The fortress walls were built nearly flat against the steep mountainside and of the same rocks. They seemed to grow from the slope. Narrow slits served as windows, behind which were barely discernible flickers of movement. Strangely, Brastigan saw no movement at all along the battlements.
Nor was there any hail from the walls, though the riders must have been well in sight. Every step of a mule's hoof on the cobbles grated loud in the chilly silence. Those small sounds echoed from the ramparts as they approached the gate. The stones were roughly finished, with patches of mortar sticking out in many places. A part of Brastigan scorned the poor workmanship. Attackers could climb right up that wall. The gate was secured by a door of thick planks stained dark with oil or tar for weatherproofing.
The column of mounted men halted when they drew near enough to smell the tar. The mountain stillness quickly became oppressive.
The hawk had been sitting on the peak of one tower, watching their progress. Now, it swooped down to resume its perch on Lottres's shoulder. As if that gave him courage, Lottres hailed the walls. His voice sounded thin and small in the open air.
“If there's nobody here, I guess we can all go home,” Brastigan quipped.
Javes chuckled nervously behind him. Lottres hailed again. The falcon added an imperious shriek of its own.
No human voice came in reply, but a low steely groan. Stout chains became visible as the gate lowered away from them. There were murmurs of relief along the line and the men kicked their mules forward. As the riders passed beneath the portal and through the thick wall, a second gate sank before them. The two gates joined to make a bridge over a startling gulf. A deep trench lay between the wall and mountainside, half filled with musty dark water. Hooves thumping on the planks drew faint echoes from the depths.
“No wonder they call it Hawkwing House,” Brastigan muttered. “You'd need wings to get in.”
Javes chuckled again. “Not quite what it seems from the outside, is it?”
Brastigan grunted dourly. As they crossed the drawbridge, he could see wooden platforms braced against the inner wall. The walkways extended from the two towers to barred doors in the cliff. The center lay bare, and this explained the lack of movement there. Any invader who succeeded in scaling the barrier would find no footing, but a long drop into the moat. Even the walkways had drawbridges operated from within, meaning the towers' defenders could be cut off if an enemy overwhelmed them. It was a ruthless strategy, and it made him wonder.
“Yes, but what are they so worried about?” Brastigan muttered back at Javes. “This place is pretty remote. Who is there to be afraid of?”
“Sillets?” Javes replied cautiously. “Look—the walls are old, but the platforms are new.”
Indeed, the stones were weathered and crusted with lichen, but the wood was fresh and bright. On the tower platforms, men worked in pairs to turn the cranks that lowered the gate. Or, were they men? Brastigan turned sharply in the saddle, drawing a snort of protest from his wooly steed. He focused his gaze on one figure in a stiff leather jerkin with a full skirt below it. A round leather cap crowned a head of long, black hair. The bulky garments hid everything, yet concealed nothing.
“Your highness?” Javes inquired.
Brastigan answered, “Those aren't men.”
Now Javes turned, too. Brastigan kept his eyes fixed, just to be sure. That was no man—it was a woman dressed for war. She held a short bow, loosely drawn in case of trouble, and over her shoulder a bristling bundle of arrows in a quiver. Her feet were set as if she knew exactly how to use these weapons.
“They aren't Cruthan, either,” Javes said.
Brastigan had just realized the same thing. The sheet of hair wasn't blonde, but dark as night. These were Urulai women. Brastigan rode with his head turned, staring, until a pain in his neck forced him to sit straight and face the gloomy entrance.
Passing that portal, the riders were forced to halt, for darkness fell on them like a black cloak. Daylight, fading as the door rose behind them, showed the outlines of a spacious chamber. Shadows suggested a ledge above them where more archers might perch. Arched portals led onward from three sides, but there wasn't enough light to see the way ahead.
A bleak welcome, indeed. Mutters around Brastigan told him the other men liked this no more than he did. Their distress, after they had blindly followed Lottres here, annoyed him.
“Quiet,” Brastigan snapped. His voice rang more loudly than he intended. Startled, his mule shuffled beneath him.
Brastigan shut his eyes and breathed in. The air had a heavy texture, an herbal scent he didn't recognize spiced with body odors and wood smoke.
