The Four Forges

by Jenna Rhodes

  Stronghold ild Fallyn, one of the first to take slaves, one of the last to free them, and it was said in back alleys even today that they still gave hard apprenticeships, even to half-breeds whose eyes showed they carried a strain of magic in them, though it might be faint and tenuous. Alton’s interest had faded the moment he’d seen his plain gray eyes. Sevryn let himself stagger sideways, carrying him out of Alton’s way and even farther from his attention.

  So the ild Fallyns had come recruiting. It wasn’t for altruistic reasons.

  As for the others, the probability seemed high they had come to keep an eye on them. Bistane’s journey from Hith-aryn had been considerable; he may have had other business in the regions and lingered with the good weather, but that he was here today was no coincidence.

  Sevryn let the current of the afternoon crowd carry him toward the music players and the dancing circle, a bare and level patch of ground pounded down by many feet over years past, festooned with beribboned poles and flower wreaths. He found a post to lean against, and do what he’d been sent to do, observe and gather. Wisps of clouds began to appear on the far horizon, but they stayed white and thready, no threat at all to the fine weather. He ignored the urge to find the girls again, for they were not his job, as far as he knew. Of course, he’d been wrong before. Sevryn lifted his mug to his lips and savored the barest sip of some good home brew.

  Her fingers itched to slip through the ribbons and baubles at the booths they stopped at, but Grace stood back and let Nutmeg hold them up, rivers of shimmering colors in her hands, for them both to admire. Tolby had promised them each one pretty from the fair, but to choose one small item from all the bounties seemed an impossible task. A clasp for her hair? Or a bracelet for her ankle? The sellers even had clever rings for the toes, although the thought of that made her laugh quietly. How could she wear such a thing inside her boots? Nutmeg nudged her gently.

  “Such silly things,” she whispered to Nutmeg’s ear.

  “But beautiful, aye? Not for us, though. I hear to the south, where there is no snow for winter and the women walk about in bare feet, they wear rings and bells on their toes.”

  “No!”

  Nutmeg nodded, stepping out again on finery row where pretty things of little practical use other than to dazzle the eye lay in trays in booths as far as they could see, or so it seemed. She looked at toys on strings that could bow and dance and wave their arms when the strings were jerked. Nutmeg lingered for a very long time at a tray of metal headbands gleaming with tiny gemstones, the wires twisting like tiaras and diadems, before wrinkling her nose. “If I got one of those,” she declared to Rivergrace, “how could I know if a beau was staring at me or my jewels, hmmm?”

  “Or something else entirely,” Grace remarked dryly, and her sister gave her a little push even as she laughed and tossed her head.

  “Can I help it if I have a bounty?”

  “No, and it’s certainly better than the days when you used to stuff apples in your bodice.”

  “I never!”

  “Yes, you did!” Grace clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle her laugh which would have sounded clear and light over the peddlers’ lane. Nutmeg threw her a look, her eyes frowning a bit, and then hugged her.

  Muffled by the robes, Nutmeg said, “It isn’t fair.”

  “It’s better than having to stay home.” Grace drew her back. “Now give me your shoulder, grandbabe, so I can walk.” She let out a cackling sound, and nearly slipped off Nutmeg’s shoulder as the other shook with outraged laughter as together they wobbled down the lane.

  Chapter Seventeen

  SEVRYN SAUNTERED BY the pavilions, listening to the light tones of voices carrying on the wind. They reminded him of sabers—nimble, curved, and with a deadly edge—as he drew nearer and heard contentious words despite the airiness of the tone. He put a shoulder to an aging tree and spoke softly to it, its bark gnarled and sloughing a bit, seeming to sink into its very being as he leaned upon it, letting its branches embrace him, its strength draw him in until he became of it, growing from it, as he listened to the Vaelinars talk among themselves.

