“You hired me to steal the Eye, and that is what I did.” He held up his hand when Glory protested. “Delivery was not part of our agreement.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Glory said. “When one hires a thief, one expects delivery of the goods.”
“Seeker, my siren,” Alden said, looking much aggrieved. “The Durngesi are skilled trackers, not thieves. You hired me because I could slip past the Hound of Mandoora, no easy task—as Finn could attest, were he alive.”
Glory let out a stream of curses in Trolk.
Alden sat back and waited. “It pains me, my siren, to hear you bespoil your beauteous lips with coarse language,” he said when she’d finished.
“Fustian.” Glory’s eyes kindled. “You bumbled the assignment, you fool.”
“Regrettable, I freely admit,” Alden said, shaking his head, “but it could not be helped. The Eye slipped from my grasp as I fled the Hall of the Gods and went into the Shara. I searched the river all the way to Gambollia with no luck.” He leaned forward. “I found the city in an uproar. ʼTwould seem a party of Shads were slaughtered in the market by two Finlaran warriors. Close on the heels of that incident was a tragic fire. A local innkeeper and her son died in the blaze, and a certain irascible troll is being blamed for their deaths. There is a reward for Glogathgorag.”
“There has been a reward on Gertie’s head these three thousand years and more.”
“Ah,” Alden said, “but rumor has it Hara’s twin was kidnapped by Finlaran outlaws in the company of a rogue wizard. Glonoff is reputed to be most distressed. He’s offered an additional sum for the twin’s safe return to the…er…bosom of her family.” He paused. “The amount offered is considerable.”
“I suppose you’re here to collect the reward.” Glory’s mouth curled in contempt. “You will fail, Durngesi. Raine is under the rowan’s protection now.”
Alden heaved a sigh. “You misjudge me, my siren. I mean the Lady Raine no ill. I came to warn you that Glonoff has struck a deal with the Gambollian Council—his gold in exchange for the use of their port and the allegiance of the Blue Heads in the event of war.”
“I thank you for your diligence.” Glory dropped a leather pouch on the table. “Take your money and go, you misbegotten soniovali.”
Alden’s dark eyes crinkled in delight. “But this is wonderful. You are familiar with the Durngesi expression for wasted meat?”
“Obviously.” Glory shoved the pouch at him.
“Keep your money,” Alden said. “You are the client, and the client must be satisfied.”
“I am done with you,” Glory cried. “Begone.”
“Nay, my siren, you and I are not finished. I will find the Eye for you.” Alden rose, leaving the pouch on the table. “Then, and only then, will we discuss the price.”
He walked away. Glory stared after him, her expression furious.
Stunned, Raine let the mirror slip from her grasp. Glory was responsible for the theft of the Eye, not Glonoff? Were Glory and the Dark Wizard in league? Was Glory responsible for the attacks on her life?
Raine puzzled over this. It made no sense. Glory had saved her from the river. If Glory wanted her dead, why not leave her in the car to drown? But what did Glory want with the Eye? Glory was pompous and annoying, but she didn’t strike Raine as power mad.
The more Raine thought about it, the more confused she became. She worried the tip of one finger. You should tell Gertie and Bree that Glory is behind the theft of the Eye, she thought. It’s important.
She recoiled at the notion. Gertie and Bree would pepper her with questions and demand to know her source. They’d find out about the mirror and take it away from her. She couldn’t let that happen. The mirror belonged to her now. It was a gift from Tekla.
A small voice in the back of her mind whispered that her obsession with the mirror was unhealthy, but she ignored it. Muffled voices drifted from the mirror in her lap. Raine picked it up and found herself gazing, once more, into the lower hall.
Leaving Glory stewing at her table, the Durngesi sauntered up to the rowan’s table.
“Pardon me,” he said, approaching, “but I overheard your conversation. No one will kill the High Seer. Zared, or what is left of him, is buried in solid stone. If you wish to reach him now, ʼtwill be with a hammer and chisel.”
“And you know this how?” Gertie asked, giving him a glittering look from beneath her bushy brows.