Before he became completely disoriented, there was a rustle of clothing and the soft patter of footfalls. Then came a flickering light. Slender shapes in dark clothing filed into the chamber from the arched portal in front of the riders. Some bore tall poles mounted with carved deer antlers. Upon these, pale candles shed the mellow scent of beeswax. Faces sprang out, ghostly in the dim light: fair skinned women, dark eyed and unsmiling. Yet they didn't wear the dull gaze of servitors. Rather, they were wary and alert.
These ones didn't carry weapons, but the wavering lights picked out gleams from beads of jade or bone woven into their sable hair. Their dresses were plain and loose, a uniform brown in color. They weren't linen or wool, but a supple leather. Tanned elk hide, Brastigan guessed. Four of the women had tied on aprons of a crude weaving, like cheesecloth. These had about them the stench of manure, as Brastigan could smell when one came to take his mule's reins.
There was no word of welcome, but Lottres's confidence seemed buoyed by the falcon on his shoulder. Still astride his mule, he declared, “We are the sons of King Unferth, summoned from Crutham by the Lady of Hawkwing House.”
One of the candle-bearers replied, “She tell us you come at this house. You follow now.”
It was hard to understand such broken grammar, yet the sound of her voice stirred Brastigan's memory. Come at instead of come to—Joal had always said it the same way. They were Urulai.
Lottres seized on the scanty invitation and swung out of the saddle. The others did likewise, Brastigan last of all. The rustle of armor made the women step back, as if they had never heard such a sound. Noting their reaction, Lottres removed his helmet, showing a human face beneath helm-matted curls.
Now that they were all afoot, the eyes of the silent women were even with most of the men's. Though not quite to Brastigan's height, they shared his lanky frame. Unaccountably, he felt a tightness in his chest.
The mules were led off, and the men followed their guides through a warren of chambers where echoes of creaking harness sounded like whispering voices. The walls were plastered, concealing the stone beneath. Some of these were covered in mosaics of colored pebbles. It was hard to make out the subjects, since the women walked quickly, but once Brastigan glimpsed something much like the snowflake on his mother's pendant.
The transit offered a few glimpses of people in the chambers as they passed. There were women, and occasionally children, but nowhere did Brastigan see a boy over the age of twelve.
He considered that as they walked. Where were the men? Why were the Urulai in this place of witchery, rather than in Crutham? And why did women hold the walls? It seemed a bizarre thing. Joal had never told him of any such custom among their people.
They followed their guides to a ramp sloping upward in a tight spiral, and emerged into a rounded chamber with a high center. There was more light here, enough to make the men blink and rub their eyes. No plaster or pebbles adorned these walls. Rather, veins of some mineral glinted from the domed ceiling above, as if they stood beneath unearthly skies. The unknown, herbal scent was now very strong.
Candles glimmered where carved antlers stood in brackets shaped to hold them, but most of the light came from a raised hearth at the far end of the room. Brastigan had seen such hearths before, in peasant huts on the plains. This one was narrower and taller than he re
called, and set within an oval niche. Squinting past the fire's glare, Brastigan could see yet another female seated within the alcove, her waist at a level with the flames.
The candle-bearers stopped a few feet away, and the men halted behind them. The woman who had first spoken murmured something softly, in Urulai, but the seated woman was already rising.
She seemed to be another Urulai, clad in a brown leather dress, but her garment was stitched with some shiny stuff, and she wore a fabulous headdress of two great, twisted dragon horns. Sheer veils fell behind it and passed beneath her chin. Those horns and her night-dark hair were draped with beads and fine chains that winked as she moved. She had an angular face, not beautiful but arresting. Her eyes were the deep gray of wet slate.
“Welcome.” Her voice was deep for a woman's, and her Cruthan was perfect. Like her attendants she gave no smile of greeting, but remained stern and calm. “I am Yriatt, mistress of Hawkwing House.”
Eagerly, Lottres began, “I am Lottres of Crutham, and...”
The woman interrupted his fawning. “I know.”
