Hinterland

by James Clemens

  Brant sank to the ice. Two dark figures appeared out of the storm. They held lamps aloft, swinging from raised pikes.

  The twin giants.

  Malthumalbaen and Dralmarfillneer.

  Brant closed his eyes with grateful relief. He sank around himself. Against his belly, two hearts beat. The Way had never been an easy path.

  But it was the right one.

  “Preposterous,” Liannora said under her breath. “Daemons in the snow…”

  The next morning, Brant sat in the High Wing’s common room, sipping a healer’s draught of bitter herbs and warming alchemies. Thick drabs of honey failed to mask the acrid tang, and the swirl of complex Graces made his vision swim. He was under orders to drink it with every ring of the day’s bell. It was his second draught since being released from the healer’s ward.

  His breathing remained pained, his voice hoarse, but the sputum no longer bled. Still, deep in his chest, he felt some sharpness if he inhaled too quickly, as if a few shards of ice still remained in his lungs. But the draughts slowly helped—as had a night buried under furs with bladders of heated water tucked against him. He felt almost himself again.

  He warmed his palms on the hot stone mug.

  By now, other Hands had gathered. By order of Lord Jessup. The god of Oldenbrook would be arriving shortly. All had heard Brant’s tale of some dread force cloaked in the heart of the past day’s storm. Doubt could be seen in their eyes and heard behind their whispers. Especially since the storm had blown itself out by morning, moving south and away, leaving in its wake a frigid cold and a world blanketed in windswept drifts of snow. The sky remained low and misted. Sunrise was more a pale effort at the start of a day, seemingly defeated before it had begun.

  But nothing worse was revealed.

  Just another winter’s day.

  Talk of Dark Graces that stole through the forest, cloaked in a freezing snow, killing with ice, was little believed in the light of day, as meager as that light might be.

  “How many winters have you spent up here?” Liannora persisted. She wore a resplendent morning dress of silver adorned with iridescent blue shells.

  “This is my first full winter here,” Brant said hoarsely. “But I spent another three in Chrismferry, even farther north than Oldenbrook.”

  Liannora scoffed, “Those are city winters, sheltered by towers, spent indoors, never more than a step or two from the nearest hearth. This is a wild winter. A true winter.”

  Brant stared at her, wondering how many winters it had been since Liannora had stepped more than ten paces from the closest hearth. Or mirror, for that matter. He could not picture her traipsing a winter forest. But he stayed silent. He did not have the patience or the breath to confront her.

  “Raised in the hot lands of the far south,” Liannora expounded, “you were simply ill-prepared for the savagery of our winters here. Imagining daemons behind every snowflake. I recommend you dress warmer next time. What were you doing out in that storm anyway?”

  A pair of fellow Hands chuckled: the wide-hipped Mistress Ryndia and the skeletally thin Master Khar, Hands of seed and sweat, respectively. They were ever at Liannora’s bidding.

  Brant felt heat rise inside him that had nothing to do with the healing draught.

  Across the table, an older man cleared his throat, stirring from his seat with a creak of wood and bones. His intrusion was welcome. Brant respected the elderly Hand, though he represented the least of the humours: black bile. Master Lothbren was near the end of his duty here, bent and aged by his years of handling a god’s Grace. As much as it was an honor to serve, there was a cost. A god’s Grace burnt its bearers, setting flame to the candles of their lives, flaring them brightly but consuming them just as quickly.

  The old man stared at Brant with eyes still sharp. “You rescued a pair of wolf cubbies, I heard,” he said.

  Brant nodded. He had left them with the giant brothers, who had promised to deliver them to the castillion’s kennels, to get them warmed and fed. Brant had left his coat with the cubbies, the better to let them feel secure, to accustom themselves to his scent. He was planning on visiting them once he was finished with Lord Jessup’s summoning, to see how they were faring.

  “For dogs!” Liannora spat with another roll of eyes. “He risks his life, his station for a couple of spitting curs. I daresay such an act smacks of disrespect toward Lord Jessup—to so wantonly jeopardize oneself when one is in service to a god.” She shook her head in disbelief and mild outrage.

