by Sharon Rose
“What is that to us?”
Tristan’s lips twitched. “Haven’t you always chided me for excessive curiosity?”
James closed his eyes and released a breath.
Laughter crept into Tristan’s voice. “As it happens, Toby is arranging for us to visit his grandfather. ’Twould be rude to ignore the invitation now.”
From behind, Cotrell asked, “What do you suppose he meant about the Lady Havella?”
“That was odd.” Tristan’s frown deepened. “I can’t imagine her turning anyone away. Certainly, no one from Moorelin. It makes no sense that she’d treat folk different on this side of the river.”
James demanded an explanation, and Cotrell told him of the conversation while they followed the poorly kept road. At least the sun was drying the mud.
“Strange,” James said when Cotrell finished, “but there have always been rumors. ’Tis bound to happen with a lady such as she. More so, considering the waters of Fountain Isle. But why tell Toby we’re looking for a route over the ridge?”
“I just wanted to keep him talking about the lay of the westward land,” Tristan said. “’Twas only a passing comment from the lady that I made use of.”
“How long ago did she tell you that?” Cotrell asked.
Tristan shrugged. “I haven’t been to Fountain Isle in three years. May have even been the time before that.”
They found the lane as they descended a hill toward a gurgling steam. Nothing more than a rutted cart track, forcing them to ride single file. Branches clacked overhead, the storm having stripped most of the fading leaves. Beyond a curve, Toby awaited them outside a tiny cottage. A larger cottage and barn were visible through the trees.
“I told my gra’pa about you,” Toby said as they dismounted. He looked worried. “’Tis not one of his better days, but he said the lord could come in.”
Tristan followed Toby, ducking his head to pass through the low doorway. The reek of wild tobacco stung his nose. A fire burned on the stone hearth, and a man sat beside it, only his bald head visible above the blanket that wrapped him. Furnishings were few but looked to be well crafted.
Tristan moved around to face him, for Toby was already saying, “Gra’pa Burk, this is the nobleman I told you of.”
Watery eyes looked up at him, from amidst countless wrinkles in sallow skin.
“I am Lord Tristan,” he said, omitting his family name. He bowed slightly to the man’s advanced age.
Burk wheezed as he stared. “You’re not one of them. They were fair.”
What did that mean? Did his mind wander? This could be difficult. Tristan lowered himself to the chair opposite the old man. “Of whom do you speak?”
“The master and mistress!” he snarled, as though that were a fool’s question.
“Of the castle,” Toby added, as his grandfather burst into coughing.
“Ah. Certain, I could not look like them. My family has never held land here. We dwell north of the River Thane.”
Burk’s brown-spotted hand pulled the blanket tighter. “At least ye don’t come with lies.” He heaved a wheezy sigh, head sagging forward. “All lost. Such beauty…given over to those foul beasts.”
More rambling. “Can you tell me the names of the master and mistress?” Tristan asked.
“Names? Nay. I was but a lad, not half Toby’s age.” His gaze grew distant. “Oh, but she was a fine lady. Golden locks coiled around her head. A smile bright as the sun.”
“What was the master like?”
“Well enough, I suppose, though he didn’t smile unless his lady was near.” Burk brought his gaze back to Tristan. “Why think ye that I would know much of them? Our place was beside the stable.”
This meandering didn’t seem to suit Toby. “But, Gra’pa, you know more about the castle than anyone, for your papa was caretaker. First in and last out. You could tell of that.”
“Aye, he was. My papa loaded us all up in the spring…so we could get the castle ready for the family. And when they left, we’d pack once more. Mama’d lead the donkey out so Papa could close up the gates.” He sagged again. “Until they didn’t come. We waited and waited. The castle’s mournful silent without the family.” He shook his head. “But such a din all night. Mama couldn’t bear the howls. They’d gotten so fierce we could barely sleep, so we left after mid-summer night.”
A rugged cough interrupted. Burk wiped his lips on the blanket. “Mama feared to come back the next spring. Papa said we’d wait for the family to come through town…and journey with them. But they never did. Papa even went alone to check the castle…in case they’d taken the low route that spring. But it stood empty.”