She raised her hand, and the falcon flew to her. It was a regal gesture, yet unaffected. Brastigan thought Alustra would have been jealous. Yriatt stroked the falcon briefly, and it bent its fierce head to her caress.
She murmured something to her attendants in Urulai. The women withdrew, making no obeisance and yet showing the deepest reverence. It was just as they had done with Leithan, Brastigan remembered. As feet whispered out of the room, the sorceress brushed past the Cruthans, striding to an antler perch where the falcon debarked.
The armed men shifted, looking to Lottres, but he stood mute, silenced. The younger prince regarded the witch with the stunned gaze of a man who has just had his first sight of the most beautiful lady in the land. A hot surge of irritation roiled in Brastigan's stomach. He had been careful, these past days, not to say what he was thinking or do anything that might be taken as hindering his brother's mad pursuit, but this cowed silence was more than enough.
Yriatt turned back toward them, and Brastigan stepped out to meet her. His helmet was braced on his hip, and his demi-greaves made a sound like the snap of a whip.
“Well, what do you want?”
Brastigan couldn't see Lottres's face, but he heard a choking noise from that direction. He stood straight and stiff, making a conscious effort to keep his sword hand away from Victory. The witch ran her dark eyes appraisingly up his long form. Then she had the nerve to laugh at him.
“You're her son, I see,” the witch replied wryly.
She must mean Leithan, so many years dead. Through gritted teeth, Brastigan demanded, “How would you know?”
Yriatt was no longer smiling. Almost tenderly, she said, “I ought to know. She was my sister.”
Now it was Brastigan's turn to stand dumb, horrified to think he had any blood tie with this witch-woman. Over her shoulder, the falcon on its perch seemed to be sneering, and there was a hissing gasp from Lottres. The fury in Brastigan's stomach turned to nausea. He felt he must force himself to breathe.
Yriatt moved past him, her veils wafting behind. Brastigan turned to watch, for he wouldn't take his eyes off the witch. When she drew even with Lottres, she paused.
“You must be my eavesdropper,” she remarked.
“I didn't mean to...” Lottres began. Then he drew himself up. “But yes, I did.”
Yriatt tilted her head, and beads tapped against the horns of her headdress. Sharply, she asked, “Eben sent you to me?”
“Yes.” Lottres's voice was oddly steady, now.
The witch permitted herself a meager smile. “He chose wisely.”
Brastigan had a sick suspicion what she meant by that, for Lottres looked happy enough to swoon. Then Yriatt turned again, with an abruptness Brastigan suspected was calculated to unnerve them.
“As to your question,” she said to the whole of them, “you will accompany me on a further journey.”
“I thought we were to do your will here.” Brastigan scarcely recognized his own choked voice.
Lottres sharply countered, “We will do whatever she asks of us!”
Their gazes caught again in a ferocious exchange. Lottres glared, as if to reclaim dominance from his brother. Or as if, maybe, he was jealous of Brastigan's kinship with Yriatt. Well, Brastigan was done with giving way before his foolish brother. He held his dark eyes steady.
Yriatt ignored their sparring. “All changes, does it not?” Her dry words didn't truly make a question. “The task I had for you is pointless. I believed Sillets was preparing to invade. You were to spy out the country and confirm it.” She shrugged with a tinkling of baubles. “But we know that, now.”
Finally, Lottres broke his angry stare to look at Yriatt. “Then you don't need us?” His expression was strained.
In the next moment Brastigan demanded, “If you knew Sillets was getting ready for war, why didn't you tell our father?” The task she mentioned didn't seem to match with the safe haven the king had intended.
“I told Eben,” she answered, “which amounts to the same thing. If Unferth didn't share the knowledge, that's between him and you.”
Brastigan felt his hackles rise, to hear his father's name spoken in such a casual way. Yriatt turned back to Lottres. “Fear not, young man. We shall be in company for some while. Now that Sillets has moved, another task has become far more urgent. But you and your men have traveled far already. You must be tired and hungry. Rest now, and refresh yourselves. We will speak again at supper.”
* * *
An hour later, Brastigan was still fuming at the abrupt dismissal. They were men of Crutham and owed no allegiance to Hawkwing House, yet Yriatt spoke to them like lackeys. Now she had some other errand for them, but could she say plainly what it was? Oh, no. She had to surprise them at dinner.
