The Commander’s mask of detachment reclaimed his face. “Thank you for your time, Hero. We will make you aware of our decision in the morn.”
The room erupted with angry queries. The priests had many more questions, and Traven had much more to say, but the Commander was adamant.
“This is not about the facts, gentlemen. This is about what is best for our town, and this man cannot help us with that quandary.”
Ignoring the agitated priests, the Commander escorted him from the room. Traven was ready to demand an explanation, but the Commander was quicker.
“Again, thank you, Traven. One of my men will escort you to Hammond’s Inn. I think you will find it quite comfortable.”
The older man turned as if he were going back into the map room, then hesitated. His tone was quieter and the edge of lips softened. “Get some food and sleep beneath your belt tonight, for tomorrow you will be overrun with social engagements.”
“But —”
“I have already taken the initiative and accepted an invitation to the Sewing Circle’s monthly tea. I hope I was not too forward, but I thought you might want to ply the town’s wives before you took on the Guilds.”
“Of course I will attend whatever occasion you think proper, but —”
“Good, good. I’m sure Master Hammond will treat you well at the Inn.”
With that, the Commander turned on his heel and retreated back into the room. As soon as the door shut, armed guards hustled him down the hallway. Traven was too stunned to resist.
What was the Commander thinking? Had the old man already made up his mind before Traven gave his speech? Had Traven misjudged the Commander so badly?
***
Crystalia tried to catch her breath. She vacillated between holding it far too long and hyperventilating. It would not be seemly for her to faint when she saw the stranger again.
“Will they never let him out?” Viola whined next to her, echoing her own thoughts.
A sudden fear clutched Crystalia. What if they had arrested him? What if they had thrown him into one of those awful jail cells? To imagine a being of his purity and beauty, caged like an animal, put gashes across her heart. If only she could see him again, to burn forever his visage upon her mind’s eye.
“He’s coming,” someone shouted from further down the street. The cobblestones were lined with bystanders. Young and old had gathered to spy upon the stranger and hear what news he bore.
Crystalia’s breath quickened again, but she knew not to get too excited. There had been several false alarms through the evening. Any little stir in the garrison was interpreted as the stranger’s arrival. But so far, it had only been the changing of the guard and one of the garrison’s cooks coming to let water. Each time it had been horribly disappointing. And this alarm looked to be no exception. It was just a pageboy running messages. Looking up at the sky, Crystalia began to worry. They had been out here for what seemed like hours. Her father would be getting hungry and more angry with each passing growl of his stomach.
Desperately, she wanted to stay out of trouble, but the siren call of the dark-haired swordsman was too strong. Crystalia would stay out upon the icy street until she was honored with his presence again.
“He’s here!”
By the surge of the crowd, Crystalia knew it was true. Everyone fought for position, far worse than they had for the Mr. Hammond’s favors. A cry went up, and Crystalia stood on her tippy toes but still could not see a thing. Viola used her elbows with expert precision, but the mob swarmed over and past them. Sobbing, Crystalia saw an opening and took it. She did not move forward with the throng, but backwards upon the steps.
From her higher vantage point, Crystalia could see several soldiers leading the stranger’s stallion down the narrow, crowded streets. The mob called out in a wordless din. It was a mixture of awe, fear, admiration, and angst. The hard winter had cut these people to the bone, and they wished for something, someone to lighten their burden. Crystalia’s heart poured out to the handsome rider. In his perfection, he appeared modest and a bit overwhelmed by the throng’s sheer mass. The guards had to shove and kick to make a path for the war horse.
As he neared, Crystalia could make out his dark eyes and wind-blown hair. A small lock had fallen out from his band. The wavy curl danced in front of his eyes, playing on the wind. His hands were now free of their thick gloves, and he was getting so close that she could almost make out the weaving of the veins on his hands. They were strong hands, yet he held the reins so delicately, giving his horse the bit. There was a confidence in him and his beast that Crystalia had never seen.
“Hero!” Viola called out next to her.
The man turned and looked straight at Crystalia! Her heart near stopped. Her mouth went dry as the handsome stranger pushed aside the stray curl. Then he did the most wondrous thing. He smiled. His lips were tired, but they tugged up a bit — at her. As quickly as the grin came, it was gone, his mouth given over to exhaustion. Crystalia felt her knees buckle again, but Viola was there to lend her an arm.
“Did you see that? Oh, he looked right at you! I am so —”
Viola paused as the soldiers talked to the stranger. “Hammond’s Inn is just across the commons.”
Viola turned to Crystalia, her mouth locked in a near hysterical “o.”
“That’s... that’s... He’s staying at my house!” Viola finally said in a rush.
It was Crystalia’s turn to catch her swooning friend.
***
As the priests argued amongst themselves, Commander Jory Packard stood at the window and watched the young man ride from the Garrison. The Hero’s untimely arrival was a bad omen. Actually, it was only one of many foul portents. But none so ominous as the one he held in his hand.
