He reached out and took up a silver pitcher of mison. Two goblets appeared in front of him, as Garen and Bran held them out. Lorth smiled and filled them high, and then filled his own. He set the pitcher down between them as they sat, leaving the seat on his right empty. Regin would be taking it, making for an even longer night.
“Where’s mine?” said a woman behind him. Lorth looked up as Ivy, a tall, lean warrior with ivy tattoos, leaned on the table. One of Morfaen’s top captains, her gentle name stood in fascinating contrast to her skill with weapons. She sat down on Lorth’s left. They had become friends over the last month. She wore a shining breastplate with woven tree patterns, snug black and gray leggings and a supple cloak of deep blue. Her chestnut hair tumbled around her shoulders. A rare thing, as she usually braided it up.
Lorth lifted the pitcher as she held out her cup. “You look some fine tonight, Captain,” he said. “But I was hoping to see you in a dress.”
She breathed a laugh. “Na, I’m under orders to look mean.”
And mean she looked. Lorth studied Asmat, fully dressed in shining war gear and a red cloak, his curly brown hair tied with a cord in the back. Morfaen spoke with him in low tones. The Faerin lord wore everything on the outside: weapons, tunic, leather, cloak, emotions, thoughts, and attitude. This man got his way primarily by force. As he looked up and noticed Ivy, his expression showed obvious distaste. Faerin men preferred their women under control, and Maern knew, a woman with a blade was hardly that. Ivy lifted her chin and gazed at Asmat openly, her expression as hard as a granite wall, mysterious and dangerous. It had the desired effect: the lord became noticeably ill at ease.
Lorth leaned towards her. “I think he likes you.”
She lowered her cup and choked on a sip of wine. “You bastard.”
Lorth relaxed a little, cheered by Ivy’s company. Like him, the warrior didn’t have many friends. Most women avoided her, and most men didn’t know how to approach her without a blade in hand—save Eamon, whose bed she shared on occasion. Lorth breathed deeply, catching her pine-tree scent.
He would miss Ivy.
The round tables gave him a chance to see everyone there. Three Faerin commanders decked in formal uniform, red, brown and green, with elm leaves and the Faerin standard, took their seats next to Asmat. By them sat two Keepers of the Eye: a dark-skinned man with wavy black hair named Olcon, in a green cloak of the Order of Crane, and a woman named Teril, with honey hair and plain green eyes, clad in the familiar blue of Osprey. Lorth had earlier seen Freil with her, and suspected the empty seat to her left was his. Cael came around and sat on the other side. Aran pushed a pitcher and a bowl of candied nuts in his direction.
Eaglin leaned on his chair arm and appeared to study the back of his hand as a woman by his side spoke to him. Beautiful, with strawberry blond hair and dark blue eyes, she wore the loose cream white of a priestess, with a strand of chamomile flowers in her hair.
Two of Eusiron’s captains sat on Ivy’s other side discussing equine harnessing gear. Lorth touched her arm to get her attention. “Who’s that with Eaglin?”
Ivy set down her wine. “Astarae. High in the ranks.”
Lorth nodded, feeling an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach. A name-initiated priestess. Beautiful...yet not.
Ivy leaned close and eyed the side of his face. “What’s got your fur up?”
“I don’t like the smell of her.”
“Och!” she said softly. “That can’t be good.”
Barenus stood behind the chair next to Astarae. The wizard had acquired a new Darkstar cloak with the blood-red trimming of a Raptor.
Setriana, the Princess of Tarth, sat next to Barenus. Absurdly, and to Lorth’s senses only, for some reason, she still wore the face of a wolf. This time, he saw through the illusion, and sensed her human features beneath it. She was beautiful, her body voluptuous and attractive. He deepened his mind to look beneath the flesh, to the energy around her, half expecting to feel the same dark jungle-stink he had felt in Icaros’s house. Oddly, he felt nothing but an opaque sky.
