Raine nodded, watching as he filled her glass. She took a long drink to steady her nerves. The wine was delicious, golden white and sweet, with notes of saffron and ginger.
“Have a care,” Raven said. “Valdarian wine goes straight from the mouth to the head.”
Filling a plate with pork, a variety of cheeses, roasted vegetables, and fruit, he set it in front of her. Raine ate a slice of pear and tried the pork. It was tender and seasoned with garlic and rosemary.
Raven poured himself a glass goblet of wine, and sat back, observing Raine from beneath slanted lids. “Everything to your liking?”
“Yes.” Raine dipped her fingers in the bowl of scented water beside her plate. “The pork is especially good.”
“Aye, the rowan made quite a fuss over Gertie’s kill.” Raven waved his glass at the enormous porcine centerpiece. “Had the damn thing piped in on a platter. Hedda was in a rage—there wasn’t that much fanfare at the royal wedding.”
“That’s Gertie’s suckling pig?” Raine said, staring. “Good Lord.”
“Mor has a gift for understatement.” Raven looked around the hall. “Where is she, by the by? Saw her at the top of the stairs with you.”
“Gone,” Raine said, not bothering to hide her bitterness. “Rang a bell to draw everyone’s attention, and poof! She vanished.”
“Really? She poofed?”
“Yep.” Raine tried a bite of baked parsnip. “Disappeared, just like that.”
The rowan set his goblet down with a thump. “Where’s Gertie? She promised us a story.”
“She…er…poofed,” Raven said.
“What?” the rowan snapped. “She what?”
The doors at the far end of the hall swung open, and a man strode into the Great Hall. “I’ve a tale for you, if you like,” he said in a merry voice.
The newcomer was not tall by Finlaran standards—perhaps six feet in height—but his presence was commanding. Brown-skinned and fit, with the sinewy muscular strength of an acrobat, he had long, dark hair, braided and secured with a leather tie. His dress was simple: loose trousers stuffed into soft boots, a sleeveless tunic slashed up the sides for ease of movement, and a leather belt with a buckle studded with blue stones worn at his hips. Beneath the tunic, a finely woven shirt of softest wool clung to the hard ridges of his muscular arms. He carried a short, curved sword on one hip, and a wicked dagger on the other. A smaller knife rested at the top of each boot.
A young woman strode through the doors behind him and stepped to his side, her expression watchful. She was tall and lithe, with smooth, lustrous skin that gleamed softly in the candlelight. Her dark hair flowed past her waist. One hand rested on the hilt of the knife at her belt, and a dagger protruded from the top of each boot. Her dark gaze swept the room in challenge.
Raine smothered a sigh of envy at the female’s attire. Like her companion, the young woman was plainly clad in a tunic, trousers, and boots.
“You,” Glory said, glaring at the lean Durngesi tribesman. “What are you doing here?”
“Oho, what is this?” Raven said. “Glory knows this fellow?”
“Who is he?” Raine asked.
“I do not know, but this much I can tell you,” Raven said. “He’s Durngesi and a prince. Only the trivan wears that fur.”
“Trivan?”
“The leader of the plains tribes,” Raven said. “The hide cape around his shoulders belonged to Durn, the first seeker.”
“Na’ima’s skin,” Raine said with a thrill of wonder. “Gertie told me the story.”
Leaving his companion at the entrance, the man trotted lightly up to the dais. “Milady,” he said, bowing to Glory. “My heart rejoices to see you again.”
Glory regarded him with her face set. “Alas, I cannot say the same.”
“You know this man, Glory?” the rowan asked.
“We have but a passing acquaintance, Your Majesty.”
The man chuckled, a rich, throaty sound. “But you cut me to the quick! I have endured hardship and deprivation to bask, once more, in the glow of your approval, my Gloriana.”
“I am not —oh, you are impossible,” Glory said without her usual composure.
“Who are you, sirrah,” the rowan demanded, “and how in skelf did you get inside the castle?”
