by K. C. Julius
On the sixth day of the journey, they passed through a dense forest. As the light began to wane, Sir Cord said, “When we reach the base of the mountain, we’ll make camp. It’s surely only a few miles ahead.”
The trees thinned to offer a wide panorama of a valley not far below. Winter had robbed the land of any hint of green, and wisps of eerie mist drifted over the pale fields. Maura noted with regret that the region looked entirely uninhabited.
She was put on her guard that evening when Sir Cord sanctioned a small barrel of ale to be tapped. The men’s cheeks grew ruddy as they drank, their language coarser by the glass. They continued to ignore her, but she knew that ale and isolation could be a dangerous combination. As she gazed at the cold stars wheeling overhead, she slipped her hand inside the pocket of her kirtle and curled her fingers around the handle of the knife concealed there. She vowed not to sleep until the others did, but the fire’s warmth made her drowsy.
A shuffling sound made her bolt up with a start. The man continued past, and she heard the sound of hissing water with relief.
After he stumbled back to the fire, one of the soldiers muttered, “Cord says it’s another two days’ ride ’til we head back south. I’ll be glad to be shut of this drear place. I’ve a bonny warm lass waitin’ fer me in Drinnkastel.” He let out a long, low belch. “This whole expedition’s been right queer. What makes the maid yonder so dear as to warrant an official escort? It’s clear she’s naught but a country lass, as well-spoke as she may be.”
“Shhh!” hissed his companion. “Have a care! If Cord hears ye, he’ll have more than a few strips off yer hide!”
“Aye,” said the first speaker, “but he’s out like a snuffed candle, inn’t he? And so’s the girl. I wonder where we’re takin’ ’er, and what she’s worth to them on the Tor of Brenhinoedd?”
Brenhinoedd, Maura thought. Where the great city of Drinnkastel lies, home of the High King. What interest could anyone there possibly have in me?
“Aye, she’s a well-off country lass with a fine lapin cloak, she is. Ye seen her father’s great farm when the mother put us on the girl’s trail. Now she had as fair a face as ’er daughter, I reckon.”
His companion grunted a crude reply before adding, “Well, the barrel’s drained to the last drop. Let’s to our slumbers, lad.”
Before long the soldiers’ snores whistled in the still air. Only Maura lay wide-eyed and wakeful, grimly contemplating what sort of monster would abet her own daughter’s abduction.
* * *
The following morning, they continued across the wide expanse of misted plain. Unable to restrain herself, Maura spurred forward to ride abreast of the leader.
“May I have a word, Sir Cord?” she asked politely.
The grey-haired knight gave her a shrewd look. “Of course you may,” he said, “but I’m no more able to answer your questions today than I was yesterday.”
“I understand,” replied Maura evenly, “but perhaps you can at least tell me when we’ll reach our journey’s end?”
“I see no harm in answering that,” he allowed. “We should arrive at our destination the day after tomorrow.”
This confirmed what the men had disclosed the previous night. “And may I ask what happens then?” Maura edged Winnie ahead so as to read the knight’s expression.
But Sir Cord’s features remained carefully neutral. “You may ask, mistress, but alas, I’m not at liberty to say.”
And with that, he urged his horse forward, leaving Maura once again with a view of his uncommunicative back.
* * *
The rest of that day and the following dragged by slowly, filled with long hours of riding. Maura sat rigidly on Winnie’s swaying back as they crossed the pallid land, thinking bitter thoughts about her mother.
When the company halted for the final night of its journey, Maura went to her bedroll before supper was prepared, so despondent had she become. Yet when the grey dawn once more edged over the horizon, she was almost glad. Her fate, whatever it might be, was at hand.
As they trotted out, her escort surrounded her in silence. The rising wind swayed the dried grasses, bending them to its whim, and the lowering clouds made the fields appear dusted with ash. Errant shreds of pale mist drifted past like lost spirits, and a veil of foreboding crept over Maura, the very air weighing her down. The occasional screech of an unseen hawk hovering above the clouds was the only sign of life in this somber world.