Barenus pulled out his chair and sat comfortably by her side. He smiled and poured her a cup of wine, a gentle act that stood in contrast to Lorth’s memory of the Raptor’s wrath and outrage. The way they sat near and moved in each other’s space, the way their eyes changed when touching, spoke of something private. Lorth let his vision slip out of focus as he opened his senses to their energy, whirling in colored orbs along their spines, joining here and—
His eyes snapped open with a jolt as an enormous space opened up beneath him, as if someone had kicked him over the edge of a cliff. He recognized the sensation of mindspeak as the yawning chasm drew his attention to Eaglin. The wizard leaned back in his chair, his ocean gaze flooding Lorth with knives. A mind-voice entered his head like a whisper of death.
Bad idea.
The wizard’s mind broke off, leaving Lorth in his own space envisioning his testicles floating in the sea. He looked once more at Setriana and Barenus, still seeing the pattern he had glimpsed just before Eaglin broke his focus.
They were lovers.
Great, he thought, looking away and resisting the desire to spit. Just great. One more connection through which plots and information could flow.
Next to Setriana sat her brother, Prince Setarin, the nobleman Lorth had seen in the Sea Serpent tavern with Barenus. Lorth no longer had to guess that the Tarthians had helped Barenus to determine his identity, though he had abandoned the idea that they had come here to find him for having abandoned their war. Tarth wouldn’t have sent royalty for such a grubby task. Undoubtedly, as Morfaen had said, they had come here to secure the interests of Tarth in the Faerin takeover of Os. But they were also manipulating the situation against him, while they were at it.
Lorth tilted his goblet to his lips, feeling the warm spring-like taste of mison fill his throat. He drained his glass and reached for the pitcher. Someone above him got to it first. He looked up.
“Well, put it out there,” Regin said. Lorth unwound the coil in his gut and held out his cup. The captain filled it, and then sat by his side and filled his own. “Keepin’ it together?” he said, reaching for a handful of nuts.
Lorth cast a weary glance towards the end of the table where the guests sat drinking and talking amicably. “Everyone here is either an enemy already, or about to become one. How much do you think they’ll reveal in each other’s company?” He looked into the golden depths of his goblet and added, “Unless they drink enough.”
Regin cracked a walnut. “That’s your problem.”
Lorth hunted for an effective retort, but a booming voice interrupted him as Eamon strode across the circle with a drink in his hand. He leaned on the table between Lorth and Ivy.
“You’d better keep her out of trouble, Wolf!” he rumbled, his blue eyes twinkling.
Ivy cocked a thumb in Lorth’s direction. “Him?”
“Like telling the fox to keep the cat out of the goose pen,” Regin said.
Eamon straightened and threw back his head with a laugh that echoed through the trees. Then he leaned over, took Ivy’s face in his hands and planted a kiss on her mouth. Grinning, he lumbered off to his seat next to Cael.
Lorth looked at his friend. “I daresay, that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you blush.”
“He’s a ruddy cad,” she said with a laugh, her blush deepening as she touched her mouth with her fingers.
“Ho, Garen!” Bran called out beside Regin. He wore a lop-sided grin. “Is that your woman there?”
“What was her name again?” Erlaric joked.
“They’ll be dancing, later,” Bran said. He picked up an apple covered in sticky sugar and bit into it. With his mouth full, he waved the apple in Lorth’s direction and said, “We need to find him a woman.”
Lorth snorted into his wine. “That’s the last thing I need.” As the guardsmen growled with laughter, he lifted his head and looked at the Mistress. She lea
ned forward like a girl and plucked something from a plate, put it into her mouth, and smiled.
I love in the shadows, whispered the Shade of Need.
The talk changed as kitchen folk began to fill the tables with food. Music and laughter rang everywhere, rising and falling in hypnotic rhythm. A stout man in an antlered cap set down a roasted pig covered in honey and spices and surrounded by a forest of vegetables. Others brought plates of roasted nuts, fried potatoes cut like leaves, a molded jelly in the shape of a leaping stag with birch-twig antlers, and roasted ptarmigans with sage and basil feathers. A castle of yellow squash complete with parsley trees and applemint shingles held miniature pennons with the Eusiron standard painted on them. Butter snow lined the ramparts.