And she claimed to be his mother's sister. Brastigan blew out a harsh breath. No, he refused to believe it. No kin of his would ever wear such a ridiculous hat.
The bath was a long, narrow chamber, half of it occupied by a shallow pool. Brastigan was seated on a cut-rock bench, water lapping at his ribs as he picked the largest twigs out of his hair. The water was tepid, thanks to baskets of heated rocks the silent women had dumped into the pool. Steam lingered from the simple technique.
The women had also provided modesty towels of their loosely woven cloth. These fit properly, so there must have been men in the settlement at one time. Brastigan still wanted to know where they were. Behind him, he could hear clanks and thumps as the soldiers helped each other out of harness. Chairs made of what looked like bent branches groaned beneath the weight of chainmail hauberks. Sweat-soaked gambesons added a tang to the air.
Brastigan glanced aside, where his brother was just entering the pool. He caught the end of a resentful glance, but no word of greeting. Well, Brastigan wouldn't beg for company. His brother, grandly ignoring him, ducked completely under the water.
The dark prince picked up a rag and a bit of soap that looked like it had been hacked off a larger block. The lather carried a now familiar herbal scent. Maybe it was a flea repellent, like the herbs they burned in Crutham. Maybe it was the only herb that grew in these high peaks. Whatever, the soap cleaned his hair well enough.
He had scrubbed his body and was trying to reach his back when someone sat down beside him. Pikarus. Saying nothing, the soldier took the soapy cloth from Brastigan's hand and began to wash his back. Brastigan sat silently, enduring the vigorous rubbing only because it felt so good.
“Are you all right?” the soldier asked in a low voice.
Maybe he thought to make amends for supporting Lottres against Brastigan's wishes. Well, Brastigan was in no mood to be appeased. Pikarus was no better than Yriatt, keeping secrets as he did.
“Of course,” Brastigan lied airily. “I got my bath. I'm perfectly happy.”
He spoke loudly, goading his brother, but Lottres didn't respond. Pretending nothing was amiss, Pikarus said, “H
ow about that mural?”
Brastigan frowned through gauzy wisps of steam at a mosaic on the opposite wall. On the left hand side, three strangely elongated human figures stood with arms raised. On their heads were twisting horns, like those Yriatt decked herself with. No features or expression were discernible. Facing them on the right hand side was a huge, dark form. A dragon, legendary scourge of these mountains. Flames wreathed its head, outlining dagger-like teeth, spines, claws. On its head, too, were the great, twisted horns.
“I wonder what it means,” Pikarus mused.
“They dance with dragons?” was Brastigan's scathing suggestion.
Looking at the mosaic, he considered the horns Yriatt sported on her headdress. Wearing them might be a kind of boast. No housebound mumbler would obtain such ornaments. Winning those would take guts, and real power.
Ironically, there was nothing especially magical about Hawkwing House so far. It was foreign, yes, but ordinary candles lit the halls and the folk within seemed to be flesh and blood. The prosaic setting must be a disappointment to Lottres.
More men were in the water now, voices running together as they rid themselves of the accumulated grime from the journey. Even through the echoes, Brastigan heard a sloosh of falling water. He turned in time to see Lottres rise from the pool and drip his way over to a chair stacked high with towels. Lottres wrapped one of these around his narrow chest as he left the chamber.
Frowning, Brastigan gathered himself, but Pikarus laid a hand on his shoulder. “He has to walk his own road,” the soldier said.
Brastigan turned, fast enough to break Pikarus's grip. His hands tightened into fists. “Not around here, he won't,” he answered, hotly enough to warm the bath water. “I don't want anyone wandering off by themselves. We stay together, and that goes for every one of us.”
There was an awkward silence. While the men were trying to pretend they hadn't heard his angry words, Brastigan felt how cold the water was getting. He stood up and yanked a towel from the stack. Lottres might be a prince, but he didn't need a bunch of lackeys to coddle him and agree with all he said. He needed someone to talk sense, and that was what Brastigan planned to do.
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