Hinterland

by James Clemens

  She was now doubly glad to have decided to fetch a horse for the short ride to the tavernhouse. Ulf’s emissary had not forbidden it. The snow had fallen thick. And the storm winds were not empty. In case it proved necessary, she wanted a means of fast travel.

  Ahead, a taller man, Mychall’s father, stepped out of the hay crib, leading a piebald stallion, colored white and black, snow on stone. The boy circled the horse, mimicking his father’s inspection of the horse’s tack, hands on hips.

  “All saddled, Castellan Vail,” the head of horses gruffed, plainly not pleased with her decision to ride in this storm. “Stoneheart has been grained this morning against the cold, so he should do you fine.”

  “Thank you.”

  Kathryn accepted the lead and ran a palm over the soft velvet of the stallion’s nose. He pushed against her, nuzzling, nostrils taking in her scent. Before Kathryn had risen to the hermitage, she had ridden the horse almost daily. But since then, her visits grew less and less frequent. And with the endless stretch of winter, it had become a rare pleasure.

  For the both of them.

  “I would be honored to attend you,” the horseman said. “I have another mount already saddled.”

  She stepped away. “Better to keep the fires stoked here. We may need their warmth when we return.”

  He nodded, offering no further argument. With Mychall’s help, they hauled the door wide enough for her to walk the horse out. They waited while she mounted.

  She sank into the warm saddle and hugged her cold legs against Stoneheart’s flanks. Here was home as much as any hermitage.

  At the door, the horseman’s eyes remained shadowed with worry. She knew it wasn’t just for the prized horseflesh under her. He simply nodded. No well wishes. No good-byes.

  She preferred it.

  Laying the reins across his neck, she turned the stallion toward the main gate through the shield wall. She found the way unmanned, cleared during the emptying of the town. Dismounting, she crossed to the small door in the main gate. Bars allowed a view of the parade grounds that lay between the town and the walls. Snow was piled knee-deep, untrammeled by footprints. The town lay shrouded in fog, more phantom than real.

  Kathryn undid the thick latch and lifted yet another bar with a tremor of trepidation. Had that been the plan all along? To get her to unlock the gates and open an easy breach into the towers? She quickly squashed down that worry. Eylan had demonstrated the extent of Ulf’s might. He had breached their main gate, a door that had stood for centuries. If Ulf wanted to get inside, she doubted there was any way to stop him.

  So why had the god hesitated these three long days?

  It was one of the reasons she had set out alone. You could not defend what you didn’t understand.

  Pulling open the door, she faced the full gale of the storm. It shoved against her and ripped her hood back. An icy hand slid down the back of her neck and cupped her buttocks, squeezing the air from her with its freezing touch. Swearing, she yanked her hood back up and hunched into the winds. She kept cursing as she walked the horse, using her anger to warm her.

  Behind her, the gate door slammed a resounding bang, as if reprimanding her for her obscenities. Startled, she jumped a bit. Still, she heeded the warning and remounted without another word.

  She guided Stoneheart across the frozen moat and into the stormswept fields. Here snow climbed into deeper drifts, requiring more plowing than stepping to cross the way. The stallion heaved, head low, breath blowing white.

  She searched the skies, the gables of the first houses, the dark streets. She had heard the stories. The wind wraith at her balcony door was not the only one of its brethren out here. And what else might be hidden within the storm?

  At last, they passed into the town and down a narrow street. The winds initially picked up, chasing them, scattering dry snow at their heels. Then deeper under eaves and overhanging dormers, the winds finally gave up their hunt and dribbled away. Snow still covered the streets, but most of the fall was piled high on roofs and sculpted by the winds into frozen waves at their edges.

  She feared that even the muffled clop of Stoneheart’s walk might shake down an avalanche upon her. But worst yet, she heard the occasional creak of board and crunch of ice, reminding her that the town was shuttered and abandoned—but it was far from empty.

  Still, she did not hesitate. She had committed to this parley, so she rattled her reins to keep the piebald stallion moving from shadow to shadow, turning corners and slipping down alleys.