Just before the light faded, a towering pillar loomed in the distance. Without knowing how, Maura recognized this as their terminus. As if to confirm it, Sir Cord pressed his steed into a gallop, and the others spurred their mounts to keep pace with him. When at last they reined in before the monolith, Maura’s teeth were chattering.
She had never before seen a standing stone, but she had heard dark tales of sacrifice and malevolent rituals performed in their shadows. Am I to be murdered here? she wondered. She turned to Sir Cord, half-expecting to see the glint of his drawn sword, but the blade was still in its scabbard.
“If you please, mistress,” he said, “you will dismount.” The knight’s expression was unfathomable.
And if I don’t please? thought Maura. But she slid off Winnie’s back.
She stroked the bay’s soft nose with trembling hands as Sir Cord ordered her saddlebag removed and placed on the road beside her. It seemed they didn’t intend to kill her outright, although the knowledge brought her small comfort.
Sir Cord reached into his pack and drew something bright from its depths. Maura took a step backward, but then saw it was not a blade but a finely wrought silver horn. He raised it to his lips, and a long, clear note shivered in the air. The unearthly sound filled Maura’s heart with unexpected light.
The knight, however, appeared unmoved by the beauty of the horn’s tenor. Incredibly, he leaned down and held it out to Maura.
“You’re to return this,” he said.
One of the men took hold of Winnie’s bridle, and as the reins slipped from Maura’s hand, she felt the last link with her known world go with them. One by one the men turned and cantered away in the direction from which they’d come.
The last to leave was Sir Cord. She wasn’t at all encouraged to see a hint of apology in his eyes. “My instructions are that you are to wait here,” he said, and then he wheeled his horse to follow his men.
Maura watched the riders until they were mere specks in the distance, their cloaks like tiny kites flying in their wake. It was only after they disappeared that she turned and raised her gaze warily to the massive stone towering above her. Its surface was etched with weathered lines, but there was no message for her there. If the markings were runes, they were none she could read.
The wind sighed and riffled the pale chaff. She tried to recall any tales she’d ever heard about these pillars. The only one she could remember was of Lena and Lors, two children who’d been sent by their evil stepmother into the woods, where they came to a standing stone and were turned into wolves. Well, if that’s what to become of me, she thought, I’ll make sure to go back to Fernsehn and show Mother my new teeth.
A heavy fog was rolling toward her from the east. She waited for whatever was coming with it, her chin lifted in defiance, the silver horn grasped in her hand.
Just before the cloud engulfed her, a gust of wind nearly bowled her over with a deafening howl of fury. She spun around in terror as the thunderous roar assailed her, somehow growing in magnitude, and pressed her hands to her ears. Belatedly, she realized the roar was descending from above.
She lifted her eyes to see a massive piece of mottled sky plummeting toward her. In an instant it was upon her, striking her violently to the ground, driving all breath from her lungs, so that she had none left to scream her agony as the dragon’s talon lanced her heart.
* * *
Maura lay still, luxuriatin
g in golden light. The bed in which she rested was soft and wide. She felt fragile, as though she were recovering from a long illness.
Turning her head on the pillow, she met the kindly grey eyes of a stranger sitting at her bedside.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
The old man’s face creased into a thousand wrinkles. “Ah, you are back with us!” He inclined his head politely. “My name is Master Morgan, Maura. You had… an incident, but all is now well.”
Over Master Morgan’s shoulder, a boy around Dal’s age grinned at her, his pointed ears peeking out of his jet-black hair. “Hello!” he said brightly, his dark eyes merry. “I’m Leif. Welcome to Mithralyn!”
Chapter 16
Halla
Halla leaned out over the turret. Her brothers were hard at practice on the training grounds below, their wooden weapons making great echoing thwacks as they engaged in swordplay.
“Tempo, Master Nolan!” ordered Draylan, the swordmaster. “Gray, mind Lessor’s reach! If he were your real enemy, he’d have sliced through you like Dame Bertie’s butterloaf! And that’s more like it, Pearce. Your balance and footwork gave you the advantage on that last advance!”
