to share his thoughts.
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