Jory opened the envelope again, wishing his first impression had been mistaken, but the bright red smear on the inside flap confirmed his fears. Inside was truly a severed finger. The short note was scrawled in blood.
Turn him out, or she dies.
For months he had felt that something deep and dark was brewing in Last Hitch. But this horror eclipsed anything he had foreseen. Who in this small berg could conceive of such a crime? And why go to such extremes to banish a stranger? But as Jory asked himself the question, he knew the answer. The Hero had an air about him. It certainly wasn’t an aura of experience, nor even confidence, for it was obvious the rider had very little of either. No, Traven had only one truly noteworthy attribute — sincerity. Jory knew the young man believed his tale. Perhaps not each word or phrase, but the heart and soul of his story, those Traven believed in without question.
Jory could remember a time long past when he would have risked life and limb to traverse the countryside, spreading words of dire warning. He, himself, had ridden amongst princes and even called them friend. But that was another time, another place. Memories did not suit him any longer. An evil had taken root in his town, and he did not have the luxury of reminiscence.
The crowd cheered for the stranger, drawing Jory out of the past. The Commander felt a pang of sympathy for the young man. The Hero thought he’d found sanctuary, or at least a safe place to take a rest. The fool. Jory scanned the throng. Which of these innocently cheering townsfolk hid a secret most dank and foul? Was it one of his own men? One of the gentry? Or was the evil rooted in the priest sect? Jory shook his head. In a town this desperate and frigid, it could be anyone.
Times were so harsh that Jory had prayed the night before. He was not a religious man. Far from it. Jory had not bent a knee for years, but it was clear that a darkness was descending. In his gut, the Commander knew that he alone could not flush the evil from its den. He had prayed for assistance — and now this Hero arrives.
Jory sealed the envelope again. The evil was certainly flushed, which did not bode well for Traven. Beyond the threat contained in the letter, the priests’ jealousy and the fickle nature of the peasants could equally be the boy’s undoing.
“Sir!”
The rest of the room fell to silence as a soldier burst into the map room. Jory could see by the look of young man’s face that another envelope had arrived.
Jory’s tone was firm. “I shall be out in a moment.”
“But sir —”
“I said, a moment.”
The soldier gave a stiff salute and left the room.
Cecil rose to block Jory’s exit. “What has happened?”
“Nothing of your concern.”
The large man’s chest billowed out. “Everything that happens within the walls of this town concerns me.”
“I think not.” Jory stared down into the priest’s enraged eyes. “Or have you forgotten we are not within your temple, Cecil? We are within mine.”
Still the priest did not budge. Jory’s lips turned down, and his tone turned to near a growl. “Shall I have my men move you the two feet I need to pass?”
For a moment, Jory feared Cecil might force him to make good on his threat. But in the end, the priest stumbled back a step.
“If it has to do with the blasphemer —”
“You shall be the first to know.” Jory turned and bowed his head in respect to the congregation of priests. “Use this room to speak your mind, but once outside the Garrison, keep this news close to your chest. I will not have panic in the streets.”
Cecil once again found his bluster. “Inside my temple, I will speak what I wish.”
Jory bit back a retort. Arguing would serve no purpose. Cecil and the rest were beyond reason on this matter. An involuntary sigh escaped his lips as he exited the room. Once the door was securely shut, the soldier handed him another envelope. This one was obviously stained with blood. Jory carefully peeled back the flap to find a severed ear. Quickly he resealed the envelope. The situation was even worse than he had imagined. The Commander would offer what protection he could to Traven, but Jory knew in his heart that the Hero was as good as dead.
***
Even though his stomach still ached with hunger, Traven had only eaten enough to be considered polite, then excused himself from the late dinner his host had arranged. Master Hammond had been most thoughtful to provide the rich buffet, but the Hero needed solitude rather than the continuous prattle of the Guild Master. Traven would have time enough to untangle this small town’s politics, but for now his body craved rest.
“It is this one, m’lord,” the butler instructed as he held out a small lantern to illuminate a doorway. But the servant did not turn the knob to his room. Traven’s hand found the hilt of his sword.
After a moment of hesitation, the servant’s tone lowered. “Sir... Sir, there is a rumor...”
Stiffening, Traven listened carefully. In a small town like this, a rumor could earn you a quick dagger in the back.
“They say you are a... a Hero. Ridden out from Mount Shrine.”
Traven kept his tone even and steady. He had to be cautious until he knew if this news gladdened or enflamed the man. “Yes. That is true.”
The veneer of servitude slipped from the man’s face. Traven had not noticed the longish nose the servant had, nor the strong jaw. Both features were quite uncommon on the Plains.
“I hail from Heron’s Isle. Have you heard of such a place?”
Traven could not keep the smile from his lips. “Aye. It is but two days’ ride and a ferry’s trip away from my home town, Magpie Roost.”
“I have a cousin there,” the man exclaimed.
“Aye. It seems everyone does. We used to tease that it should be called ‘Cousins Gathering.’”