  Brant had heard enough. “Those dogs,” he said through clenched teeth, “were whelpings of the she-wolf your most glorious Sten slaughtered with razor wire and cowardly spear, while full to the brim with ale. He knew she had cubbies on her teat, yet he left them to starve and freeze.”

  The shocked look on Liannora’s face almost made his outburst worth it. For too long he had bitten his tongue at her slights. No longer. Still, he saw her surprise fade into angry cunning, a flash of wickedness, a promise that this was far from over.

  She waved his words away with a flip of a hand, keeping her tone even, as if his angry outburst were a rudeness beyond her. “I thought a skilled hunter like yourself would be well aware of life’s cruel necessity. Some die so others might live.”

  “Or so others might wear pretty coats…”

  She shrugged. “Strange words from someone who traipses out into our forests with bow and arrow. I don’t see you starving and needing to grace our board here with your scrawny hares and rabbits. I’d say you hunt more for pleasure than necessity. At least I’ll put my coat to good use.”

  Master Lothbren lifted a placating hand. “What are your plans for the cubbies, Master Brant?”

  He tempered his voice, breathing through his nose to calm himself. “Once they are well-weaned and fleshed, I hope to gain a boon from Lord Jessup to return them to Mistdale whence they came.”

  “So again you plan to forsake your duty here, to further slight our lord—”

  “Thank you, Liannora, but I believe I can withstand such an insult.”

  All eyes turned to find Lord Jessup at the door to the commons, dressed casually in loose leggings and a simple shirt of stitched sailcloth. He entered with a ghost of a smile, like a kindly father coming upon a squabbling set of his children. He settled to a seat at the head of the long table.

  A few words were exchanged, morning pleasantries; then Lord Jessup settled his gaze upon Brant. He noted the slight glow of warm Grace behind the god’s eyes.

  “How are you faring this morning?”

  “Fine, my lord. Much stronger.”

  “You look it,” Jessup said with a nod. “I daresay you arrived as pale as Liannora here when those giants carried you home. But your color is returning nicely.”

  “The healers know their craft.”

  “I shall certainly pass on my own gratitude.” Jessup leaned back into his seat. “Now, if you’re able, I’d like to hear more about what you saw out in that storm.”

  Brant nodded. “It wasn’t so much saw as felt.”

  Liannora opened her mouth, sitting straighter, ready to offer her thoughts, but Lord Jessup waved her down. She sank back into her chair.

  Brant slowly but firmly reported all he experienced: the unnatural cold, snow that burnt with ice, the panicked flight of the beasts of the field, their sudden and inexplicable deaths, frozen where they fell.

  “I saw no sign of man or daemon,” he finished, “but this was no mere storm. Something hid at its heart, cloaked in snow. I’m certain of it.”

  Jessup pondered his story, leaning forward a bit, eyes down, fingers steepled and tapping his brow. “There has been much strangeness of late, much to worry and concern me. Clearly those of ill purpose take heart from this stretch of bitter winter. Who’s to say what emboldened act might be attempted? It bears investigation. If there are any Black Alchemists afoot on my lands, we must root them out.”

  “Lord Jessup—” Liannora began again.

&
nbsp; A hand raised, palm out. “I will send the chief master of the Oldenbrook school, a man familiar with corrupted Graces, out into the wood along with a small legion of guards.” He eyed Brant again. “I will have maps brought up. Are you able…do you remember…?”

  “I can mark where I hunted. But mayhap I should accompany the search.” Brant was afraid that the heavy drifts would have blanketed all evidence to his claims, deeply burying the bodies.

  “I fear it’s not best for your health to be out in this bitter cold. Not if you’re to recover for the coming morning’s flight to Tashijan. And I fear even the strain of such a flight, of the festivities at the Citadel, perhaps will be too much.”

  Brant sat straighter and pushed away his emptied mug. “I will be more than hale enough to travel.”

  He did not want to be excluded from the retinue. Despite all that had happened, there was still the matter of Dart, his stone, and the strange apparition conjured as the stone flared. He could not pass up this chance for answers. Not after so long.

