Tent flaps beat a staccato rhythm against their support poles, wind howled through the gaps. Anything not tied down was liable to blow away. Yet somehow, everything remained standing against the gale winds, whether by a feat of engineering or magical influence, Rie didn’t know. But the two groups that had pushed past Rie and Daenor had already disappeared into the crowd of people bargaining for goods.
If Rie hadn’t felt claustrophobic in the tunnel, she did now. Too many people filled the space, too many voices, and too many goods on display. Fur and grain and vegetables, a stand of carved wooden furnishings, a table covered in cooking utensils, pots and pans . . . everything and anything you could possible want was available for the right price.
Greg pushed through the crowd, only rarely looking back to make sure Rie and Daenor stayed close. Rie was glad he knew where he was going, because she would quickly be lost without his guidance.
Guards were stationed throughout the market, watching the proceedings with cautious eyes. More guards stood at attention on the wall, their swords unsheathed but resting on their shoulders.
“Pretty,” Niinka chimed in Rie’s ear as they passed beneath a flawless ice arch and into the city proper. She had to agree. It looked like it had been formed of a single block of ice, not a seam or crack to be seen. Yet the ice had been carved into a decorative series of curved patterns, interspersed with diamond and star shapes that seemed reminiscent of abstract snowflakes.
Wanting to run her hand along the carvings and admire their artistry, Rie nearly missed seeing Garamaen turn down an alley between two single-story buildings. She and Daenor rushed to catch up.
“Don’t let the facade fool you,” Garamaen commented as they came up beside him. “The ice has a dark core of iron supporting the delicate crystal at the surface. The mountain can do its worst, and the walls will not crumble. An army could march on the city, and the buildings will not fall. It’s pretty to look at, but the frost sidhe aren’t delicate flowers.”
“Perhaps not, but they have some artists in their ranks,” Rie replied.
“Just don’t assume the artists aren’t also warriors. In the meantime, we’re being watched.”
“Followed is more like it,” Daenor said.
“I suggest we lose our tails, then,” Garamaen replied. “Stay close.”
Greg turned a corner, and another. Dashed across a street. Rie and Daenor hurried behind him. Though the city wasn’t massive, Rie had only visited it once, long ago, when she was still a high court messenger. Back then, she’d been able to follow the most direct path to the general’s residence, avoiding these back alleys and narrow winding streets. Now, they used the twisting pathways to hide their movements from the spies that followed.
As they traveled away from the main thoroughfare, the architecture began to change. Instead of the smooth and pristine ice halls with elegant archways and sparkling latticework, the buildings grew plain but functional, their decoration limited. The ice gave way to stone blocks, the smooth pavers to rough cobbles and then slush-covered dirt.
“This is the barbegazi district,” Garamaen explained, pausing in front of a squat gray stone building with wide front doors and a steep angled roof. Based on the window placement, the building appeared to be two stories tall, and yet it only rose as tall as the single-story building next to it. The front doors were barely big enough to let Rie through, let alone Daenor who stood another head taller. None of them would be able to stand upright.
Two half-sized men guarded the building on either side of the door, looking like the younger brothers of the visitor to Garamaen’s estate. They had the same white beards trimmed short and neat, and white wool hats and cloaks, though their most notable feature was the wide feet that had to be nearly as long as the men were tall.
Rie gaped. They were also barefoot. In the snow.
“What is this place?” Rie asked.
“We’ve arrived at the home of the barbegazi in the city, the representatives of the native mountain dwellers.”
Greg squared his shoulders, revealing nothing of his emotions except the momentary hesitation, then stepped forward into the street.
Immediately, the barbegazi turned their attention to the group. Unlike the frost sidhe guards at the portal, these men made their scrutiny obvious. Arrows notched in bows, points aimed at Greg’s toes.
Greg held up his hands in a show of peace. “I am Garamaen Sanyaro. Felman is expecting us.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THE RIGHT-HAND guard opened the wooden doors and spoke to someone inside. After a moment, both doors were pulled open, and the guards returned their arrows to their quivers.
