Blood of Mystery

by Mark Anthony

  “Let’s get going,” Beltan said. “There’s no use hanging out here in the cold, not when there’s ale so close at hand.”

  “How do you know that?” Grace asked him, curious.

  The blond knight shrugged. “Cities have taverns. Taverns have ale. It’s a pattern I’ve noticed over the years.”

  Falken adjusted the rags that concealed his silver hand. “Be on your guard, everyone. After what happened in Seawatch, I think we’ve learned we can’t trust anybody in Embarr.”

  It was hard to get a good view of Omberfell until they were close. A haze obscured the air, muting all colors to shades of gray, although whether it was from fog or smoke Grace couldn’t tell. The city stood on the banks of an estuary, where the River Fellgrim oozed into the Winter Sea. Beyond, Grace could just glimpse rows of docks and the tall masts of ships, rising like a leafless forest in the fog.

  As they drew near the city’s walls, they merged with a steady stream of people moving toward the gates, no doubt coming for reasons of trade. To Grace’s relief, the people didn’t appear any more grimy or somber than common folk in Calavan or Toloria. She wasn’t certain what she had been expecting—perhaps the same faces of despair she had seen in Galspeth.

  Though the main road leading to the gate was crowded, things moved with surprising efficiency. Of course, this was Embarr. Even the average peasant here was likely to be as much an engineer as a farmer. Logic and order were revered, and the dreary landscape certainly wasn’t likely to inspire flights of fancy in the general populace.

  They took their place in the line of people waiting to have their goods examined before passing through the archway. However, a stern-looking guard gestured at them, and for a moment panic clutched Grace’s heart. Their warhorses towered over the wooden carts and shaggy ponies, making the guard suspicious of them; they should have abandoned the chargers outside the city.

  There was nothing to do but obey the guardsman. They guided their mounts toward him.

  “There is no need for you and your retainers to wait in that queue, my lady,” the guard said. “You may enter here at once.” He gestured to a smaller side gate.

  Grace could only stare. However, Falken smoothly interposed himself.

  “The countess thanks you. She is weary from her journey and looks forward to her rest.”

  “Are you guests of the duke?”

  “Not yet,” Falken said. “My lady comes of her own accord to seek an audience.”

  “You’ll be wanting to find the Sign of the Silver Grail, then,” the guard said.

  Falken nodded. “It’s the finest lodging in the city, is it not?”

  “That it is, my lord. All nobles who journey to Omberfell stay there until the duke summons them to the keep.”

  The guard told Falken where they would find the Silver Grail, and Falken thanked him with a coin. As they rode through the side gate, Grace let out the breath she had been holding. Now that she thought about it, it wasn’t a great mystery that the guard had mistaken them for nobles. In the Dominions, only the nobility could afford to keep horses like the chargers they rode.

  The Silver Grail was situated near the center of the city, not far from the stone fortress that rose on a hill above Omberfell. No doubt that was the duke’s keep. To Grace’s relief, the banners that flew from the towers of the fortress were purple, not crimson.

  Slate-roofed houses crowded along either side of the narrow cobblestone streets down which they guided their horses. The city looked much like others Grace had seen in the Dominions. However, as she looked closer, she noticed that everything appeared to be remarkably clean and ordered. The streets were free of debris, and frequent iron grates—as well as the general lack of streams of raw sewage—indicated some sort of sewer system had been installed. Although drab in color, the houses were all neatly kept, their doors painted brown or a deep moss green. The people who passed by seemed generally sober, but not furtive or fearful, and they neither dawdled nor hurried as they moved about their tasks.

  Falken guided his horse close to Vani’s. “Are there any signs of the Onyx Knights around?”

  “I see no indication of their presence,” the T’gol said, scanning the streets. “If the knights had laid siege to this city, I would expect signs of strife. However, all seems to be in good order.”

  Beltan let out a snort. “Everything seems boring, you mean. No offense to Durge, but I had forgotten how dull and predictable Embarrans can be.”

  “At least the trains probably run on time,” Grace said with a smile.