“Forgive me, Your Grace.” The Durngesi bowed with unruffled calm. “I am Alden Rathloren, of Tribe Dak, but lately arrived in your fair city.” He waved a hand at his companion. “And this is Seratha, of Tribe Vimura. When we arrived at the gates, we found them locked, and the guards refused to grant us entry.” He shrugged. “So, I climbed the wall.”
“Try again, Durngesi,” the rowan said, folding his arms on his broad chest. “The walls are heavily patrolled. Which of my guards have you bribed?”
“But I bribed no one.” Alden’s dark eyes danced. “I climbed the sea wall and lowered a rope for Seratha at the changing of the guard.”
“Gog scat,” said Mauric. “Finn himself couldn’t climb the sea wall, especially in the dark. Too damned treacherous.”
“Raven has climbed it, and more than once,” the rowan said, “but no matter. What business have you with me, Trivan? And don’t try to play me for a fool. I know Durn’s cloak when I see it. Why are you sneaking about Rowan Fast? A simple missive to me, and the gates would have been opened to you.”
“But where is the challenge in that?” Alden cried, shaking his head. “And a thousand pardons, m’ lord king, but my business in the Citadel is not with you. My business is with Gloriana.”
Glory jumped up. “Enough, drek herder.” She turned her glorious smile on the rowan. “You wanted a story, did you not? I am no bard, but I am accounted a fair singer.”
She left the table without waiting for a response and strolled over to one of the fireplaces.
“Drek herder?” Seratha joined Alden before the dais. “Shall I cut out her tongue to teach her some manners, Trivan?”
“Her words are but a cloak.” Alden’s gaze lingered on Glory. “The fair Gloriana is overjoyed to see me, but she is proud. She hides her discomposure with harsh words.”
“She insulted you,” Seratha said, her hand on her knife. “Let me show her the error of her ways.”
“Nay,” Alden said. “ʼTis no matter. I’ve been called worse.”
Mauric chuckled. “Tro, what a little fire-eater you are. Are you his sister?”
“Nay,” Seratha said, turning her glare on him.
“Wife?”
“I belong to no man.”
“Delighted to hear it.” Mauric gave her a slow smile. “Are you any good with those knives?”
Seratha’s black eyes flashed. “Come and find out, Finlar, if you dare.”
Mauric leaned closer, his elbows on the table. “I’ve never met a Durngesi tribeswoman before. Are they all as fierce as you?”
“There is no one like me, Finlar, in all of Durngaria or anywhere else.”
Mauric threw his head back and laughed. “I like you, Seratha. You have spirit.”
“Forsooth, my life is complete.”
“Gods, what a woman,” Mauric said as Seratha turned and stalked away. “She reminds me of me.”
“Too much woman for you, cuz,” Raven said. “Methinks she’d carve her name on your liver.”
“Aye.” Mauric sighed. “But what a glorious death ʼtwould be.”
“I like her,” Raine said. “What’s a drek?”
Alden heard her question and wandered over. “Drek is an insult, gareeni, a demeaning term for the drekalli, the cattle herded by my people.”
“Gareeni?” Raine said, repeating the strange term.
“A compliment, milady,” Alden said. “The garhound is highly prized by my people. ‘Gareeni’ means pick of the litter.”
“Thank you,” Raine sai
d. “I think.”
Alden inclined his head. “You are most welcome. Ah, the beauteous Gloriana is about to begin.”
“Gods,” the rowan said. “Can she sing? Please, someone tell me she can sing.”
“Of course, she can sing,” Alden said. “Her voice will bring tears to your eyes.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” the rowan muttered. “Have you heard her?”
“I?” Alden shook his head. “No, but her voice will be exquisite, of this I am certain.”
“Gracious,” Raine murmured. “Someone is smitten.”
“So, ʼtwould seem,” said Raven, “and ʼtis curious. The seers of Shadow Mount are cloistered, which makes me wonder how Glory and the Durngesi are acquainted.” He shook his head. “Not that Glory would tell me. She enjoys being mysterious.”
The subject of their conversation was seated on a bench before the fire, a borrowed lyre in her hands. Glory stroked the strings, coaxing a flutter of sweet notes from the instrument. Lifting her head, she began to sing in a pure, lilting soprano that echoed through the hall.
