The dusk gathered early on this grey winter’s day, drawing night’s dark curtain across the arid landscape surrounding Deep-Spire. It was an isolated spot, made even more so by the bleakness that winter brought to the heart of Omagen.
Two cloaked and hooded figures made their way towards the fortress; their boots scuffing on the rocky ground, their breathing steaming in the chill air. Ahead of them, the twin spires rose against the darkening sky.
Belythna slowed her step, and pushed back her hood. Beside her, Floriana did the same.
“Home,” Belythna pronounced, unable to keep the lack of enthusiasm from her voice. Every time she re-entered those iron gates, crossed the gravel courtyard and mounted the schist steps to the great oaken doors, she felt as if she was returning to her dungeon.
“Just in time for dinner,” Floriana added with a tired smile, in an attempt to lighten the mood.
Despite the cold, they were both breathing heavily. Their heavy robes stuck uncomfortably to her back with sweat. With so many patrols out these days, there were not enough horses for all the Sentorân. As such, Belythna and Floriana had journeyed to Mirfaran on foot. After that, they had spent ten lonely days traversing the Andra Valley before beginning the five-day journey home.
Inside Deep-Spire once more, Belythna and Floriana mounted the spiral staircase that led up the taller of the two spires. Fatigue dragged at every step, and they spoke little between them. They passed by their chambers on the way, dropping off their bags, before continuing up to the dining hall. Dinner was being served when they slipped inside, joining the last Sentorân who were taking their seats.
Apprentices drifted around the vast space, their arms laden with trays of steaming venison stew. Belythna’s stomach growled at the smell; she had not eaten since noon, when they had paused briefly for a piece of stale bread and cheese. Both she and Floriana were ravenous. The women were making their way across to the table where Jedin had just started on a large trencher of stew when Lady Serina called to them.
“Belythna, Floriana. You will join us this evening.”
Belythna’s heart sank.
Could their leader not wait till they had eaten before interrogating them?
The two women changed their course and headed towards the smallest of the tables at the back of the hall – reserved for the most senior members of the order. They took their seats, opposite Ridoc and Kern, and an apprentice brought a basin of warm water for them to wash their hands. The rumble of subdued conversation resumed as another apprentice placed trenchers of steaming stew before them.
Belythna poured herself half a cup of wine, which she topped up with water – as was the Sentorân custom. Then, she glanced across at Lady Serina, who was ignoring her for the moment. The leader of the order was deep in conversation with Marvin, the charm master. Taking advantage of Lady Serina’s distraction, Belythna started on her trencher of stew. She was half-way through it when the Sentorân leader addressed her.
“So Belythna, any news from the Andra Valley?”
Belythna swallowed a mouthful of stew and met Lady Serina’s gaze.
“It wasn’t an easy patrol,” she admitted, casting a glance in Floriana’s direction for confirmation.
Her friend nodded. “We weren’t welcome.”
Lady Serina’s gaze narrowed. “Why? Have there been more abductions?”
Belythna shook her head. “There haven’t been any in months. The Esquill have gone quiet – worryingly so.”
Serina’s frown deepened as she considered Belythna’s words. “That is interesting news.” She then turned her attention back to Floriana. “So why weren’t you welcome?”
“Folk are uneasy,” Floriana replied, pushing aside the remnants of her meal. “The Esquill may have left them alone for the moment, but they dread their return.”
“Not only that, but the realmlord has increased taxes to pay for the realm’s border dispute with Sude,” Belythna added. “The harvest was poor this year. The marshal’s bailiffs did not collect half of what they were due and the Andra Valley communities fear the realmlord’s retribution.”
“They fear outsiders and blame us for the ill-turn of events,” Floriana concluded.
Lady Serina’s mouth had compressed at that last comment.
Belythna watched their leader closely, wondering what her reply would be. Indeed, they were living in troubling times. Still, the events of late had at least roused Belythna from the melancholy that had shadowed her for too long.
She was toying with the remains of her stew, and awaiting Lady Serina’s response, when the doors to the dining hall whispered open.
An apprentice hurried into the dining hall. Belythna recognised him as the same young man who had ushered in the marshals during the ‘audience’. His face was set in tense lines as he crossed the wide flagstone floor and made straight for Lady Serina’s table.
“Geril,” Serina had seen him approach. “What is it?”
“Lady Serina,” Geril gasped, breathless after running up the flights of stairs to the dining hall. “A messenger has come. A young woman wishes to speak with you.”
“Could this not have waited till after dinner?”
Geril shook his head, his eyes huge on his thin face.
“This could not wait,” he gasped, struggling to regain his breath and deliver his message. “The girl says that she is one of the Esquill, and that she has travelled here to personally deliver a message from Riadamor.”
The young man’s words echoed in the sudden silence. Geril took a deep breath before issuing the rest of his message. “She demands an audience with you immediately.”
Deep-Spire Page 12