Freil appeared from the crowd on the far side of the table and plopped into his seat between Teril and Cael. He wore an indigo cloak of the Order of Swan. Eamon leaned over behind Cael and said something to the young wizard that made him laugh. The boy tried to grab Cael’s goblet without succeeding, as the big warrior held it just out of his reach. As Teril took a clay jug and poured him a cup of something presumably less spirited, the boy’s gaze passed over Lorth without seeing.
He would miss Freil, too.
Once the feast glittered on every table, Eaglin stood, moved to an opening and strode across the Ofthos, his black cloak swirling around him. As he ascended the dais, a hush moved over the crowd. Only the call of a bird, the deep-throated ring of chimes and the movements of hounds stirred the silence.
The Raven of Eusiron held out his arms, palms up. He turned slowly, and from the center of his chest spread a powerful wave of warmth, light and love. Lorth felt it in his heart first, and then it spread into his body with a pleasing shiver. The light spoke to him of acceptance and home, in such a complex way that it could only have been meant for him. As the crowd stirred, he guessed everyone there had likewise received a personal greeting. Lorth looked at Setriana. The princess bowed her head, eyes closed. No telling what went on there.
Eaglin faced north and lowered his arms. “Welcome.” His voice, though not loud or forced, resonated throughout the hall. “In this the Eighth Age of the Rowan Tree, three thousand and twenty second year of Ealiron’s Will to Seed, we honor the return of Solfar, our sun and lifegiver to our world, from the darkness of Void.” He paused, and then said, “Rejoice!” As the music resumed and the crowd fell to feasting, he hopped from the dais with the grace of a fox and returned to his seat.
The food went around as they filled their plates. Lorth ate, talked to his companions and drank his wine. But his mind was focused elsewhere, on conversations, expressions and patterns. One person talked of the coming winter; another of the sea; someone laughed at a joke. Warriors, between their repartees, discussed the business of their kind. Freil spooned pudding into his mouth; Eaglin cracked a brooding smile. The Mistress leaned toward Morfaen as the commander said something for her ear alone.
Beneath the color, taste and whirl of the feast, the hunter considered his plan. He had left his things tucked safely in his quarters, ready for a journey. He had gathered food from the refectory, extra arrows, and had saddled Freya. He knew who was on watch within and without the palace walls, and where. With the faith of a predator, he opened his senses and waited for an opportunity.
It didn’t take long. Sure enough, as he swallowed a bite of spicy potato, raised voices rang out across the table. A man shouted, “You lie!” Several guardsmen rose from their seats. The hunter joined them, checking his balance as all the wine he had drunk rushed to his head.
A fight broke out between a Faerin captain and an Eusiron warrior with curly black hair and the temper of a badger. One of them threw a punch that made solid contact. Then they wrestled each other onto a nearby table, causing everyone there to cry out and scatter. The badger threw the Faerin clear over it. As he rose, he drew his sword. He didn’t get far with that before Morfaen, Asmat and a pack of others got involved.
Lorth didn’t hear the particulars of their conversation. Focusing on the pattern beneath the event, he moved towards the end of the table. Asmat shook his head vehemently, his face flushed. He drew his sword, cleared the edge of the table with a swipe of his arm and slammed the blade down, swearing an oath. Eaglin and his mother stood there with a storm swirling around them. The Raven said something Lorth didn’t catch.
As Morfaen hustled the badger away from the scene, Lorth stepped in his path, chin raised, sword drawn. “Allow me to escort him hence,” he said with feline polish. Morfaen nodded briskly and waved him away. Lorth took the warrior by the arm with one hand, spun his blade with the other, and then moved him towards the torchlit opening on the southeastern corner of the hall. He knew a shortcut to his chambers, through there.
People shrank in their seats on either side, and those on foot moved out of the way. Flushed, Lorth’s captive flexed his jaw and flicked a hard, sidelong glance at the end of the table. “Bitch,” he muttered below his breath. A red-orange wave of energy leapt from his body.
Opportunities abounded, here.
Lorth moved his blade to hover before the man’s throat. “I trust you have a good reason to speak of your Mistress so. I wouldn’t be questioned for running you through for it.”
“Not her!” he grumbled, taking the bait. “Tarthian woman lied to me.”
