The Eye trains wizards in balance, with respect to the interconnectedness in all things, Eaglin had said. Learning wizardry outside of those boundaries is dangerous and has been known to make wizards of a darker kind.
Had Icaros’s well-meaning training imbalanced him? Lorth closed his eyes. The murder of Roarin, the murder of Icaros and Lorth’s fight with Barenus in the Sanctuary all had one thing in common: the presence of the Destroyer. Lorth hadn’t known the Old One hid the wizards’ deaths—but he had invoked her. Stirring the waters of Maern and not understanding the consequences. The Lords of Eusiron were convinced enough.
He lay there in the night, his body warmed by the fire, but his heart chilled through. He had never known the Old One. And for his arrogance, Icaros had died—Icaros, who had taught him everything he knew of the Old One. A devastating irony.
It must unfold, the Mistress had said.
Leda. He still hadn’t used her name.
Something scratched at the door. He rose and opened it. “There you are,” he said as Scrat ran in. He returned to his bed once more. After eating from her bowl, the cat jumped up and joined him. Eventually, her purring and the exhaustion of his obsessions drew him into sleep.
~ * ~
The wolf bitch stood in the doorway of Icaros’s house. Pale eyes flashing, she laughed as she bounded down over the steps and vanished into the forest. “Death is life,” she whispered over the snow.
Lorth opened his eyes to twilight. Scrat slept peacefully by his side, and coals glowed in the hearth. Beneath the veil of his conscious mind, he remained in his dream, perched in a hemlock tree beneath the constellation of Sioros. He let his eye and the bright star called the Eye of the Hunter merge as one. His vision clicked into place.
On the steps at the end of the hall, a small figure moved. He carried a basket of wood in one hand and a covered tray in the other. He wore an energy cloak unlike anything Lorth knew, an adjacent dimension where he wouldn’t be heard or sensed, let alone seen.
The right kind of trap. From his altered awareness, Lorth watched the door open. Freil moved to the table and placed his tray there. Then he set the basket on the hearth, and began to place its contents into the bin.
Not fooled even by this kind of cloak, Scrat awoke, stretched and jumped off the bed.
Lorth rose from his sleeping body and drifted to the door. As he closed it, Freil jumped up and spun around with a gasp.
“Drop your shield,” Lorth said with the voice of a rotting grave.
The boy looked quickly around, and then vanished. Lorth appeared on the bed by the window and snatched him from the air. A high-pitched squawk rent the room. Lorth hopped to the floor with a grackle in his fist. He held it up before his face and studied its iridescent dark blue head as it shot this way and that, yellow eyes staring, black beak opening and closing. It tried to peck him.
“Drop your shield,” the hunter repeated, “or I’ll call the Raven of Eusiron this very instant to come and fetch you.”
Lorth opened his hand as Freil tumbled to the floor. At the same time, Lorth snapped back into his body, swung his feet over the edge of the bed, and stood. Freil skittered back on his hands and rump like a crab.
“Don’t tell him! I won’t do it again, I promise.”
“Freil,” Lorth greeted him as he walked to the hearth. He placed some wood on the coals, and then moved to the table and lit a lamp. He removed the cover from the tray. “Perhaps you can tell me what you’re about, sneaking in and out of here. Was that Morfaen’s idea?” He picked up a piece of bread and turned around.
Freil sat against the far wall, blinking up through a tangle of flaxen hair. “No.”
The hunter took a bite. It was fresh from the oven, and tasted of nuts. He grabbed a bowl of oats and moved to the stool by the fire. Scrat sat there, looking up at him expectantly. “I’ve nothing here for you,” he said to the cat, leaning aside to look at the cat’s bowl on the floor, which still contained food. Lorth pointed at the bowl. The cat looked at his finger.
“They don’t know,” Freil blurted.
Lorth stopped chewing and looked at him, then dipped his spoon into his oats and said, “I was told I’d have a page, but I didn’t ask for one and I certainly didn’t ask for you. What happened to the page Morfaen sent originally?”
Freil’s cheeks colored. “Do you wish me to leave?”
Lorth spooned a bite of oats into his mouth. It was hot, and tasted of honey and cream. Swallowing, he said, “I wish you to answer my question.”