  They reached the street the guard had described and saw a sign painted with a cup that was not so much silver as putty gray. However, the three-storied edifice was built solidly of stone, and despite the lateness of the year pansies bloomed in the flower boxes mounted beneath each of the building’s windows.

  As they entered the inn, a white-haired man hurried toward them and bowed low. Once Falken told their story, the proprietor, whose name was Farrand, was more than happy to accommodate the traveling countess—who for delicate political circumstances could not reveal her name until she was able to see the duke.

  Again Grace was struck by the fact that common folk didn’t ask questions of nobles. Farrand accepted the bard’s fantastical tale without so much as an eye blink. He instructed a boy to see to their horses, then led them to their rooms on the third floor. These were spacious and clean, if spare in their appointments. Grace was beginning to think Beltan was right about the dull nature of Embarrans. Didn’t these people know how to have fun? Then again, despite his serious nature, Durge was anything but boring.

  Maybe Durge is an exception, Grace. It could be he was the flighty one in his family.

  This thought made her laugh aloud, but when the others stared at her, she only responded with a smile. It made her feel good to think of the stolid Embarran knight.

  After they stowed their few things and washed the grime of travel from their hands and faces, they headed down to the inn’s common room to find food. And some ale for Beltan.

  The midday meal was long over, and the common room was all but empty at that hour. However, Farrand was happy to see to their needs. They sat at a table in a private corner and ate a rich meal of pheasant pie, hare stewed with herbs, and dried apricots in cream. Grace wondered how much gold this would cost, and if it would leave them enough to buy passage on a ship. However, she was supposed to be a countess, and no doubt it would draw suspicion if she didn’t eat like one.

  After servants cleared away the dishes, they drank the warm, gritty cups of ale Beltan ordered for all of them.

  “It tastes like boar’s vomit,” Vani said after taking a sip.

  She pushed the mug aside. Beltan quickly drew it toward him; his own was already empty.

  “So what do we do now?” Grace said to Falken.

  The bard picked at the bandages that concealed his silver hand. “I suppose I should go down to the docks and start looking for a ship to take us across the Winter Sea. I had hoped to get to Omberfell before the first of Valdath, but we’ve missed that by a week now.”

  Grace hadn’t realized so much time had already passed. Midwinter’s Day was less than a month away. “Is that a problem?”

  “It might be. The farther we are into Valdath, the more ice there will be floating down on the currents from the north. If there’s too much, no captain will be willing to risk taking us across the sea.”

  “What if we can get a ship to take us across the sea, Falken?” Grace said. The closest servants were on the other side of the common room, and she kept her voice low. “How do we know the Onyx Knights won’t just follow us again?”

  “They can’t know we’re here,” Beltan said, wiping foam from his mustache. “There’s no way they could follow us.”

  Vani gave him a sharp look. “They followed us on the Fate Runner.”

  “That’s right,” Falken said. “And I still wonder how it was they knew we were on that ship.”

  G
race reached up, feeling her necklace beneath the bodice of her gown. “It was the girl in Galspeth, the one at the tailor’s shop. She was a member of the Raven Cult—I’m sure of it, after what we saw in Seawatch. And she saw my necklace. The knights must have questioned her. Or maybe they’re in league with the Pale King, just like the Raven Cult is. Maybe the knights are like holy warriors for the cult.”

  “Maybe,” Falken said, his tone skeptical. “But if the Onyx Knights serve the Pale King, why did they kill the feydrim at Seawatch? That doesn’t make sense.”

  Beltan set down the empty ale cup. “That’s not the only thing that doesn’t make sense. We know the Onyx Knights want to kill you, Grace. But you heard that old countess at Seawatch. She said the Pale King wants you alive for some reason. So how can the knights and the Pale King be on the same side?”

  A shudder ran through Grace. What could the Pale King want with her? She was Ulther’s sole heir. Didn’t that make her Berash’s mortal enemy? That was what the legends said.