“Zared hired me a few moons back to find a missing god stone,” Alden said with casual indifference. “I, of course, delivered, being a seeker of no small skill.”
Brefreton spewed a mouthful of ale. “A god stone? You gave Reba’s god stone to Zared?”
“The same,” Alden said.
“Reba’s girdle,” Brefreton roared. A warrior at the next table ducked as a streak of blue lightning shot across the room and shattered a window. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Easy, Bree.” Gertie gave his arm a comforting squeeze, her gaze on Alden. “Let’s hear him out. What did Zared do with the god stone?”
“He ordered the god stone to make him all-knowing,” Alden said.
“Idiot,” said Gertie.
Alden raised his brows. “Ancient One?”
“Not you, duffle head. Zared. He set the god stone an impossible task.” Gertie chuckled and slapped her paw on the table. “By Kron, you’re a devious fellow, Rathloren. You knew what Zared would do, didn’t you? That’s why you gave him Reba’s precious trinket.”
“Trinket?” Brefreton sputtered. “It’s a—”
“Hush, Bree,” Gertie said. “We know.” She gave the Durngesi an expectant look. “Well, Alden?”
“I guessed, Ancient One,” Alden said. “ʼTwas no great leap to surmise that Zared held himself in high esteem.”
“Hah,” Gertie said. “You’re one to talk.”
“Ah, but there is a vast difference,” Alden said. “My superiority is irrefutable, whereas Zared’s was a product of his disordered mind.” He examined his fingernails. “The god stone could not comply with poor Zared’s request, and turned him to stone. He has become the Oracle of Shadow Mount, forever trapped in the heart of the monolith.”
“Like an insect,” the rowan said. “In truth, ʼtwould have been kinder to kill him.”
Alden watched Glory rise from her table in the corner and glide toward the door. “Far kinder,” he said in a soft voice, “but I felt no tenderness for Zared. He got what he deserved.”
“I like you, Alden Tri-Dak,” the rowan said. “You make a bad enemy.”
“You are mistaken, Majesty.” Alden bowed. “I make a most excellent enemy. It has ever been my aim to achieve greatness in all things.”
“Yes, yes, you’re a marvel,” Brefreton said. “What happened to Reba’s god stone?”
“In his agony of petrifaction, Zared flung the god stone from his grasp,” Alden said. “Alas, it went into the ocean.”
“Into the ocean?” Brefreton stared at the Durngesi in horror. “Are you quite certain?”
“Do not despair, my friend.” Alden laid a hand on the wizard’s shoulder and struck a pose. “I will importune the goddess Reba on your behalf, and she will relent her despite. Mine eloquence is celebrated.”
Brefreton groaned and dropped his head into his hands.
The mirror in Raine’s hand went dark. From the adjoining room, Raine heard the tower door open and close. She stirred, as though from a dream.
“Lass?” Mauric called. “Tyra’s here. You ready?”
Raine jumped up and shoved the mirror back under the mattress.
“The medallion,” she said, snapping her fingers. “I almost forgot.”
She rummaged around in her things until she found Doran’s heavy gold necklace. Grabbing a bit of ribbon, she tied her hair in a ponytail, her brain swirling
with what she’d learned. It was too much to take in.
Snatching up her cloak, Raine slipped the medallion into a pocket. Later; she would think about this later. First, she had a ghost to put to rest.
Thankful for the reprieve from her jumbled thoughts, Raine strode into the sitting room, and found Mauric and Tyra waiting by the fire.
“New boots?” Tyra said, noticing Raine’s footwear.
“Yes, they were a gift.” Drawing Tyra aside, Raine turned her back on Mauric and lifted her skirts. “Look, they come to my thighs.”
“Very handsome, but they’d go better with breeches.”
“I know, right?”
“You should come hunting with me, one morning,” Tyra said. “ʼTwill do you good to get out of the city.”
“I’d love to.” Raine sighed. “But I’m guarded, remember?”
“So? Mauric tells me you can shapeshift. A mouse, I think he said?”
Raine made a face. “Bree says it’s not a very good mouse.”