The boy got up, moved to the bed and sat, gazing down at the floor. “Morfaen had another assigned to it. I took his place.”
“Does Morfaen know that?” Freil shook his head. “Eaglin? The Mistress?” Again, no.
Lorth leaned back with a breath. “Aren’t you in enough trouble?”
“No more than you.”
Lorth cracked a smile, despite himself. “Freil, while I appreciate your services, I wouldn’t ask that you defy the High Commander, let alone a Master of the Eye.” He reached for a flagon of mison wine and poured some into a cup. “I know the price of that.” He tilted the cup to his lips.
“I didn’t mean to cause trouble by summoning you here,” Freil said with wide eyes of pine green. “I’m really sorry.”
Lorth set down his wine. “Why did you do it?”
“I did it for the Mistress. I heard Regin and Cael talking about Os, and war. I was afraid, I thought the Faerins were going to come here and attack us. I heard they’re bad to women.”
“You summoned me from Tarth to protect the Mistress?”
“I didn’t think you’d come if I asked you, that’s why I told you it was her. I’m sorry.”
“How did you know who I was?”
“I didn’t.” As Lorth blinked at him, he continued, “I went into the garden and called the Old One. I asked her to help us, to help the Mistress. I didn’t know what would happen. I saw you in a dream and when I awoke, I thought that’s all it was.”
“You projected an apparition to me in Tarth from a dream.”
Freil nodded. “I don’t know how. I haven’t learned about apparitions. Only high wizards can do that.” He shrugged. “It just happened.”
“What a sorry pair we make.” He rubbed his eyes and cleared his throat. “If Eaglin or Morfaen discover you doing this, you’ll be up on the block by my side, young friend.”
“Well don’t tell them. You help me, and I’ll help you.” He leaned down and held out his hand to the cat.
“Do you have any idea what I’m up for?”
The boy looked up. “Something bad.”
“And that doesn’t worry you?”
“Na. You don’t seem so bad to me.”
Ah, Lorth thought. Innocence.
Freil said, “I heard Aran say you can talk to animals and that you’re really good with a sword.” He glanced at Lorth’s scabbard hanging on the wall. “He said the solstice feast will tell. What did he mean?” The young wizard leveled his dark gaze on Lorth with the artlessness of a puppy.
Lorth drained his flagon and thought, I’m going to die. “I’m to clear myself of ‘something bad,’ as you put it, by exposing a rat or two.” As he said it, he decided it sounded much easier than it was certain to be.
“I can help you.” Freil leaned back on his hands and smiled.
Lorth’s mood turned dark as a sudden squall. “You’ll do no such thing. If they so much as think I involved you in my problems they’ll hang me from the High Pass tower within the day.”
“They won’t think that,” Freil said with a serious expression beyond the years of a boy. “Maern will help. You’ll see.”
“Perhaps.” Maern had done little to help him so far, and despite the boy’s charm, Lorth would not risk his hide by encouraging him. It did, however, give him an idea. His connection to the Old One remained his one tactical advantage on this battlefield of warlords, aristocrats, wizards and priestesses. The laws of the wild had ever
guided him through the landscape of human weakness, and those same powers knew he hadn’t killed any wizards. He didn’t have to prove that to anyone.
I owe nothing.
“If you meddle in this,” he said, “I’ll tell Eaglin what you’re about. Count on it.”
Freil turned a lighter shade. “But what if you can’t find the truth?”
“Leave my business to me.” He rose and put the remains of his breakfast on the tray, and considered the irony of his threat. Most likely, Eaglin had already made up his mind to execute him and was simply enacting a formality by giving him a chance to clear himself. But Lorth preferred to find the truth in his own way.
The tide brings light.
And he had a plan.
Chapter 10
Shade of Kind: The laws of the lawless are certain.
The sun fled behind the mountains early on the eve of the longest night, leaving Eusiron beneath a starry sky with no moon.
Lorth sat on a low stool in the rough-planked chamber outside of the bathhouse, dressed in fine clothes of black, white and gray. Leaf rested comfortably in the sheath of his boot, and he had polished and oiled his sword and scabbard. He had shaved his face, and his hair was clean, combed and braided on his back. He sprawled a long leg out to stretch his muscles, and sipped from a wooden goblet of mison wine.