“There,” Alden breathed, his dark eyes alight. “Did I not tell you? Perfection.”
Glory sang in a strange, musical language, her voice throbbing with sorrow. There was power in the words of the ballad: Raine’s skin tingled and her wizard stone pulsed in recognition.
“Elvish,” Raven said in Raine’s ear.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Aye, the most beautiful language in the world, and seldom heard outside Amedlar.”
Tears welled in Raine’s eyes. “It’s so sad. I don’t know what she’s saying, but it breaks my heart.”
“The hearth,” Raven said. “Look into the fire.”
Raine shifted her gaze to the crackling blaze on the hearth and swallowed a gasp. Images danced in the flames and solidified, and a slender woman with long, copper locks appeared. With an inarticulate groan, the rowan leaned forward, his muscular body tense with strain. Puzzled, Raine stared at him for a moment before returning her attention to the tableau in the fireplace, where a handsome elvish warrior had joined the flame-haired beauty in the shimmering flames. Green-eyed and dark of hair, he took the woman in his arms and kissed her.
Glory’s voice soared, and the scene changed. Now, the lovers fled before a party of snarling elvish bowmen. The green-eyed warrior’s feet skimmed the ground as he ran, but his lady was hampered by her long skirts. She stumbled and fell, and the warrior rushed to her side. Seizing his chance at a clear shot, the bowman in the lead fired an arrow at the woman. The distinctive whine of the arrow alerted the warrior to the danger, and he stepped in front of his lover. The arrow struck him in the chest with a meaty thud, and he fell. The woman screamed and threw herself on the ground beside him. Taking his head in her lap, she held him in her arms as he died.
The song ended and the fire behind Glory went out. Her head drooped, her dark hair covering her face like a veil. The air shimmered and Gertie appeared at Glory’s side.
“The Tale of Kalin and Trusk,” Gertie said in a gruff voice. “You remember.”
Glory lifted her head. Her face was pale, and tears sparkled on her cheeks. “I remember. Trolls aren’t the only ones with long memories.”
The rowan got to his feet, his eyes strained. “Thank you, Glory, that was lovely.” He glanced around the room at his guests. “I must crave your pardon. I’ve matters to attend to.”
He strode from the hall without a backward glance and was gone.
People stirred at his departure, their expressions dazed, as though waking from a dream.
“This affair has become tedious,” Hedda said, rising from her chair. “I will bid you all good night.” Leaving the dais with her ladies-in-waiting, she paused to speak to Alden. “I suppose you’ll want a room?” she said with evident distaste.
“Yes, Majesty,” Alden said. “Seratha and I would trespass on your hospitality, if we may.”
“The steward will see to it.” Hedda turned back to her courtiers. “Come, ladies, let us retire.” She waved a hand, as though clearing the air. “The hall stinks of drek dung and troll, a singularly unpleasant combination.”
She climbed the stairs without looking back. The guests rose, some to seek their beds; others lingered in the hall to marvel at the evening’s events.
Brefreton poured himself another glass of wine. “Well, that was interesting. Happy little ditty, Glory.” He lifted his glass to the elf in a toast. “Haven’t heard that song in an age. I especially liked the thing you did with the fire. Nice touch. Very effective.”
“We all have our little gifts.” Glory frowned. “Gorne seemed…displeased. Was I not in good voice?”
“Oh, no, Glory, you were wonderful.” Raine rose from the king’s table and hurried over to the elf. “Really. Your voice is lovely.”
“Yes, Aunt,” Raven said, strolling behind Raine with Mauric. “I had no idea you could sing.”
Alden sank to one knee before Glory. “You were exquisite, my siren. Your song pierced our hearts as keenly as the arrow that rent Kalin’s breast.”
“Tro, but he’s a silver-tongued devil, ain’t he?” Mauric said.
“What are you implying?” Seratha said, stepping forward with her hand on her knife.
“Easy, spitfire. I meant no disrespect,” Mauric said, holding up his hands. “What say we cry peace, and have a drink?”