“Who cares?” Tyra said. “A mouse is a mouse. Don’t you see? You can shapeshift and sneak out of the tower.” Her brows drew together at a sudden thought. “You are wearing clothes when you…er…shift back?”
“Yes, though don’t ask me where my clothes go. Bree tried to explain it once, but it was confusing. To the best of my understanding, my clothes are somewhere in the Between while I’m a mouse.”
“The Between?”
“The Between here and there. I told you, it’s confusing.”
“Excellent,” Tyra said. “Dress in your breeches before you turn into a mouse. We’ll go into the city or hike into the mountains. When we’re done, you shift into a mouse again and sneak back in the tower, and no one the wiser. It will be fun.”
“Tyra, you are brilliant.”
She inclined her head. “I have my moments.”
“What are you two plotting?” Mauric said.
Tyra turned to her brother with an innocent smile. “Nothing. Just admiring Raine’s new boots.”
The three of them left the tower and went to find Raven in the entrance hall. In addition to his black breeches, boots, white linen shirt, and leather hauberk, he wore a short cloak and carried a short sword on his hip.
“I thought you were lost,” Raven said, striding to meet them.
“We were waiting for Tyra,” Mauric said. “You remember my little sister, cuz?”
Raven shook his head. “Nay, I remember a dirty ragamuffin with skinned knees and twigs in her hair. This charming damsel is a stranger.”
“Stuff,” Tyra said, unimpressed. “Your sword is Sethlaran steel, cousin. The workmanship is most excellent. Is it a Joldforge?”
“It is, as a matter of fact,” Raven said. “I picked it up years go in Chelam, before Ironhand made a name for himself as a smith. You’ve a good eye.”
“For gods’ sake, don’t encourage her,” Mauric said. “She’ll talk weapons ʼtil the chickens come home to roost.”
Raven flung open the huge doors and they stepped outside onto the snowy landing. It was cold and the wind from the north was sharp, but the sun was shining, and the snow was beginning to melt in spots. The low, mournful dirge of the Wailing Tree drifted up the mountains from the city gardens.
“Well, that’s it, then,” Mauric said. “I’m off.”
“You’re chomping at the bit,” Raven observed. “Where to?”
“Oh, you know,” Mauric said. “Here and there.”
“He wants to see the Shrieking Stump,” Tyra said. “Only the gods know why.”
“Heed your tongue, scamp,” Mauric said. “You’re perilously close to blasphemy.”
“I don’t care,” Tyra said. “That stupid tree never shuts up. The trodyn thing keeps me awake at night.”
“Language, little sister,” said Mauric.
“You say trodyn all the time,” Tyra said. “And worse, besides.”
“Yes, but you’re a young lady.”
“So?”
“A young lady is expected to be genteel in her manners and speech.”
“Like Luanna?”
“Yes.”
“Bollocks,” said Tyra. “If people don’t like me, they can take The Walk.”
“Here, here.” Raine linked arms with Tyra. “I’d like to have a look at the Wailing Tree, too, if Raven doesn’t mind.”
“I am at your disposal, milady,” Raven said. “Give me but a moment to send word to Gurnst to meet us at the park with Doran’s direction.”
“Doran?” Tyra said.
“A sailor on Raven’s ship,” Raine said. “Doran was killed at sea, and Raven and I are going to pay a visit to his family to offer our condolences.”
Raven tugged on a velvet pull hanging on the wall, and a runner appeared.
“You know Gurnst Thundall?” Raven asked the young man.
“Yes, m’ lord,” the runner said. “He’s your helmsman. Everyone knows that.”
“Excellent. Trot down to the Sleepy Troll and tell him to meet me in the gardens by the Wailing Tree.”
“At once, m’ lord,” the runner said, turning and loping away.
“Ready?” Raven asked.
“Yes.” Raine slid Mauric a sly glance. “We must hurry. We don’t want to miss Seratha.”
“The Durngesi fury?” Raven said. “Oho, Mauric. That explains the sudden interest in herbage.”
“Nature is a gift from the gods,” Mauric said, “and a grand and beautiful thing.”
Raven grinned. “Like Seratha?”
“As it happens, yes. Now, if you’re done roasting me, let’s be off.”