  Tranta ild Istlanthir worked on the hooves of his mount, the horse with a coat that glistened as if freshly forged bronze leaning back on him, nibbling at his shoulder as he pared down rough spots and cleaned gently but efficiently. Kever worked with the same dedication, but he held a whetstone, sharpening a set of blades strewn across the blanket in front of him, and the scent of oil lingered on the air. Tressandre sat a hillock away, her lithe form both revealed and hidden by the inky black and silver she wore, her eyes half slit in the sun as she soaked up the warm rays, leaning on one arm and seeming to watch Kever, but one could never be sure with Tress. Her attention was seldom focused on a single matter. Behind her, her encampment filled with workers, and Sevryn eyed them, identifying the Vaelinar strain, prominent, if not pure, in each. He noted as many musicians as stockmen in the group, and pondered that. Tressandre stirred a bit restlessly, drawing his and everyone else’s attention.

  She lifted a slender finger and gestured toward Kever. “Have you a favorite blade there?”

  The corner of his mouth tightened and long moments passed before he responded, “Different blades for different matters.” His hand never stopped stroking the whetstone upon the long sword he held. The Stronghold ild Istlanthir looks ran sharply in him, from the deep blue of his hair to the light green, streaked with dark green, of his eyes. Of all the Vaelinars on Kerith, the Istlanthir looked the most different, their coloring branding them as strangers even among Strangers. The ild Istlanthir, of all of the families, had never interbred with the races of Kerith. Or if they had, that distinctive blue hair had never been inherited. Kever stropped the blade one last time before testing it against his hand, nodding as crimson welled up from the slightest touch, and put the long sword aside.

  “One might think,” persuaded Tressandre, “you might be expecting trouble.” Her pointing finger and hand settled languidly upon her bent knee.

  “Expect or start?” Tranta countered, as he dropped his bronze gelding’s hoof and straightened, patting the horse on his shoulder. He stared across the animal’s withers at the ild Fallyns.

  Tressandre leaned her head back, wild honey-colored hair falling from her shoulders and cascading in a tumble to just barely sweep the blanket she sat on. “One should always be prepared.”

  Someone snorted. Sevryn thought it might have been the horse, but it could have been the Istlanthir.

  If Tressandre noted it, she did not deign to notice it. Her gaze stayed fixed on Kever, as he carefully selected a dagger to oil and sharpen, saying, “There is quite a difference between being cautious and being reckless.”

  “We cannot afford to be reckless, but neither can we resist judging our quarry, seeing its responses and reactions.”

  “You create pain wherever you walk.”

  “Pain is instructive. How a creature gives or takes it can tell us much. Not to mention . . . enjoyable.” Tressandre’s expression sharpened.

  “The ild Fallyns are more than accomplished at dealing it out.”

  Her response came as a slight yawn, as if lulled by the sun’s rays, and it fell into the silence between them. Noting little more than the jabs they always aimed at one another, Sevryn thought to melt away as quietly as he had drawn near, but then Bistane strode up, his charcoal hair tied back and his blue eyes ablaze with emotion. He stripped off riding leathers from his lean thighs as he spoke, his hands in a blur of impatient motion. “There are Bolgers strewn everywhere, some out in the open with the merchants, but whole groups of them in the shadows, at the stock pens or in back of the taverns or asleep in the alleys. I don’t like it.”

  “This is rustic country. Bolgers are to be expected, and even tolerated,” Tantra answered him mildly. “They have tribes throughout the area.”

  “This I know well, and there is a ‘tribe’ of lean, battle-hardened ones filtering among the softer country workers.
I don’t like it.” Bistane folded his leathers to stow them away in his saddlebag, his gear neatly laid out by his tent.

  “Battle-hardened,” murmured Tressandre. “And who might they be fighting with, hmmmm?”

  No one bothered to answer. Kever finished the care of the dagger in his hands while Tranta led his horse to the pasture fringing their campground and tethered it out to graze.

  The daughter of ild Fallyn stood and stretched sensuously, her clothes falling into place smoothly about her body. “I think I shall stroll about and see what these people do for entertainment.” A smile played across the curve of her lips before fading away. She crooked a finger to her musicians who gathered up their instrument cases hurriedly to follow. No one watched her leave, their heads steady as if each fought the instinct to do just that.

  Bistane cradled one hand in the other and cracked his knuckles, then flexed his hand, before standing, his attention sweeping the campsites. Sevryn could feel the icy inspection and moved his senses a little closer to the warmth of the tree, still and silent though it was, knowing his own likeness was neither icy nor the warmth of a living person, either of which Bistane sought. He would not be able to evade the other’s notice much longer, though, and began to seek a way out.