Halla could tell from their grunts they’d been at it for some time. Her own muscles ached from her earlier sparring session. She knew Draylan pushed her harder than her younger brothers, and she appreciated it. It was a sign of his respect, despite her gender. He was one of the few who understood how she chafed under the restrictions placed on her just because she was a girl. And these would likely increase when she marked her sixteenth birthday in the coming week.
Not that anyone, including Halla, felt like celebrating, with the sudden death of her father still painfully fresh on everyone’s mind. Lord Valen of Lorendale had suffered a fatal accident when his horse stumbled and threw him. According to the knights riding with him, he broke his neck upon impact with the ground and died instantly. Halla still couldn’t believe he was gone.
Everyone at Lorendale seemed to be in a state of shock. Halla’s mother had barely left her chambers since her husband’s body had been borne home. Lady Inis had been deeply devoted to him, and Halla’s heart ached to see her mother’s lovely face transformed by grief. Pearce, Halla’s youngest brother, cried himself to sleep every night, and the older boys were solemn. For once, she missed their teasing banter.
Indeed, laughter had faded from the halls altogether. The servants were equally grave as they went about their chores, whether changing the linen or laying out the cold dishes required for the bereavement period.
That was, in fact, what had driven Halla to climb the west turret—to seek refuge from the mournful faces all around her. It was the highest of the four towers of Lorendale Castle, and seldom visited because of its grisly history. Seventeen laborers had lost their lives raising it, and their deaths had led many to whisper of ancient curses.
Of course, no one had dared speak of these fears in her father’s presence. Lord Valen had no forbearance for such “rubbish,” as he had declared all things mystical. He’d had little tolerance for ignorance in general, as had his father before him. It was Halla’s grandfather, Lord Garron, who’d insisted upon schooling for all children of his kingdom until the age of ten, so they could read and learn the rudiments of calculation. While most of the villagers had gratefully accepted the opportunity for their sons to improve themselves, it had taken an act of law—and often some show of force—to get them to allow their daughters to learn skills considered by most to be of no use to future child-bearers and hearth-tenders.
“Fillin’ my Glendi’s head with flapdoodle, that school is,” Halla once overheard Marny complain as she rattled her pots. “No need for learnin’ girls to read and such!” The cook blazed red when she spotted Halla in the doorway. “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady,” she murmured, turning hastily to her stew.
Halla’s own cheeks burned at the memory, for despite her father’s views on the importance of education for the female offspring of his tenants, Halla herself had been made to feel suddenly redundant once her brother Nolan was out of clouts. Unlike most noble lines, including the High King’s, Lorendale’s title passed only through male issue. And with the arrival of Nolan and then Gray and Pearce, Lord Valen must have seen no reason to amend this tradition. Once the eldest of her brothers was out of the nursery, their father’s attention had shifted to him.
She remembered as if it were yesterday the morning she’d run into the courtyard to see her father passing out through the archway with Nolan, who was seated on the sturdy pony she’d spent patient hours teaching him to ride.
Halla’s horse hadn’t been saddled.
When she’d demanded to know why, the stable boy replied, “Lord Valen informed me that Master Nolan will make rounds with him from now on.”
While Father had continued to inquire politely about Halla’s studies and to express his approval when she commented insightfully on some aspect of the vast estate’s management, the proud light that she’d once lit in his eyes now blazed only for his sons. The precious moments Halla had previously spent alone in her father’s company—riding out with him at dawn, walking through the estate, sparring with him in the yard—were taken up by her siblings.
She felt like she’d lost him long ago.
When she turned thirteen, her mother decreed that Halla would henceforth come under her sole authority, in order that she be properly prepared for a future befitting a lady of noble birth. Halla would have much preferred to avoid the fashion fripperies and tedious social events, but it was only by submitting to them that she was granted her mother’s grudging permission to continue with her tutors and her training at arms. She suspected that now that her father was gone, these would be denied her.