  “I hope you are right,” Lord Jessup said. “I was the first to put Tylar ser Noche’s cloak in service to the Order. It was here he first bent a knee as a knight. I would send the best of Oldenbrook to witness his knighting again. To send less would cast some doubt on my support. Still, if you are not able…I will not risk your health.”

  “I am mending fine, Lord Jessup.” A rasping cough confounded his words, but he met the god’s blue eyes with steady assuredness. “I am.”

  A nod. “Very good. Then it’s settled.”

  Lord Jessup began to rise, but now it was Liannora’s turn to lift a hand. “A wonderful thought has just occurred to me, stirred by your words of honoring the assembly at Tashijan. For the past nights, my slumber has been troubled by worries of how to properly show our respect, of what gifts we might bring besides our fine personages.”

  “What idea has possessed you?”

  Liannora glanced to Brant, flashing some wicked intent, then turned back to Lord Jessup. “Master Brant here has risked his life to bring two beautiful woodland cubbies out of the forest, to save them from the savageries of the storm. What better gifts might we present than those same twin cubbies? Fell wolves, no less.”

  Brant felt as if he’d been clubbed in the stomach.

  “The whole ceremony at Tashijan is one of unification,” Liannora continued. “To heal the fractured houses of Chrismferry and Tashijan. Would it not be a wonderful gesture to offer one pup to the celebrated and battle-brazened Argent ser Fields, high warden of the Citadel—and present the other to the new regent, Lord Tylar ser Noche?”

  “Most wonderful,” Mistress Ryndia added.

  “Indeed,” Master Khar chimed in.

  “Fell wolves represent strength, cunning, and honor. To share them between the two houses—Tashijan and Chrismferry—would help symbolize the new resolve of all the First Land, to stand against the darkness, proud and nobly.”

  Brant finally found his tongue. “The wolves belong in Mistdale. It is where they should be returned.”

  “There are enough wolves in those dark forests,” Liannora said. “Was it not hunger that drove the she-wolf down here to begin with? The symbolic nature the pair could represent would serve far better than stocking two more starving wolves in Mistdale.”

  “That is not the Way of—”

  Now Brant was silenced with a nod from Lord Jessup. “Thank you, Liannora. Well-spoken indeed. The gesture would be significant, but as it was Master Brant who risked his life to bring the wolves here, then it should be his choice on what will be done with them.”

  Liannora bowed her acknowledgment and settled with a shimmer to her seat. All eyes were on Brant.

  Even Lord Jessup’s.

  Brant ignored the others, but he could not dismiss the gentle attention of the god in their midst. He knew the high esteem in which Lord Jessup held the new regent. Even more deeply, he understood the god’s desire to acknowledge and certify the new pact between Chrismferry and Tashijan. The First Land must heal.

  But he had a responsibility beyond the land. By saving the cubbies, he now had their lives to protect. He weighed the life they would lead if he agreed. He had no doubt they’d be raised with pampered attention. As gifts of a god, representing the new unity and symbolizing the First Land’s newfound fortitude, the wolves would be well cared for and well-kept. Their lives would be easy; they would be fatted and groomed.

  Yet still it would be a caged life, all freedoms gone. Brant rankled at the thought. Here he was, exiled from his own homelands into this pampered existence. He’d had no choice. Then again, sometimes freedoms had to be laid down for the greater good.

  “Master Brant…?” Lord Jessup pressed softly.

  He met his god’s eyes, knowing what the god hoped.

  Brant nodded slowly.

  “I gave ’em some goat’s milk ’bout a bell ago,” Malthumalbaen grumbled. “Just about took my thumb off.”

  The giant held out a ponderous digit, wounded with an arc of needled bites.

  Shadowed by the giant, Brant stood at the cage door. The cubbies were half-buried in his old coat, forming a den beneath it, glowering. A low growl greeted him.

  Brant flipped the latch and pulled the gate.

  “Take care, Master Brant. Or at least count your fingers. Make sure you leave with the same number.”