  Kathryn needed no directions. She knew the way to Blackhorse as well as any knight. The inn and tavernhouse had been a place for many a rowdy night and sour-stomached morning for most of Tashijan’s knights and a fair smattering of its masters.

  But not this day.

  She spotted the sign over the doorway, depicting a rearing dark stallion on a plain white board. Not exactly the most imaginative decoration for a tavernhouse named the Blackhorse, but customers weren’t attracted by the establishment’s imagination as much as by its cheap ale and cheaper rooms, where many a dalliance and ribald tale began.

  Kathryn slowed Stoneheart by the inn’s neighboring stable. Its door already lay halfway open. She slipped from her saddle and walked the stallion into the barn. It was little warmer inside than without, but it would have to do. She threw the lead over a stall rail and noted a pile of oat hay within reach. She ran a hand over Stoneheart’s flank to make sure he hadn’t sweated too badly to be left standing in a cold barn.

  Satisfied, she had no reason to delay. She headed back outside and over to the tavern. She crossed to the door and found the latch unlocked. Then again, it was always unlocked. The Blackhorse never closed its doors. Though its windows had been shuttered as some measure of security.

  Kathryn shoved the door open and slipped inside. A counter stretched to the right. To the left opened the main hall, with scarred tables and chairs. Firelight flickered. The warm light frightened her more than the darkness. She shifted to peer inside, taking a moment to draw more shadows to her cloak.

  But the room was empty to its four walls.

  She entered warily, surprised at how small the room seemed without its usual crowds singing and arguing.

  She moved closer to the fire. The logs looked freshly lit. But she’d barely had time to warm her hands when the outer door creaked open. A whisper of wind and an icy chill swept inside.

  She turned.

  Footsteps approached. She was prepared for one of the wraiths or some other emissary from Lord Ulf. With the god landlocked in his realm, he had to work from afar—like sending forth his wrath wrapped in storm winds and burying a flock of wraiths at its heart.

  Finally, the figure rounded the corner and stepped into the room, glittering in the firelight.

  It was no wraith.

  “Lord Ulf!” Kathryn gasped.

  The god entered—or rather a perfect sculpture of the god in ice. The detail was exquisite, from every fold of his fine cloak to every wrinkle of his aged face. Even here, Lord Ulf did not feign vanity with a youthful demeanor, preferring the craggy to smooth, like his mountain home.

  As he approached, his form melted to allow movement of limb and cloak, then crystallized again. The sculpture reflected the flames but also shone with an internal radiance.

  Pure Grace.

  He spoke, his features as dynamic as flesh, though with a slight swimming melt. “Castellan Vail, thank you for coming. We have much to discuss.”

  Kathryn took a moment to find her voice.

  Lord Ulf filled the void. “To set matters straight. I know you helped Tylar ser Noche escape. And while I might not agree with your decision, it was yours to make. Understandably so. You were once his betrothed.”

  Kathryn struggled. She had expected horror and raving, not this calm and calculating figure in brilliant ice. She finally freed her tongue. “For what purpose have you summoned me here, then?”

  A hand rose, melting and freezing, asking for
her indulgence.

  “Let it also be known that I still consider the regent an Abomination. Such Grace was never meant to wear human flesh. And to place him in the center of the First Land, in Chrismferry, a land already cursed, can only lead to even more ruinous ends. This I will both portend and attempt to thwart. But with Tylar gone, I have a new matter that requires both our attentions, and I come to ask for your cooperation.”

  Before she could think to stop herself, Kathryn blurted out, “Why should I cooperate with a god so plainly cursed?”

  “Cursed? How so, castellan?”

  Kathryn stammered, ticking off her answers. “You threaten Tashijan to ruin, you ploy seersong to trap and twist an ally to her death, you carry ilked wraiths in your storm, and…and you borrow Dark Grace from enslaved rogues, gods snared and sapped by the Cabal itself.”

  He listened to her dispassionately, his face frozen. Once she was done, he sighed and sadly shook his head. “I am no puppet of the Cabal, if that is what you suspect. It is the Wyr who made our introductions. I had need for the power they possessed and promises were made. Nothing more.”