He looked up as Regin strode in, fully dressed and armed. “Och!” the tall red-haired warrior called out, in high spirits. “Here’s our sneaky wolf.” The veteran guardsmen had taken to calling Lorth this; no one else dared to. “You’re already drinking?”
“I gave him something to calm his nerves,” said Bran, a young guardsman with curly blond hair. “You know he hates crowds.”
“Idgit!” said Garen, a lanky warrior with brown hair and green eyes. “He has swords for nerves.”
Regin glanced at the cup in Lorth’s hand. “Best stay alert, lad.” He spoke in a low voice, as if to warn him.
Lorth took another sip.
Cael strode in from another passage. He circled Lorth and blew a whistle through his teeth. “Ho! No one’ll recognize you in that rig.”
Three more men emerged from the bathhouse, all in varying stages of being dressed: Erlaric, a seasoned older man with blond, thinning hair; Eamon, a tall, heavyset warrior with blond hair braided in leather and the bright blue eyes of a Northman; and Aran, part Maelgwn, with dark eyes and thick black hair cropped to his ears.
“You louts just coming out?” Regin said. “Mistress is waiting.”
“Och! We’re ready,” Eamon said.
Aran strode up to Lorth, yanking the laces on his belt. “Look here! Wolf’s cleaned up!”
“Still looks half wild to me,” Erlaric said in a thick mountain accent. He smelled strongly of whisky.
Lorth drained his goblet and then followed his companions into the main corridor of the Hall of Thorns. Hay, wheat and stalks of dried plants covered the floor. The opening at the far end arched up into high beams carved into the likeness of tree boughs with swords, spears and arrows woven in symmetrical patterns between the branches. They moved through until they reached the wide passage that led to the formal entrance of the Great Hall. From the heights hung enormous banners containing the wolf, river, mountains and stars of Eusiron. The banners were joined by boughs of evergreen and shining ribbons of crimson and black. Cressets sputtered with scented oils.
Armed warriors stood before the vestibule, and a large group of guardsmen milled around inside. The Mistress stood on the other side of the chamber, speaking with Morfaen. She wore a low-cut dress of cream, black and gray that fell in soft layers around her body. Her hair tumbled down in loose braids, and at her throat lay a silver strand woven into a moon. She wore delicate silver ivy around her wrists, ankles and waist. Her belt sat on her hips and angled down from her belly, ending in a single, tasseled tear that hung in the triangular hollow between her thighs.
The Void loves nothing, Lorth moaned inwardly. This woman wouldn’t make his plan any easier. She turned and greeted Regin. As her gaze fell on Lorth, her eyes widened a little, as if something startled her. A blush crept into her cheeks and spread down to her breast.
Just as Lorth began to calculate how much wine he could get away with drinking before he lost his wits, Eaglin strode into the vestibule, fully clad in white beneath a black cloak with small interwoven hexagrams sewn along the edges. He came to Lorth’s side. “Have you been drinking?”
Lorth ignored Regin’s glance. “I’m fine. Let’s get this over with.”
Morfaen stirred at the Mistress’s side. In the shadow of her light, Lorth had hardly noticed him, regal and towering with strength in his formal uniform, rich sapphire blue trimmed with silver and indigo. His polished weapons sparkled in the light.
Lorth swallowed against a dry throat as the Mistress stepped up to him. “Breathe, and clear your mind,” she said softly. As he did so, he closed his eyes to shield himself from the distraction of her physical presence. She smelled of patchouli and roses. After a moment, she spoke in the Dark Tongue. Like strands of wool upon a loom, the threads of his focus in time-space shifted around his identity, giving him a sensation of being broader in stature and brooding with fire. He opened his eyes.
“Tonight,” said Morfaen, “Your name is Fenrir.”
Cael wheezed a laugh. Fenrir meant “wolf” in the far northern dialect of Sialroth. Lorth risked a glance at the Mistress, but her earlier emotion had vanished behind the mystery of a water-cold gaze.
Morfaen continued, “You will sit with us in the center of the hall. Our guests will be honored there. No one will recognize you, but we’ll know it’s you.” He glanced at Eaglin, and then returned his gray-blue gaze to Lorth. “I assume you know what to do?”