  “I’m not sure what it all means,” Falken said. “But I think it’s more important than ever that we find the shards of Fellring. And that means we’ve got to find a ship to—”

  Soft, musical laughter rose on the air. The sound came from a dim alcove Grace hadn’t noticed before. She strained her eyes and thought she saw a shadowy figure sitting within.

  Beltan reached for the knife at his belt. Vani was already on her feet.

  “Show yourself,” the T’gol said.

  “As you wish, my lady,” said a voice as clear as the laughter. “But I beg you not to snap my neck, at least not before you’ve heard my excuse for eavesdropping.”

  A man stepped from the alcove. He was beautiful.

  Tall and slender, the stranger was clad all in soft shades of gray, and he moved lithely, like a dancer. His shoulder-length hair was pure silver, but the color had to be premature, for by the smoothness of his face he was no older than Grace. His features were fine, even delicate, and his eyes were a vivid green flecked with gold, like emeralds in sunlight.

  “Who are you?” Beltan growled. “And why were you listening to us?”

  “I suppose I can’t claim to be a friend, now can I?” the man said. “But I believe I can help you all the same. I’ll tell you right off that you’ll never be able to hire a ship to take you across the Winter Sea. And as for why I was listening...” He shrugged. “That was quite by accident. I had simply retired to this quiet alcove to doze after dinner. Then I woke to the sound of your voices. And I hope you’ll forgive me that I didn’t make myself known at once. But you were all saying such fascinating things...”

  Grace cast a startled look at Falken. The man had heard everything they said. All the same, for some reason she didn’t feel afraid. There was something about the other—his voice, or perhaps his striking eyes—that seemed almost familiar to her. Had she seen him somewhere before?

  That’s impossible, Grace. He’s the prettiest man you’ve ever seen. Surely you’d remember him.

  “Don’t fear, my lady,” the man said, nodding to Grace. “I know how to keep a secret. I won’t reveal what I’ve heard. So I’d appreciate it if you could rein in your companions.”

  Grace glanced at Beltan and Vani, then shook her head. Grudgingly, the T’gol stepped back, and the knight let go of his knife. Grace gestured for the man to sit.

  “What’s your name?” she said.

  “You can call me Sindar. It’s as good a name as any.”

  His words should have troubled her, but they didn’t. “Why don’t you think we’ll be able to book a ship?”

  “The port has been closed,” Sindar said. “By order of the duke, no ship is allowed to sail in or out of the harbor.”

  Grace chewed her lip; that might explain why the Onyx Knights hadn’t landed in Omberfell. At best they had been able to sneak a rowboat ashore with a single knight, who had then ridden to Kelcior for reinforcements.

  “I haven’t heard of any such order,” Falken said.

  Sindar gestured to the door with a long hand. “Go to the docks yourself and ask. But don’t waste too much time. For I must sail away on my own ship before sundown.”

  Falken grinned, and it was not an expression of humor. “You speak smoothly, Sindar. But now I see your true intention. I’m a bard by trade, so let me tell your tale. First you lurk about an inn known to be frequented by nobles. Then you eavesdrop on a group of newcomers and learn of their intention to hire a ship. So you tell them no ship can leave port, except, conveniently, for your own. Next you offer to bear the strangers to their destination for a modest fee, then you lead them to your ship. Only you have no ship, and when the hapless strangers reach the docks, the miscreants you work with jump out and rob them. Well, I’m sorry to inform you, but we’re not such simple travelers.”

  Sindar appeared nonplussed by these words. “No, I don’t believe you are.” He stood up. “And you’re right about one aspect of my tale. I do have a ship, and it can leave the harbor—unlike any other ship you’ll find in Omberfell. However, I have no need to rob you in secret, for I can do it openly. My fee for bearing you to Toringarth is anything but modest. And my ship leaves at sundown tonight. Be here an hour before if you truly wish to go.”

  With that, Sindar gave an elegant bow, then turned and left the inn for the street outside.

  Beltan let out a whistle. “That was a peculiar fellow. You don’t think he was serious about the duke’s order, do you?”