Tapping one foot, Seratha contemplated him. “That would be acceptable, I suppose. Have you any dog’s milk?”
“Dog’s milk?” Mauric looked startled. “I…um…not sure. Let’s find out.”
Raine watched them leave. When she turned back to Glory, she found the elf regarding Alden with an odd expression.
“You know the ballad of Kalin and Trusk?”
“Yes, my siren, though never have I heard it sung so beautifully.”
“Thank you, Alden Tri-dak.” Glory lifted a slender hand to her brow. “Now, if you will forgive me, I am weary. I would speak with you on the morrow about our…er…concerns. Will you abide?”
“Until the end of time,” Alden said, kissing the tips of her fingers.
“No need to embroider, Durngesi,” Glory said with a touch of her usual asperity. “On the morrow, then.”
She rose from the bench and glided out of the hall.
Brefreton drained his glass and ambled off the dais. “Gods, what a night. Thought old Joresh would faint when Gorne made his announcement.”
“Took off like a scalded dog,” Gertie said. “I daresay he’s still running.”
“That Hedda’s a rare shrew,” Brefreton said. “She insulted you and the Durngesi, and in her own hall.” He shook his head. “It’s simply not done.”
“Insult?” Alden raised his brows. “I heard no insult. Drek dung smells like money, and money is a good thing.” He flashed Gertie a warm smile. “And I find the smell of troll pleasant.”
“Aye, but you run with a pack of mangy hounds.” Gertie reached over and nudged him on the shoulder. “Not much of a compliment.”
Alden chuckled. “My hounds are not mangy, and well you know it, Glogathgorag. It has been a long time since you darkened my tent. My people miss you.”
“I’ve been busy,” said Gertie.
“You know this man, Mor?” Raven looked at Gertie in surprise.
“Aye. You can sleep with your back to him.”
Alden inclined his head. “I am honored, Ancient One.”
“Save the smooth talk for Glory. It’s wasted on me,” Gertie said with a growl. “I’m going to find Lindar.”
She stomped out of the Great Hall, pausing to snag a couple of roasted chickens off a table along the way.
Raven contemplated Alden with a challenging gleam in his eyes. “Did you really climb the sea wall?”
“But of cours
e,” said Alden.
“Prove it, then. Meet me at the bottom of the cliffs at first light.”
Alden grinned. “With pleasure.”
“You can’t be serious,” Raine said, staring at them. She turned and glared at Brefreton for good measure. “What about you? Are you going to break out in stupid, too?”
“Me? Rebe, no. Heights make me dizzy.”
“But you fly.”
“When I’m a bird, Raine. Completely different.”
“You dove off a mountain. I saw you do it.”
“That was spur of the moment, and there was no climbing involved.” Brefreton glanced at Raven. “You won’t catch me scampering about in a tree like a reban squirrel.”
Raine threw her hands up. “I give up. I’m going to bed.”
Whirling, she crossed the room and started up the stairs. Halfway up, she paused, her back stiff.
Raven strode to the foot of the staircase. “Raine?” he said, a note of concern in his voice. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know the way.” Raine stared straight ahead. “If you can curb your appetite for self-destruction long enough, would you be so kind as to show me back to my room?”
“But, of course.” Bounding up the stairs, Raven grinned at her. “Anything for the gareeni.”
Chapter 15
The Curse
Raven led Raine back through the labyrinth of corridors to her lonely tower and followed her up the stairs.
“I wish you and the trivan would reconsider this idiotic scheme of yours,” Raine said when they reached the landing. “I have an excellent view of the cliffs from my rooms and climbing them is unbelievably reckless.”
“I’ll be fine.” Propping one shoulder against the wall, Raven folded his arms on his broad chest. “You needn’t worry about me.”
Raine opened the door to her apartments and stepped inside. “Who said I was worried about you? I’m thinking of Birgit and Aksel. How am I supposed to find them if you get yourself killed?”
“Birgit and Aksel?”
“Doran’s family,” Raine said. “I have his medallion. I can’t return it to them if I don’t know where they live.”
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