“Did they send word?”
Burk shook his head. “Don’t think they could’ve. My papa kept hoping and worrying both. Afraid someone would rob the castle, which he was bound to keep. He’d locked up the gates, and none but he knew the hidden way. But still he fretted.” Burk cleared his throat. “Told us we couldn’t speak of the castle at all. Except the beasts. He talked about them, and Mama did, too. Dreadful scared, she was, and glad to stay near town. Believed the beasts had gotten the family, she did. Mayhap she was right, but Papa didn’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t know. Can’t see what else it could’ve been. Those vixicat yowls still sound in my dreams. Fiercest beasts there ever was! No one dared leave the castle at night, nor go down the western valley, even in daylight.”
Vixicat? Never had Tristan heard of such a creature. “What does a vixicat look like?”
Burk sneered. “No one lives to tell.” He glowered a moment. “I used to walk the castle walls with my papa that last summer…but we never caught sight of one in the dusk. The castle sits atop a cliff on the sunset side. My papa would lift me up to look over the parapet, but I could see naught but the treetops.”
Finally, a reference to the land. “How far from here to the cliff?”
“Never counted the days bouncing along in that cart.”
“You camped in the woods along the way, then?”
“Aye. My papa standing by the fire with his bow when I slept…my mama bearing it when I woke.”
Tristan questioned further, discovered where the road left town, but not the route, save that the ridge could be seen along the first part of the trek.
“Can you not see the ridge from the castle?” Tristan asked.
“Nay, the hills get in the way. And the ravine, though that stretches a long way down toward the sea. Vixicat land, Papa said.” Burk faded off again, the mournful look returning. “Terrible sad to think of those beasts tearing up that fine lady.” A long wheeze escaped him. “At least there’s someone else to remember them now. Lifts a burden, it does.”
Tristan stood. “I’m glad of that. Thank you for sharing your memories with me.”
Another coughing fit overwhelmed Burk’s answer.
Tristan left the cottage quietly.
Toby followed, looking downcast. “I’m sorry, sir. I thought he’d know more than that.”
Tristan put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s not your fault. How old is your grandfather?”
“Some ways past seventy. He doesn’t like us to count his years.”
“Memories can fade in seventy years.”
Toby broke a dead branch sticking out from a nearby tree trunk and snapped it in half. “I don’t see why people keep secrets. If they’re so important, they shouldn’t be lost. But that’s what happens.”
There was more to Toby then met the eye. “You have a good point.”
They stopped by the horses, and Toby looked up at him. “Why do you keep secrets? Why don’t you tell that you’re a lord?”
Young enough to be naive, but old enough to ask serious questions. “Because folk make too much of titles in these parts. I’m the youngest son, so I cannot pass my title on. I am who I am, whether anyone calls me lord.”
“Do you want me to keep it secret, too?”
“You nee
dn’t speak of it without cause, but don’t think I am asking you to lie if the question arises.” Toby looked relieved, and Tristan mounted Dauntless. “You’ll make a fine man, Toby Burk. Thank you for bringing me to meet your grandfather.”
Chapter 2
In the Border Lands
Tristan led the way back along the lane. He turned toward the creek, then followed it north until they found a place to cross. The horses splashed through, and a bit farther on, Tristan paused by a broken, weathered timber protruding from the bank.
Cotrell noticed it too, his eyes tracing the hard earth on both sides of the creek and scanning the woods westward. “There must have been a bridge here.”
“I take it you heard what the elder Burk said.”
He nodded, still studying the woods. “I lingered by the door. Can’t imagine how you stood it inside. Whatever he puts in his pipe should be buried far from town.”
“In-deed!” Tristan let his horse amble forward. “Where did the road lie?”
“I will guess, up through there.” Cotrell pointed northwest. “Don’t expect to track it far.”
“Why does it matter?” James asked.
Tristan turned Dauntless back toward the others and patted his neck. “It will take us within view of the ridge and give us a reference point.”