  “Promises?”

  “To kill Tylar. To destroy Rivenscryr. In such matters, I do not disagree with the Cabal, and I’m content to borrow their power to suit me.”

  “By enslaving the rogues?”

  “They are raving creatures of wild Grace. To let them dream in seersong is a less cruel life. But in truth, I have no pity for them.”

  And for little else, Kathryn thought. Ulf might be a sculpture of ice, but apparently the similarities ran deeper than mere appearance.

  “What about Eylan and the ilked wraiths?”

  “Unfortunate circumstances. I had meant to trap Tylar with the seersong, but caught a smaller fish instead. And need I remind you, it was your forces who destroyed her in the end. Which is another matter entirely. I felt the unthreading of the song in her mind—but could not fathom how it was done.”

  “The wraiths?”

  Again a hand waved. “To be borne aloft in the storm of Dark Grace, there was bound to be some matter of corruption. It was a risk all my Grace-born were aware of before they swept out from Ice Eyrie. But I still watch over them, controlling them with seersong to keep them focused to my will.”

  “Seersong? So you admit to employing a Dark Grace?”

  An icy shrug. “Grace is neither bright nor dark. It merely is. It is the heart of the wielder that is either bright or dark.”

  Kathryn shuddered. She didn’t know which she feared more: that Lord Ulf was locked in some rich lunacy or that he was dreadfully sound of mind. She had thought the Cabal had been using Ulf—could it be the other way around? Or was it both, two partners dancing cautiously together, each using the other toward a common purpose?

  To rid Myrillia of a godslayer and destroy his sword.

  But now both had escaped this trap.

  “Then with Tylar gone, what do you still want?”

  Lord Ulf faced her. “I want your help in destroying Tashijan.”

  Kathryn backed a step. “Are you mad?”

  His ice eyes glinted in the firelight. “Not even slightly.”

  “Have you seen Castellan Vail?” Laurelle asked, breathless with anxiety.

  “Not since before midday,” Delia said. “Why?”

  Laurelle stood with her fellow Hand in a small room, no more than a closet, across the stair from the fieldroom. She and Kytt had been waiting a full bell for Tashijan’s council to disband for a short break. The young tracker stood at the door, watching the hall.

  Moments before, Laurelle had waylaid Delia as she left the fieldroom and silently motioned for her to follow. She had led the woman to the closet with some urgency.

  “What’s happened?” Delia asked.

  “We’ve run all the way up to the castellan’s hermitage, then down again. Castellan Vail is not in her rooms. And no one knows where she’s gone. Her maid was as skittish as a pony when I questioned her. I bribed a guard who reported some mischance with Master Gerrod, found frozen in his armor.”

  “Frozen?” Delia gasped. “Dead?”

  “No—” Laurelle took a deep breath to collect herself. “Some matter with his mekanicals. He’s been attended by another master, and afterward both vanished in some hurry. All I could ascertain was that Castellan Vail had disappeared as well.”

  “I’ve heard of nothing about any of this. Master Hesharian has mentioned no word.”

  “I’m not surprised. You’ve all been holed up in that room for going on three bells. I don’t think whatever is afoot was something the castellan or the armored master wanted the warden to know about. Or anyone else in there.”

  Delia’s eyes grew shadowed as she pinched her brow. “So much hawing and posturing…” She waved a dismissive gesture at the fieldroom. “Before the meeting begins anew, I’ll discreetly inquire about the castellan from those I trust.” She stepped toward the door.

  “No. Wait!” Laurelle urged. “That’s only half the reason I’ve come. I had hoped to find Castellan Vail here. To report word of what Kytt and I discovered.”

  Delia stared back at her.

  Laurelle quickly related how she and Kytt had stalked Master Orquell and witnessed his strange communion with his mistress in the dark. “It was plainly Dark Grace. And the woman in the flames…”

  “Mirra,” Delia said with a frown, coming to the same conclusion.

  “He probably warned her about the skull. No telling what else he has told her.”