Here on the ramparts, she found solace in the broad fields of her beloved Lorendale, carpeted now in fawn and umber. The scything was long since completed, the sheaves put up in the granary to be threshed and winnowed over the winter months. Nestled in the heart of the Brandis Vale, the fertile land was bordered by the Tarwen Downs, the Lord’s Wood to the west, and the Old Fyrnrae forests that stretched all the way to the highlands of Karan-Rhad in the south. Her father had always called Lorendale the crowning gem of Drinnglennin, a haven of rolling meadows and nourishing rivulets. In a land of such abundance, the rumors of impending famine in other realms were hard to believe. Their own estate had reaped a bountiful harvest this year, for they’d been spared the heavy rainfall and flooding that had deluged Cardenstowe to the west.
Halla’s gaze swept to the Lord’s Wood, where she hoped a hidden camp still lay. It had been two weeks since she’d last ridden that way, and although the å Livåri were too cunning to allow their woodsmoke to be seen, she felt a gnawing worry that perhaps they had already moved on to the south. If they had, she wouldn’t see Bria again until spring. Halla hadn’t yet told her secret friends about her father’s passing, but she suspected they knew; the å Livåri were always abreast of events, shunned though they were by the locals.
The sound of Pearce’s laughter signaled the end of her brothers’ training. The evening meal would follow within the hour. Still Halla lingered to savor the view as the setting sun cast its golden glow over the scythed fields.
From the west, in stark contrast to the mellow light of the sunset, a mass of black clouds advanced, heralding a storm. Turning reluctantly away, Halla made for the stairway and began her descent as the dark billows sailed toward Lorendale like harbingers of doom.
* * *
By the time Halla slipped into her place across the board from her mother, the court was already on to the fish course. It was still a shock to see Nolan seated at the head of the table where her father should have been. Her brother was three years her junior, but he held himself erect in his high seat as if ever mindful of his new station in life. Gray and Pearce, eleven and nine respectively, sat opposite Halla. Gray was
bent to his plate, but Pearce gave her a cheery smile as she murmured an apology for her tardiness.
“What kept you, daughter?” asked their mother, a slight frown creasing her fair brow.
Gray’s disdainful gaze swept over his sister. “Perhaps a wardrobe dilemma,” he suggested.
Halla felt her face flush. She hadn’t bothered to dress for dinner, and her mother was now eying her plain shift and beige woolen overdress with disapproval. Damn Gray for drawing attention to it. She shot him a scathing look, to which he responded with a sneer.
“I struck Grennin five blows today!” Pearce waved his knife exuberantly, and Halla was grateful when their mother’s consideration shifted to her youngest son.
“You’re definitely improving in your swordplay, brother,” Nolan said. He spoke with deliberation, as though weighing each word.
It’s a pity, Halla thought, that he’s had the authority of rule thrust upon him so young.
Gray glowered. “What about me?” he demanded.
“I heard,” said Halla lightly, “that if you were a loaf of bread, you’d be scattered to the birds by now.”
Pearce laughed, but Gray narrowed his eyes. He’ll make me pay for that, she thought.
But she felt no regret for the barb. Of her three brothers, Gray was her least favorite. He was far too quick-witted and sharp-tongued for his age, and though he idolized his older brother, he only tolerated Pearce because it was Nolan’s wish that he do so. His relationship with Halla was blatantly resentful, and she suspected this was because Nolan looked up to her.
Halla was fond of Nolan, a diligent and dutiful lad. He would make a fair, if not brilliant, Lord of Lorendale. But Pearce, a high-spirited bundle of boy with natural charm, was her favorite, and the darling of their court.
She felt a familiar pang of envy when she considered her brothers’ futures in comparison to her own. Nolan would serve as Lord of Lorendale, with their mother as his regent until he came of age. Gray and Pearce would be apprenticed out to other noble houses of Drinnglennin when they reached their thirteenth years. After they had completed three years’ service to their adoptive lords, they would be introduced to the High Court at Drinnkastel. If they found favor with their king and kinsmen, they might, in time, be granted their own lands and titles.