  “I can’t believe he was,” Falken said. “All the same, I’m going to go to the docks and find out.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Vani said. “I wish to see if this thief follows us.”

  Grace gazed at the door where Sindar had vanished. “Did he look familiar to any of you?”

  “No,” Beltan said, scratching his chin. “Though I will say his eyes are almost the exact same color as yours, Grace.”

  41.

  It was midafternoon, and a mist of rain had begun to fall over Omberfell as Grace and Beltan made their way through clean, ordered streets to the city’s market.

  Vani had gone to the dockyards with Falken to help the bard see about hiring a ship, and Grace had asked Beltan to accompany her on a mission to buy supplies. If they were going on a long voyage, it would be good to have some extra foodstuffs with them. More importantly, this seemed like a prime opportunity to give the knight and the assassin some time apart.

  They found the city’s market in a broad plaza, and it was as efficiently run as everything else in Omberfell. The stalls were organized according to what each was selling, prices were fair, and people waited in patient lines to pay their coins and take away their goods. Soon Grace and Beltan carried several packages wrapped in cloth, containing hard cheeses, nuts, and dried figs.

  “That was the worst market I’ve ever seen,” Beltan grumbled, as they walked.

  Grace glanced at him, puzzled. “Really? And here I was thinking I haven’t had that much luck shopping since my last trip to Safeway.”

  “Oh, sure,” Beltan said, glowering. “If you like excellent goods at cheap prices, I suppose it was just fine. But did you notice? Nobody was selling ale.”

  “You just had ale at the inn, Beltan.”

  “What’s your point?”

  She shifted the packages in her arms. “I’m not really sure.”

  “I tell you, Grace. There’s something wrong in this town. I don’t care how tidy or pleasant-smelling it is, there should have been ale in the market. It’s like they don’t want people to have any fun. There are dark forces at work here.”

  Grace couldn’t say she shared the same feeling. As far as she could tell, for all the prevalence of gray, Omberfell was one of the nicest cities she had seen in the Dominions. She almost hoped it took Falken and Vani a few days to find them a ship. The journey had been long and exhausting, and she knew it was far from over. It would be good to pause and rest, if for just a little while. Besides, while she still wasn’t
the best judge of human nature, she had a feeling Beltan’s dark mood didn’t really have to do with ale.

  “Why do you hate her?” she asked before she could consider the wisdom of it. “Vani’s saved all of our lives more than once.”

  Beltan looked away. “I don’t hate her.”

  “You have a tendency to act like it.”

  “You’re mistaken, Your Majesty.”

  Grace winced at the sharpness in his voice, but she wasn’t going to let go that easily. “It’s Travis, isn’t it? He loves you— you know he does. Only maybe you’re afraid he might love Vani, too. That’s why you can’t stand her.”

  Beltan came to a sudden halt, and Grace nearly collided with his shoulder. He looked at her, and she swallowed. It had been a long time since she had seen the knight really angry, and now she wished she hadn’t so casually invoked his ire. His face was hard; in that moment she remembered he was a man of war.

  “It could be easy to hate her, you know,” Beltan said, his voice rough. “If she was wicked, if she was foolish, if she led us time and again into danger with her actions, then I would despise her. But she’s not those things, is she?” He sighed, his anger fading. “She’s beautiful, and strong, and, as you’ve reminded me, she’s risked herself to save our lives—my life— with her deeds. How could I possibly hate her? And how could I possibly blame Travis for loving her instead of me? After all, she’s a princess of an ancient people. And I’m just a bastard who murdered his own father.”

  Grace’s heart crumpled in her chest. She wanted to say, You’re one of the finest men I have ever met, Beltan of Calavan, and Travis does love you. But before she could, the deep toll of a bell rang out.

  The sound of the bell came again, closer this time, echoing off slate roofs. The crowd that had filled the avenue parted as people pressed themselves close to the houses on either side, leaving the center of the broad street empty.

  “What’s going on?” Grace said.

  Beltan glanced around. “It looks like they’re making room for some sort of procession. Whatever’s coming, I don’t think we want to get in its way.”