Lorth abandoned subtlety by keeping his blade aloft. “That, too, is a weighty accusation.”
“On my blade, I speak true. It’s a custom, in Faerin, to seal alliances by taking women. She said the Faerin lord would expect that custom to be honored—with our Mistress.”
Lorth stifled a laugh. Relations between Faerin and Eusiron were fragile enough that Forloc’s offer for an alliance wouldn’t likely take root. Tarth could crush that tender seedling without much effort. So why would Setriana initiate something this crass under the banner of diplomacy? It made no sense.
As the hunter strode with his charge towards the end of his involvement in this political snakepit, his feet began to float. Wondering if he should have declined that last cup of mison, he stopped in his tracks, breathing deeply as a now-familiar dark space opened between his eyes. He swore.
“Milord?” the warrior asked. Lorth lowered his blade and held up his hand to silence him as Eaglin’s mind-voice entered his head.
Change of plan. The Faerins are leaving. I want you to get into their escort, follow them to their rooms and make sure no trouble comes of this.
Lorth gazed across the hall at the dark patch of men moving through the trees. One opening closed; now he would have to find another. He sheathed his blade. “I trust you know your way out?” The black-haired warrior hesitated, and then nodded. As Lorth watched him move in the direction of the corner, he felt a brief, scurrilous moment of indecision. Then he let out his breath and strode after the Faerins, uttering a word to cloak him in one more layer of anonymity.
I am unseen.
He passed a serving maid carrying a tray of drinks in dark red glasses. He grabbed one without her knowing it and took a long sip. Whisky burned into his throat and forehead like a golden song. Splendid.
What did Eaglin expect him to do? Spy on them? Eavesdrop? Once again, the wizard had left him with indistinct orders and a threat of execution, forcing him to improvise. Fair enough. But he wouldn’t be playing this game for much longer.
I owe nothing.
He passed through the crowd with spectral precision, senses alert, whisky glass dangling from his hand. The Faerin escort approached the main doors. Lorth considered how he would get into the stables from the guest quarters. Not an easy route. A better approach would be to slip into the Hall of Thorns from the main corridor without anyone seeing him.
He lifted his glass, and then lowered it as the air changed. The surrounding energy had something else in it besides him, now. Something uncomfortable. It came up behind him and grabbed him by the arm.
Astarae circled him, looking him over as she might something a hound had le
ft at her feet. “You!” she said scornfully. “You dare come in here under a deception cloak?” Her deep blue eyes sparkled with challenge.
Lorth stared at her. Apparently, no one had told her his business here. He looked across the laughing, feasting crowd at the Mistress, who sat talking quietly with Eaglin. If they hadn’t told this woman anything, then it was none of her concern.
He disregarded her and kept moving. Another long sip to clear the noise from his mind...
Behind him, she raised her voice. “You will stop and answer me, Hunter.”
Lorth turned around. “My name is Fenrir.”
“Is it, now,” she returned, approaching him. “You think I can’t see through that patchy shield you’re wearing? I know your reputation. Now answer me: What are you doing in here?”
The hunter stepped close, his every stitch strained and bleeding darkness. “I do not answer to you, Priestess, even if you do have a name. Step aside unless you want to find out firsthand how I got my reputation.”
Her lips parted, her cheeks flushed with outrage. “You dare threaten me?” Her energy recoiled like a cornered snake. “Icaros raised you, and what did you do? Used the forces of Maern to murder him, something you learned in the jungles of Tarth—for pay! Well you aren’t going to do it here. We have rules.”
Lorth drained his glass and set it on the corner of an empty bench. “Are you finished?”
The way her eyes changed set off his animal alarms. In a lower voice, almost triumphant, she said, “The Destroyer only shows her face in warning. You should not have returned.”
The words hit him like a club. How could she have known about his visions of the wolf-faced Destroyer? He had told no one. In a quiet voice unshaken by the ferocious maw in his gut he said, “Your stature in this hall has sheltered you from the wilds, Priestess.” The title sat in his mouth like a tasteless piece of food. “Should you venture forth, do watch your back.”
The Hunter's Rede Page 14