“I ordered a carriage,” Raven said. “It should be at the gates.”
They made their way down the steps and across the bailey. To Raine’s relief, all traces of the bloody skirmish the night of their arrival had been removed. They found the carriage waiting, as Raven had promised. It was an odd equipage. Shaped like an open boat with a decorated hull, it perched on four painted wheels and was pulled by one of the eight-legged oxen Raine had noticed at the Market Gate. The ox was huge and shaggy, with a massive head and short, curved horns. A white-haired man with a craggy face, massive arms, and gnarled hands occupied the box seat.
“Griss,” Raven said, nodding at the driver. He helped Raine into the carriage. “Take us to the gardens.”
“As you say, m’ lord.”
The carriage clattered out the gates and down the hill. As they passed the old mews, Raine felt a stirring in her mind.
Morven?
Good morning, Flame. How are you today?
Flame is listening to the shorse with the long tooth.
Long tooth? Oh, that’s Gowyr. He’s not a shorse. He’s a unicorn.
Flame thinks he is very stupid. He talks and talks but has nothing to say.
You’ll find that’s often the case. Those who have nothing to say often talk the most.
Flame would like to bite him.
Please refrain. I know Gowyr is annoying, but he’s under the rowan’s protection, like you and me.
Just a tiny little bite?
Not so much as a love nip.
Flame sighed. It is very hard, Flame thinks. Is Morven coming to see Flame today?
Yes, later. I promise.
That is good.
I have so many things to tell you. Raine paused. Flame?
But Flame was gone.
The city was awake and bustling. The houses and shops of the Citadel were uniform and constructed of the same dark stone as the castle that looked down on them. Smoke wisped from chimneys, smudging the blue sky, and people scurried past on their way to market or the jobs awaiting them in the trade district. The shops of the Citadel were open, and vendors crowded the cobbled walks selling meats, bread, sweetened goat’s m
ilk, and ale. The city was a confusion of noises: the rattle of carts and wheelbarrows, the clop of horses and the excited baying of dogs, the cries of peddlers and shop keeps hawking their wares, and the steady clang of a blacksmith’s hammer. Bells on doors jingled as customers came and went; a laundress sang a tuneless ditty as she slapped and sloshed clothes in a tub of steaming water. Beneath the cacophony of the city was the ceaseless lamentation of the Wailing Tree.
They passed a pie vendor selling fragrant pastries stuffed with cheeses, meats, and fruits. Beside him, a woman offered hot chowder in bowls of stale bread. On the corner, a large orange tabby paused to wash his face.
“Have you a hankering?” Raven asked, noticing Raine’s interest in the clamor. “We can stop for a nibble, if you see something you like.”
“Nothing for me, thanks,” Raine said. “I’m enjoying the city. It was dark and snowy the night we arrived.”
“Regard, if you will, her bonnet.” Mauric pointed to a plump woman in a gray dress and a puce, wide-brimmed hat that ended in an extravagant, swooping point. “The buildings of the city are unvaried, but the townsfolk have a fondness for ridiculous hats. It is the way they express themselves.”
“I can see that,” Raine said, taking in the startling variety of headgear worn by the populace.
There were caps, wimples, turbans, barbettes, coifs, hoods, and sock hats, to name a few, in a wide variety of shapes and sizes. Tall hats, flat hats, extravagant, swirling hats, and round hats in an array of shocking colors were adorned with silk flowers, fruits, feathers, and even miniature likenesses of the monsters of Udom. Trolls, particularly red trolls, Raine noticed, were a favorite.
They rattled on, winding through the streets to the park at the center of the city. They left the carriage at the gates, and walked down a wide, tree-lined path. Daffodils, crocus, and tulips bloomed in beds, pots, and hanging baskets. In the center of the park was the Wailing Tree.
“That’s what’s making all the noise?” Raine stared at the tree in surprise. It was a slender sapling with golden bark and silver leaves “I expected something…well…more.”
“If you will notice, the plaint of the tree is one unending note,” Raven said, “a forlorn ode that ʼtis no louder or softer, regardless of your location.”
A Muddle of Magic Page 23