  Kytt hissed by the door and waved. Laurelle and Delia joined him. Peeking out, Laurelle saw a familiar shape, as if summoned by their words. Master Orquell was headed down the stairs, leaving again on his own. Down the hall, Master Hesharian could be seen huddled with Liannora and Warden Fields. All seemed oblivious that Orquell was leaving.

  Laurelle gripped Delia’s arm. “What are we to do?”

  “I’ll have to tell my father,” she muttered sourly. “Spy or not, the truth will be soothed from the master—but such arrest would require a warden’s order.” She glanced to Laurelle. “Are you sure what you saw?”

  “Dead certain.”

  Kytt nodded.

  “Then we have no choice.”

  “What about Master Orquell?” Laurelle asked. “He should be followed. Before he divulges more secrets from the day’s meeting.”

  Delia shook her head. “Nothing of import was related just now, mostly just Liannora’s fawning and scraping. Leave Orquell to the warden’s knights.”

  “But—”

  “You were foolish to risk what you did. Return to your rooms. I will bring word to you when I’m able.”

  Laurelle bristled at being ordered about like a child, but a part of her was also relieved. She had succeeded in passing on a warning, if not to Castellan Vail, at least to someone in power. It would have to be enough.

  “Make sure no one sees you,” Delia concluded. “Straight up to your rooms. Kytt, please stay with her.”

  He nodded.

  Satisfied, Delia slipped out the closet and headed round the stairs toward the far hall. Laurelle waited a breath, then stepped out, too. Kytt trailed her.

  “There’s a back stair over that way…” Laurelle pointed the opposite way. “I think.”

  They headed off together.

  Before reaching a turn, Laurelle glanced back. Delia had stopped by the stair, huddled with a guard. She pointed an arm down the hall, to where Argent stood. Then her arm dropped. She was clearly angry. She glanced her father’s way, nodded, then stepped after the guard, heading down the same stairs where Master Orquell had vanished.

  Concerned, Laurelle stopped. Clearly something or someone had thwarted Delia from delivering Laurelle’s warning. Searching farther down the hall, she noted Liannora standing with her arms crossed, wearing a thinly veiled smile.

  Oh no…

  Laurelle studied the guard more closely. His chin lifted briefly in her direction as he turned to follow Delia.
His features were clear.

  It was Sten, captain of the Oldenbrook guards.

  Only now did Laurelle remember an earlier message she had intended to deliver. A warning meant for Delia. It had been pushed to the side after the harrowing discovery of Master Orquell’s true nature. Laurelle clutched her throat, remembering what she had overheard while she hid in Brant’s room—whispers of accidents, misfortunes, directed toward Delia.

  Offered by this same captain of the guards.

  The one who now dogged Delia’s steps.

  Laurelle reached behind and grabbed Kytt’s arm. She tugged him forward.

  “What are you—?”

  “We’re going to need that handsome nose of yours again.”

  He allowed himself to be dragged along. “Handsome?”

  They dared not tarry.

  “Hurry.”

  She led him back to the stairs, careful that no eyes were staring too intently in their direction. Laurelle kept her back straight as if she belonged and was going about some urgent matter. She pasted a haughty look upon her features as she passed a guard by the main stair. She sighed with a ringing petulance toward Kytt.

  “Oh, please hurry, boy. We can’t keep my seamstress waiting.”

  She minced down the steps with feigned exasperation, Kytt in tow. Once out of direct view, she reached out and took his hand.

  “Let’s go.”

  They hurried down the flights until voices reached them from the lower landing. “I see no reason why this could not wait,” she heard Delia exclaim. “A drunk Hand is a matter for the guards to attend.”

  “It is one of your realm’s Hands, mistress. From Chrismferry. Master Munchcryden.” Sten sighed. “Mistress Liannora thought you’d prefer to avoid any embarrassment, especially for someone serving the fieldroom.”

  “How generous of her,” Delia commented.

  “Plus Master Munchcryden has specifically asked for you.”

  “Very well.”

  Laurelle knew how protective Delia was of the Hands left in her charge. And all knew Master Munchcryden’s disposition when it came to ale. It was a perfect excuse to lure Delia away for a few moments. A reasonable request. Then she could return to address the concerns raised by Laurelle.