“Welcome, Sanyaro. You’re expected.”
“Thank you.”
The closer Rie got to the building, the smaller it felt. “How are we supposed to fit in there?” she whispered.
“You kneel if you have to.” Greg’s tone turned grim. “We meet them on their terms. They have every right to demand justice, and I have a responsibility to give it.”
Rie’s eyebrows lifted, and she shot a worried glance at Daenor.
At the threshold of the building, Garamaen bent at the waist in what looked like a low bow. He pushed back his hood and duck-walked through the door. Rie followed, with Daenor close behind her.
Luckily, the room inside was larger than it appeared. Though they couldn’t stand completely upright, they didn’t have to crawl. Designed as a front parlor for receiving guests, the room was long and narrow, with two closed doors at the rear. The scent of meat stew wafted in from behind the door, a clatter of dishes signaling that it must be near time for a meal. Yet the long dining table had been pushed to one side of the room, and cushions set out around the hearth, where a small fire burned merrily on fresh wood.
A barbegazi woman, wearing basically the same outfit as the men outside but without the beard, offered to take their cloaks. Weighted down with the furs, she staggered over to a series of hooks next to the doors and hung them carefully on the wall. Longer than the barbegazi garments, the bottoms of the cloaks pooled on the floor, but at least they were out of the way.
Rie and Daenor settled into the cushions as Garamaen paced the room. Forced to keep his neck bent and head lowered to avoid hitting the exposed wood beams holding up the floor above, the movement didn’t look comfortable. Yet he strode purposefully from one end of the hall to the other, his expression troubled.
“Garamaen,” Rie hissed, using his formal name instead of his chosen Human Realm sobriquet since they were in the public eye, “sit down.”
It probably wasn’t the best idea to order her master to do something, but the pacing was distracting and quickly irritating her nerves. The fire was a warm relief from the blizzard outside. Couldn’t they just enjoy it, for a moment?
Garamaen glanced up at her. “Have you looked into the future since we arrived?”
Rie shook her head, then closed her eyes.
Nothing.
Rie gasped. Her gaze met Greg’s troubled eyes.
“Nothing,” he whispered. “Am I right?”
Rie nodded as Daenor’s hand came to rest on her knee. “What is it?”
“I can’t See anything anymore,” Rie replied, not taking her eyes off her mentor. “It’s as if the future is gone.”
Greg pursed his lips. “The wolves have hidden the future.”
A deep crease formed between Daenor’s brows. “Intentionally?”
Garamaen shook his head. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But whatever they’re involved in, our futures intersect. I can’t See any way around it.”
“You’re not alone, though. Not this time.”
The corner of Greg’s eye twitched, a hint of pain. “No. I’m not.”
Just then, one of the back doors opened. An elderly man shuffled through, leaning heavily on an intricately carved cane made out of what looked like bone or horn. He was flanked on either side by two younger warriors armed with staffs tipped with long knives. Rie would have calle
d them spears, except the blades at the top were too long and heavy for aerodynamic flight.
“Garamaen, you came.” The old man held out his right hand to grasp Greg’s fingers.
“As soon as we could gather our supplies. I need to hear it from you. What’s happened? How did he escape?”
The man shook his head, ignoring the questions as he found a seat on one of the smaller cushions, leaving the largest for Greg. He patted the wool, forcing Greg to sit or risk being impolite.
“My great-grandfather always said this would happen. He was never happy with your choice.”
“No, I gathered that, considering every time I checked in he would demand the location of the lair.”
“He would have killed Fenrir without hesitation, if he could have.”
“Given the wolf’s actions, I don’t entirely blame him, but I was unwilling to commit genocide.”
The old man waved his hand in the air weakly, shooing away the conversation. “Let’s not rehash the past. Let’s focus on the present, and the future. But first, would you mind introducing me to your companions?”