I act from knowing. Lorth drew a breath and nodded briskly.
“Form up lads!” Regin said. In a rustle of cloaks, boots, sheaths and straps, the guardsmen quickly stepped into rows.
As Lorth moved to join the guardsmen, Eaglin grasped his arm and leaned close. “Try anything in here and I’ll blast your balls clear to the North Derinth Sea.”
“Will that be before or after you execute me?” Lorth returned. Not waiting for a response, he stepped into formation beside Garen. The tall doors opened before them.
The Great Hall of Eusiron was as much a forest as a hall. A towering integration of stone and bough as old as an eon, the immortal aspects of the hall flowed together with mortal life, rising and falling in symmetry. Carved patterns of knots and spirals covered the floor amid tree roots, rivulets of water and ivies. Overhead, the boughs of the trees grew in interlocking geometric patterns woven with a glimmering spell that prevented cold, snow and ice from entering. On each side of the hall stood a hearth as wide as the entrance of a stable. Above each lofty mantel hung an array of ancient weapons. The fires burned oak logs that had been dragged in the day before and sprinkled with greenery, ale and wheat flour.
Garlands of evergreens and branches of oak dipped and hardened in shining oil hung from the tables and the tall arches that stood between the trees. Woolen tapestries showing the symbols of the Orders of the Eye hung on the walls. Gold, white, crimson and purple flowers grew in stone pots; tall candelabra burned candles scented with cinnamon and pine; and the trees held sparkling ribbons and beautiful decorations shaped into running deer, bear, birds and small animals. Doves, chickadees, redbirds and jays fluttered through the air. Shallow bowls of silver, holding water and seeds, had been set out for the birds.
Four groups of musicians, each in a corner of the hall, played harps, fiddles, wooden flutes and drums. The music rose and fell with the promise of spring. Men and women bore trays of food and wine, trinkets for children, cloths and candles, boughs of holly and baskets of sugared fruits and nuts. The air smelled rich and delicious. People gathered around the fires in warmth and company, laughing, dancing and drinking. Many were dressed in animal costumes. One youth wore the shape of a bluebird; another, a rabbit; and on
e had come as a loerfalos, made from stuffed tubes of dark green cloth sewn over with shells to look like scales. Some of them wore hats with antlers, horns or ears.
As the Lords and Mistress of Eusiron passed through the hall with the ranks of the High Guard on either side, people parted before them, smiling, waving and tossing flowers in their path. The shock of color, light and movement wore hard enough on Lorth’s nerves, and the Mistress’s spell made it difficult for him to hold energy shields around his body, leaving him as raw as a piece of meat.
Their tables surrounded the Ofthos, a circular area in the center of the hall some twenty feet in diameter, tiled with a colored knotwork mosaic. In the center stood a shallow dais decorated in evergreen. Lorth had recently learned that ofthos meant “gate of light” in the Dark Tongue. Above the circle, the trees gathered into a perfect ring of branch and bough, exposing the sky. Later, when the constellation of Laerstroc hung centered in the opening, the Mistress of Eusiron would stand upon the dais and welcome the return of the sun.
Two young priestesses moved around the circle, scooping out and gently scattering handfuls of rose petals from earthen bowls. They wore flowing cream-white dresses, and strands of ivy in their hair and around their upper arms. Their beauty was aloof, like forest creatures that one could admire from afar, but not approach or touch. During their study, the priestesses of Maern went without names to know themselves as the Old One, the force of identity without structure. Once a priestess understood that, she would go through an initiation and reclaim her name. Lorth eyed the graceful creatures as he passed and wondered if they were allowed to have men during their nameless time. He doubted it.
Lorth gathered his wits as a richly clad group at the northern table rose to meet their hosts. Regin and Cael ushered the Mistress to her seat in the center; Eaglin moved to her right and Morfaen to her left. Faerins, Tarthians, Keepers, nobles and captains of Eusiron mingled together, some sitting, others standing, making talk and glancing about. Lorth didn’t focus on the formal introductions. He moved with the guardsmen as they found their seats, and took one close enough to the northern end so he could hear conversations but still be near his companions.
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