The dip in James’s pitch was almost imperceptible. “I thought we were looking for a plain that would lead us down to the sea.”
Tristan’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “I heard that, James. The part you didn’t say.”
Cotrell grinned, but answered James, “I was told the plain is narrow, and I don’t know where it begins. The height will help us understand the whole, so we can find the parts.”
“Don swords and bows,” Tristan said, reaching to unhook his quiver and wrist guard from the pack horse. “We’ll ride northwest.”
They reached the crest of the ridge some hours after noon. Tristan sat atop the cliff, gazing out over the wide River Thane. Dozens of times, he had looked up from below, but never had he surveyed the valley from above. His homeland was but a faint blur northeast across the river. To the west, the black peak of Fountain Isle should thrust up from the mighty river. Yet even with his long vision, he could not make it out. He looked up at Cotrell, who was turning in a slow circle, doubtless committing all to memory. “What think you? Could you place us on our map?”
“A guess only, and I can add nothing south of the ridge,” Cotrell grumbled. “This forest stretches forever, it seems, with no landmark in view. I can’t even tell if we’ve passed beyond Verenlia’s uncertain border.”
“By now, we must have.” Tristan swung his legs around and accepted Cotrell’s grip to pull him to his feet. “I even doubt the last few towns owe allegiance to any noble, much less a king.”
“Why?”
“Verenlian nobility think too much of their own rank to let it go unnoticed on their lands. We no longer saw their colors nor heard their names.”
“Are we nearing Lavaycia, then?” James asked.
“Nay. It has to be beyond that plain we seek, though I’m not sure how far.” Tristan made a vague gesture southward. “I just know that the road to it heads southwest farther down Verenlia’s border.” He turned and took a last glance over the northern vista. “Let’s get down out of this wind.”
They snacked on bread and cheese, then led their horses for a time, while Tristan told James what little he’d learned in the cottage. Finding a meager stream, they let the horses drink.
Cotrell pointed to some tracks. “A fair number of deer, but I’ve yet to see wolf or bear.”
“I suspect those stories are overstated,” Tristan said. “What man brings his family twice a year though a horde of ferocious beasts?” He drank from his waterskin. “And though they kept watch through the night, he also braved a lone ride to the castle and back.”
Cotrell knelt to refill the waterskins. “Nor did he believe that beasts killed the family, whomever they may have been.”
“That would be a stretch, indeed,” James said. “Doubtless, they traveled with servants and men-at-arms.”
“Aye, they would have.” Tristan passed a rein over Dauntless’s neck. “With two routes, it seems unlikely that anyone here would know how the family fared on the trip to their winter home.” He mounted. “Any number of things could have interfered with the spring journey. Burk’s father set out as usual, so he must have suspected nothing.” Tristan frowned as he waited. “What later caused folk to believe they were killed? And if true, when, where, and why?”
Cotrell was last to mount. “’Tis a pity,” he said, “that the only witness was a child at the time.”
“Aye, and he’s not long for this world.” Tristan settled into the rhythm of his horse’s stride.
“An intriguing mystery,” James said, “but after seventy years, we aren’t likely to solve it.”
They paralleled the ridge, and near sunset, Cotrell ascended to its crest again, this time taking the map to mark their location. Tristan found level ground, with a rock outcropping to shield one side, and began setting up camp with James.
When Cotrell returned, he and Tristan spread the map against the rock. Cotrell tapped the ridge line drawn on the parchment. “I place us about here.”
“We’re still along the part that is inaccessible from the northern side,” Tristan murmured.
“Aye.” Cotrell pointed to another spot. “Over here is the first possibility of scaling the ridge from the north, although still too steep for a wagon. A couple days’ ride, at our current pace.”
“Hm.” Tristan rolled the map and fed it into the leather tube that Cotrell held. Nearby, the horses shredded vegetation, a discordant sound in the quiet woods. Tristan stared at them for a moment. “Let’s water these greedy beasts. There’s a spring not far.”