“Apologies. Of course. Felman, this is my heir and apprentice, Rie Lhethannien, and her chosen partner, Prince Daenor of the Shadow Realm.”
Bushy white eyebrows lifted above crystal blue eyes that yet retained their sharp perception. “Hmm, yes, a dark elf . . . but is there fire in his blood as well?”
“I am the grandson of Thanûr, King of the Summer Realm, as well as son of King Aradae,” Daenor replied.
“Ah. That must make family gatherings interesting.” Felman shifted on his seat, as if trying to mold the cushion to his old bones. “Then again, I heard of the Battle of the Arches. We barbegazi refused to follow the frost sidhe through the portal, but we would have just been in the way, regardless.”
Felman narrowed his eyes at Rie with a bemused smile. “And I hear you orchestrated the entire rout. Good for you.”
Rie dipped her head with a smile, but said nothing. She was proud of what she had done, and yet everyone except Felman had castigated her for the choices she had made. Still, she couldn’t believe she had been wrong.
But it was good to know there was no love lost between the high king and the barbegazi. She wondered at the political relationships between the species on this realm. She didn’t know much about it.
“Well now, these two strapping men are my son and grandson, Calder and Vegard. They will take over leadership after I’m gone, just as you, my dear, are learning your place in Garamaen’s shadow.”
“Tell me what’s happened,” Garamaen urged.
Felman turned toward Sanyaro, a twitch of his lips suggesting amused irritation. “Very well. The first attack occurred just a week ago. The Buodalr outpost was attacked in the night. The entire herd was killed. Not eaten, just slaughtered and left to freeze in the snow. The village had bedded down for the night, secure in the caves. No one was out on night watch. We haven’t needed one in twenty-two hundred years.”
“I warned you not to let your guard down. Not ever.”
“Yes, well, time and the passage of generations dulls our vigilance.”
Garamaen grimaced, his face twisting into a deep frown.
“Regardless, it was lucky that the villagers weren’t out. They salvaged what they could from the carcasses of their prized goats—which wasn’t much—and came down the mountain.”
“Then how do you know it was Fenrir?”
“Because he appeared on the second night. Demanded your presence, or he’ll destroy a village each week.”
“What?” Rie couldn’t help the outburst. This was ransom. Or blackmail. Or something.
The old man quirked an eyebrow at Rie and rubbed his thumb across the carving of a goat head at the top of his cane. “Given that Garamaen betrayed him and chained him in his own lair for what should have been the remainder of his natural life, it doesn’t seem entirely unjustified that he would want revenge on your master.”
“Perhaps not, but he should know better than to attack the villages. It’s how he got himself into this situation in the first place,” Garamaen replied.
“Which was also a consequence of the elves settlement. Let’s keep that in mind. There were generations of peace with the wolves before the elves arrived and the prey fled.”
Garamaen rubbed a hand across his face. “Have any other villages been affected yet?”
“The second attack happened three nights ago. The entire village was lost, save one young girl. She was sent here as a message for us. The wolf pack is hunting.”
CHAPTER FIVE
FELMAN MOTIONED TO his grandson to open the door. A girl, not yet in her maturity, shuffled into the room, her back hunched beneath the weight of a heavy knit blanket. Her hair hung loose, hiding her face from view. An older woman walked at her side, her arms wrapped around the girl’s shoulders as if she needed extra emotional support.
“Garamaen, I’d like you to meet Solvi, one of the consequences of your misplaced compassion.” Felman’s heavy-lidded gaze watched Rie’s master with intensity.
The girl came forward, urged on by her female companion. One eye was visible between the strands of white hair, the rest of her face hidden from view.
She looked up. The older woman pulled back the girl’s lank tresses with gentle fingers. Rie gasped.
Four deep gauges cut through the entire left side of the girl’s face, from hairline to jaw. Angry, red, and swollen, the split skin had scabbed over, but looked dangerously infected. Her left eye was sealed shut.