  The giant’s twin returned from down at the end of a row, where he had finished relieving himself into a pail. Dralmarfillneer snugged the laces on his trousers as he joined his brother. A few of the kennel’s hounds regaled his passage.

  “Them’s some feisty bits of fur,” he said with a grin upon reaching their side. “Probably taste a mite nice, too. After being fattened up first.”

  Malthumalbaen clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Take no offense, Master Brant. Dral’s always wondering what things taste like.”

  Brant slid into the cage.

  “We must get back to our posts,” the giant said.

  Brant nodded to them. “Thank you again for coming out and pulling me out of the teeth of that storm.”

  “No thanks necessary.”

  “Just a few hares now and then—that’d be nice.” Dral elbowed his brother for his agreement.

  Malthumalbaen sighed. “Is that all you think about? Your belly?” He shoved his brother toward the far door. “Don’t you know anything about honor, ’bout doing what’s right for rightness’s sake?”

  “Still, a few hares…If you’d rather not have yours, I’ll be happy to—”

  “Ock, that’s not the point. Mother surely dropped you on your head.”

  Their argument faded into grumbled snatches as they left the kennels.

  Alone, Brant pulled the door closed behind him and sank to a crouch. The cubbies stared at him. Two pairs of eyes reflected the torchlight beyond. Brant noted a pile of spoor in one corner. It was runny and loose.

  “Goat’s milk is not your mamma’s, is it?” Brant whispered.

  A growl answered him. He caught a ripple of teeth.

  Ignoring the threat, Brant sidled closer, then sank cross-legged into the hay. He would wait them out. Let his scent push through the pall of shite and hound piss.

  After a long moment, a snarling nose peeked out of the coat, curious but wary.

  “Do you recognize my smell?”

  The small cubbie lowered its muzzle to the ground, ears flattened. It was the little she-wolf, braver than her brother. She edged out a whisker at a time in his direction. Her brother shadowed her. Brant saw how the male, more cautious, studied him, first from one side of his sister, then the other. Though he lacked his sister’s bravado, he made up with wits and cunning.

  Brant had rested a hand in the hay. The little she-wolf, bristling with black fur, stretched her neck to sniff at a nail. Satisfied, she crept farther, circling out a bit, still wary.

  Then she lunged and snapped into the meat of his thumb. She stayed latched, growling. Brant could gue
ss she was the one who had wounded Malthumalbaen. Brant simply waited her out.

  Finally she let go and pulled back.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I probably deserve it.”

  Her hackles slowly lowered. She sank to her belly and wiggled forward again. A small pink tongue licked at the droplets of blood raised by her milk teeth. A whine escaped her, apologetic.

  The male slipped from the den and joined his sister, licking at Brant’s thumb. Once his finger was clean, the pair were soon sniffing him all around, exploring his nooks and corners.

  He watched them, his heart heavy.

  After a few moments more, they grew bored with his presence. The male returned to the coat, grabbing it by a sleeve and tugging on it. Such housekeeping plainly angered his sister. She grabbed the other sleeve, fighting with determined growls.

  Brant sighed. Maybe he should have left them to the storm. Had it been any true kindness rescuing them? Into what sort of life were they headed? Still, it was life. As long as their hearts beat, the future was never set in stone.

  Not theirs, not his.

  He pondered the strange storm again. Even he had begun to wonder if he had not merely caught the contagious panic of the animals. Maybe it was just the extra cold spooking the beasts. Still, he remembered the ice in the air, the cold flesh of that hare, dropped in midleap.

  No.

  Something unnatural had been cloaked in the storm.

  But what? And more importantly, why?

  The storm had blown itself out of Oldenbrook and now rolled south toward the distant sea. In another day or two it would be gone from these lands. Perhaps it would always remain a mystery. He thought he had sidestepped it, but maybe that had been a delusion. Maybe it still held him in its grip.

  Maybe it always had.

  Brant clutched the stone at his throat, rolled to him by the dying breath of a rogue god.

  How much freedom did any of them have?

  SECOND

  CASTLE IN A STORM

  —Litany of Nine Graces