  “Why on edge?”

  “Why do you clean your blades, over and over?” Kever grinned at Bistane, undaunted by piercing light blue eyes that watched him keenly. “I like to be prepared.”

  “As do I, kindred, as do I.” Bistane chaffed his hands together.

  “So what brought you here?”

  Bistane smiled thinly. “You did, kindred, you and the ild Fallyn.”

  “Nothing more than that?”

  “Nothing more that I would share with you, here and now. The very sprigs of grass might have ears . . .”

  Sevryn spoke a word, sharp, yet near unheard by Vaelinarran ears. Tantra’s horse caught it and threw his head up with a bugle of alarm, his ears pricked forward, and stamped the new grass and soft dirt. Tender bits went flying, and his tether line snapped sharply in the wind as he jerked his head. When everyone turned to see what worried the beast, Sevryn stepped away from the shadow of the ancient tree and slipped off, back toward the fair and more innocent folk. He learned more by what they had not said rather than what they had. Events had drawn them here, all of them, events important enough that no Stronghold or House was willing to let a potential profit escape them. Yet, although sent here by instinct or by order, they did not know what it was they expected. Nerves could be used as bowstrings, were they so inclined. What he had felt, they had felt, from the east and north in their homes, and they’d come forth.

  That was a worry in itself.

  And, what had drawn Daravan here? What would have drawn Gilgarran? He had no inkling.

  Sevryn came to a halt at the dancers’ ring, listening to the musicians, one ear quirked toward the children playing in the soft grass while their elder siblings and parents danced, sometimes joining, but more often involved in games with their straw dolls and marbles and the like. He listened to their clear, high voices squabble and banter and chant childish magics, but he did not hear what he feared to: Four forges dire, earth, wind, water, and fire . . .

  He had no more idea what that should mean to him now than he had years ago when he’d first heard it. Something he knew he had to remember, and had not trusted himself to retain, and so he had imprinted it into a child’s game to be memorized. His breath eased out in a soft sigh, disappearing into the spring breeze that carried the beginning of another tune to him. It drew him toward it, as ild Fallyn musicians with the finesse only the Vaelinars held, joined in with the country players, and began to play the strands. The melancholy tune drew him closer, as he recognized it, and it caught at him.

  A fine, strong voice began to sing.

  “Over hills of drifting mist and valleys cupped low with sun,

  we wander yet, our souls in search of the lost Trevilara. Her name is forever burned and yet stays buried, carried on every wind and treasured breath. Trevilara is lost and gone before us all, A final hope, waiting for our death. Oh, Trevilara, if I could but know you If I could see and touch you through sorrow’s rain, My spirit would soar beyond the silences Of all the stars, and my soul come home again.”

  Sevryn parted the last of the growing crowd to see the singer, and it was Bistane, his body curved in unconscious yearning as the last notes of the song melted away, followed by the final strains of the instruments, in a haunting refrain that echoed the singer. A soft murmur rippled through the listeners, and a few clapped. Bistane lowered his face then, as if noticing he’d drawn a crowd, and he stepped back, turning away from Tressandre’s look of amusement, as she directed the players to quiet. She’d almost certainly baited Bistane into the singing by merely having the song begun, its anthem burned like the name Trevilara, into their very being. He did not feel it as they did, yet Sevryn cleared away an annoying catch in his throat. None of them remembered who or what Trevilara had been, save that it embodied all they had lost.

  “Enough melancholy,” Tress declared. She tossed her head, her lustrous hair cascading over her shoulders. “A dance!” She gestured to her servants who brought up their winds and strings again and merry notes filled the air, notes that made the feet want to strike and the body twirl.

  She grabbed up Bistane’s hand before he could pull away, and then the hand of a tall Kernan lad who’d come close to stare at her, and with a laughter that rang joyously, swept them with her to the dancing ring. The villagers joined them, no strangers to dancing, the awe of Bistane’s singing forgotten, and the circle swung ever wider.