Or Rie thought it was. The girl managed to open the lid, revealing an empty socket beneath.
Her eye had been plucked out.
Rie couldn’t help lifting a hand to cover her mouth. The girl’s face was utterly destroyed. Rie had seen plenty of death and physical destruction in the Battle of the Arches, even the underwater bombings in the Summer Realm, but somehow this was worse. Seeing young skin marred by violence, a life forever damaged, was like a kick in the stomach.
A chitter of Pixl—the pixies’ native tongue—erupted from somewhere on the ceiling. Rie couldn’t risk a verbal response to the swarm’s apparent interest, but she hissed a wordless rebuke. They had all agreed that since the pixies couldn’t escape with their usual speed if events went awry, they would stay silent and hidden. They were supposed to remain with the cloaks and coats.
Clearly, they’d forgotten the rule as soon as they’d moved inside where it was warm enough to remove their cloaks without freezing. The opportunity to snoop would be irresistible, even for sensible Possn.
“Who did this to you?” Garamaen asked, drawing Rie’s attention back to the girl and the situation at hand.
“Wolves,” the girl croaked, her voice barely heard above the crackle of the flames.
“They came at dusk,” Felman supplied. “The entire pack, at least eight of them, and Fenrir was at their head.”
“But he must be too old to lead the pack. Surely one of his sons or grandsons is now pack leader.”
The girl shook her head. “It was Fenrir. He told us so.”
“But just because he said that, doesn’t mean it’s true. This could be a copycat. Or one of the cubs was named Fenrir in his honor.”
“It’s a stretch . . . but, since you never told us the location of his lair, I suppose we can’t confirm that.”
Rie duck-walked forward to the girl. She flinched but allowed Rie to turn her chin to the side, to better see the wounds. Careful to keep her fingers gentle, and her voice soft, she addressed Solvi directly.
“You were the only survivor?”
Solvi swallowed and nodded. A thick tear slid out of the corner of her remaining eye. “He ordered me here, to tell everyone. He said it was time for Garamaen to pay his due.”
“Well, I’m here.” Garamaen’s voice was low and intense, fire leaching into his words.
Rie maintained eye contact with the girl. “You are brave. You are a survivor.”
Solvi
dipped her chin, but her lips trembled, holding back the sobs that Rie was sure threatened to come out. This girl had lost everything. Her entire family. It was only right that she should want to wallow in her grief. She should be given that time. But while only time would heal the emotional scars, they could at least reduce her physical pain.
“Do you think Éostre would come to tend her wounds?” Rie asked. “She might even be able to prevent scarring on her cheek.”
It was a small thing, but no one wanted to be viewed with pity or shock for the rest of their lives. And the face was such a large visible area, there was no hope of hiding the damage.
“No,” Solvi replied, shaking her head and stepping away from Rie’s touch. A core of steel had straightened her spine. “I honor my family with these scars.”
Garamaen cocked his head to the side, examining the girl from a new angle. “Does your head feel fuzzy? Are you having a hard time concentrating, or using your magic?”
Solvi’s eyebrows angled downward. “How did you know?”
Garamaen took a deep breath, his expression grim. “Fenrir’s bite can strip you of your magic, perhaps even the will to live. I’ve experienced the effects first hand.” He held up the stub of his right wrist. “Luckily, my wife was able to cure my wounds, and she taught me much of her trade. I will need a few ingredients, though. They should be available from the spice merchant.”
The girl looked uncertain, glancing at her leader for advice.
“The choice is yours,” Felman said. “Garamaen owes us much more than this, but if he can end your suffering, I would accept the healing.”
Solvi hesitated, her gaze darting from one face to another, but finally relented. Given how much heat had radiated off her skin, Rie knew her cheek had to be throbbing in pain. And if her magic was also affected . . . she must be feeling like a useless failure, a drain on her family and clan. Rie would.
Sanyare: The Winter Warrior (The Sanyare Chronicles Book 4) Page 3