While the horses drank, Cotrell studied the ground. “Some wolves ran through here…sometime after the rain stopped.” He took a few more steps. “Heading southeast. Moving fast. Hopefully, they took their prey down. I prefer sated wolves to hungry ones.”
“And did they leave enormous footprints?”
Cotrell chuckled. “Hate to disappoint, but they are on the ordinary side.”
James had a fire going when they returned. Dinner and beds were far less desirable than last night, but at least it didn’t rain. Cotrell tossed his weighted line over a convenient branch and hoisted their supplies beyond the reach of any bear, while Tristan picked a spot and settled down with his bow for the first watch of the night.
When Tristan awoke the next morn, James had the fire ready for cooking. He did not stand a watch, never having learned to handle a bow nor any steel beyond his long dagger. Instead, he rose with the dawn and attended to water, meals, clothing, and a host of small tasks. The only drawback to this well-organized camp was that it reminded Tristan of battle days.
Not memories he cherished, especially when cold, hungry, and stiff. He pushed himself off the hard ground, stretched, and after a brief walk in the woods, sat down by the fire. Bacon sizzled, making his mouth water and stomach rumble.
Cotrell tore a third off the last of the bread and passed the rest to Tristan. “Where shall we head, my lord? West along the ridge, or strike out south, hoping to find that plain?”
“The ridge.”
“Why?” James asked, accepting his portion of bread from Tristan.
“Partly, because I keep puzzling over Toby’s remark about the Lady Havella. If the crossing is blocked, that may shed some light. If it is not blocked, it could save us a good deal of time getting home, but only if we know where it is. We may need it if the weather takes an unexpected turn.”
James looked at the blue sky. “Today will be warm. Winter is yet a ways off.”
“Our hostess at the inn said that ‘the simple few that go, never return.’” Tristan narrowed his eyes over those cryptic words. “If the beasts are exaggerated, what kills the searchers? The tales describe a cas
tle that can only be seen in winter. Bare trees, perhaps.” He swept a hand toward branches above. “Which makes me think of these. Cold can kill, and no sword or bow can defeat it. Might there be winter storms blowing in off the sea? We of Moorelin know nothing of coastal weather.”
They struck camp and set off. The forest gradually changed to pine. Ancient trunks with green tufts perched high above. The lower branches had long since broken away, leaving more room for the riders. They covered the needle-strewn ground in the smooth running-walk of Moorelin’s finely bred horses.
To his left, Tristan could make out broad-leaf trees farther down the slope, but ahead, the pines stretched so far that nothing could be seen between them, except more trunks. The silence of the forest blended into an uncanny mix of peaceful and lonely. Welcome, in a way, after the pretentious cities of Verenlia.
How quickly he had tired of them. Their excitement seemed a façade. He preferred the cities of Moorelin after all, though their familiarity wore on him. Not that he didn’t love his land and his family. There was just nothing left for the youngest of five sons to do.
Now, at least. Not so, a year ago. Vicious skirmishes on Moorelin’s northeastern border had consumed his days—and many nights. Just thinking about it made his pulse quicken. The war bellows of the Graybonite raiders echoed in memory. The screams of terror, the burning cottages, the ache of exhausted muscles, the body of his friend…
Tristan exhaled and released his futile grip on his sword hilt. Stretching his fingers, he called on later memories, when he and his archers had finally driven the Graybonites back across the border. And the day that Captain Cotrell had reported back with his band of scouts…the raiding nomads had set off toward their northern lands. ’Twould be a generation before the tribe ventured near again. How they had celebrated that night! The dances of warriors and the triple-cheers of morrah. Tristan patted Dauntless’s neck. Even he had frisked in the lazy days that followed.
For a time, having nothing to do was pure bliss. But empty days…Tristan shook his head…how soon they bred boredom. His brother had sent him off to maintain their family’s relations with Verenlia. Or so he said, perhaps to make it sound important. In truth, a short visit was adequate. Tristan stretched it into a tour, desperate for activity. ’Twas a godsend that he had chanced to notice an odd gap on their maps.