  Grace squeezed Nutmeg’s hand. “Oh, listen! They’re dancing again.” Nothing in the booths could pull at her like the sound of the music did.

  Nutmeg tugged her forward. “Come on, let’s watch.”

  Her heart did a little squeeze. How could she watch without wanting to dance? But she followed her sister’s impetuous movement through the last of the winding shopping lane and onto the beaten ground where sawdust had been sprinkled over the bent grass and spring flowers, and many feet had tapped the earth into a firm surface. Nutmeg’s small shoes flew across the grounds and Grace after her, the music sinking into her body like a stone into the river, causing ripples of wondrous change. Forgetting her hobbled stance, she straightened as someone caught up her free hand, and she and Nutmeg melded into the marvelous circle.

  Spring sunlight struck them. Grace tilted her head back inside her shadowy hood, seeking it as instinctively as a flower pushing up through the meadow. Warm flesh pressed her hands and her feet wove an easy pattern as they danced, and the circle swung ever wider. The melody grew louder and faster, carrying her with it. Laughter bubbled out of her, but she could not even hear her own voice, for they all laughed and sang a wordless song to the music sweeping them away. Faster, faster, intricacy of steps lost, she was little more than running sideways gracefully and in time, and then . . . oh, then, as Nutmeg clung to her right hand, she swore her feet left the ground. She no longer danced, but flew!

  “Tressandre!” a male voice sliced warningly through the merriment.

  Rivergrace did not see anyone, her vision a blur of faces and the colors of their clothes, and the circle of dancers rose higher, spinning faster, and she could feel the music running through all of them. It felt like the Silverwing at flood tide, crashing down from her mountain roots, dangerous and beautiful and irresistible. Her arms held tightly on both sides, as if her fellow dancers feared letting go and crashing to the ground, and they spun.

  Wheels did not seem to turn as fast as they did. Her ears roared with the sense of it as joy and fear ruled her body equally, and she could barely hear Nutmeg’s laughter as the frantic music thrilled through her. Sound and soul carried them. The Vaelinars woven throughout the circle raised their hands, seemingly to lift them up as they all swung around. What magic was this? Her cloak unfurled about her, threatening to fly away. She t
wirled through the air as though on a swing from the highest apple tree she could imagine . . .

  “Tressandre!” the male voice bellowed in anger, and the circle faltered as his rage touched Rivergrace, and whatever Tressandre was must have felt it, too.

  The music slowed, troubled. She saw the ground begin to rise toward her feet once more, and the blur of noise fell apart into jumbled sounds. Nutmeg let out a high, shivery noise more of terror than happiness and she murmured back a soothing sound she only hoped her sister could catch. The circle held together despite a high-pitched scream here and there, and she could see pale faces emerge, as well as those like hers flushed with the melody that charged the air. A sudden emptiness made her feel weak, uncertain that her legs could hold her if they ever touched ground again . . . They slowed and lowered, and slowed, and then—Someone screamed sharply, the sound cut off abruptly. The music crashed to a jarring halt. Rivergrace let go in alarm, falling to the earth, stumbling to her feet. Villagers tumbled about each other like a pack of unruly puppies.

  “Raiders, and to arms!”

  She wove on her legs as if she’d been drunk, unsteady as a newborn calf or foal. She grabbed in midair for something to steady herself and found nothing. The crowd rose around her, wobbly, tumultuous, pushing and shoving.

  A piercing shout rose above the noise. “Ravers!”

  Men and Bolgers ran past, weapons in hand. Nutmeg tumbled on top of her. Grace grabbed her, pulling her around and behind her. The cloak muffled her movements, the hood falling back over her eyes as she looked for the trouble, seeing only people running in every direction. She saw no one she recognized, not Da, not Garner or Keldan. . . .

  “Nutmeg! Grace! It’s Ravers—run to the shops! RUN!”

  From out of nowhere, she spotted Hosmer, looking about frantically, his short sword in one hand, and his stout applewood quarterstaff in the other. He did not see them, but she saw him and let out a whistle that began and then fell short from her lips gone suddenly dry. He heard it anyway. He twisted about, and waved his sword toward them, before dashing to the open road, his militia coat flapping about him, as disaster rode down on them.