The servant openly smiled. “Aye! My father used to say the same.” The man’s jovial mood faded, and his tone became more serious. “Did you visit there recently? Do you know how my Isle fairs?”
“It was one of my first destinations from the Mount. I saw its elegant shores but two years ago.”
“Do the poppies still bloom?”
Traven reassured the man. “Aye. And I was honored to witness the Sleeping Orchid’s opening. It was the second time within the decade.”
“Was the Festival as grand as I remember?”
“I had need to leave before they assembled the carnival, but I heard that the Maiden who was crowned with the Orchid’s leaves was of such great beauty that the Squire of the Crown took notice of her. There was talk of his courting her for his third wife.”
The man’s face glowed with pride. “That would be quite the boon for her family.”
“Aye.”
“I... I had feared...” The man looked loath to speak his concern. “With all the solemn news from the trappers that perhaps... perhaps my Isle had been tarnished by this foul weather.”
“Nay. Last I saw, it was untouched by Winter’s grip.”
The man nodded gratefully. Traven hoped that his words still held true, not only for the servant’s sake, but his as well. With Magpie Roost so near the Isle, his home would not be unscathed if the Isle fell to calamity. But why, out on the Plains, was his mind constantly being drawn back to his birthplace?
Had he not left his home behind in search of just a quest such as this?
*****
CHAPTER 3
“The ship lurched and rocked, tight in the grasp of a furious storm,” Granny spoke in that ominous way only Granny could.
Just last week, their Uncle Belazar had tried to tell this tale, but he hadn’t gotten the right of it. The story was not about a trip across the Empty Sea and a storm. It was about danger and scary things that fly on the wings of the wind. So once their Uncle had gone back to his fishing boat, Traven and his siblings had begged Granny to do a real telling of the tale. Graciously, she had agreed, always eager to outdo her son-in-law.
“The Hanged Man clung to the steering wheel, desperate to keep the ship on course, but nothing short of divine intervention could hope to guide the ship now. They had the Eternal Flame burning in the crow’s nest, but all knew that would not be enough to see them safe this night.” Granny paused for a moment and rocked silently in her chair. The shouts of other children playing in the fields held no attraction for Traven. The story was the all.
“The wind itself howled for blood, and The Man Who Did Not Know feared for the life of his charges. He was in a foreign land, on a foreign element, praying to foreign gods for safe passage. Waves crashed upon the deck. From their stateroom, the Man could hear the cries of yet another sailor swept out to sea. The Man should have been out on deck. He should have been manning the sails, but his love was ill. The Maiden was gravely wounded, and he could not leave her side. A knock came at the door. Loud and booming. Insistent and urgent.”
Traven rolled over, still half asleep. The dream was fading. So why wasn’t the knocking? Suddenly light streamed in, startling him awake. In one motion, Traven was out of bed, his sword in hand, slamming the intruder against the wall. It took a moment to focus on the face before him. It seemed a bit familiar, but the man’s name would not register.
“Sir, please! The Commander has sent armed guards,” the man managed to squeak out as Traven pressed his blade against the man’s neck.
Slowly the past night came back to him. This was the butler from Heron’s Isle. Traven sheathed his sword, but his mind was still on the defensive. “Am I under arrest?”
“I’m not certain, sir. They are waiting outside the door.”
Traven straightened his leather vest. “Escort them in.”
There was no point in delaying. The Hero’s hand was free of his scabbard as the two guards entered, wearing heavy cloaks and ram-shaped helmets. The men were well-armed but small in number. Not much of an arrest party, really. Traven was not sure if he should be honored that the Commander trusted him to come quietly, or if he should be insulted that the old man did not think he could swipe these two gnats away with a single flick of his sword.
The door closed with a resounding thud.
“Put this on.” The officer removed his helmet and handed it to Traven.
“I don’t underst
and.”
The soldier took off his cloak as well. “You are to leave with the sergeant and follow him without a word.”
Traven slowly put on the disguise. “Where are we going?”
“You will see that when you arrive.”
This could easily be a trap. How did he even know the Commander had sent them? “Do you have the garrison’s seal?”
The man shook his head. “The Commander wanted no evidence of this meeting. He said to have a bit of faith. That is all.”
Traven tried to read the man’s features, but this officer was as cagey as his Commander. Besides if someone wanted him killed, a bit of poison in his marmalade would be far easier to stage. “I will be missed at the afternoon tea.”
“Not if get underway.”
The Hero took in a deep breath. The die was cast. “Lead on.”
Traven followed the sergeant out of the house. They passed the throng without a single person noticing their exit with anything more than mild curiosity. Everyone’s attention was directed upward, searching the windows for a sign of the Hero. Quickly the sergeant took them through the tangled alleyways until they stopped in front of a darkened doorway. He knocked three times.
Once the door swung open, Traven hung back, but the sergeant nodded for the Hero to enter. Bracing himself, Traven entered the dark interior, ready for a blow on the head. Instead he found the Commander kneeling beside the body of a girl.
The Commander didn’t even acknowledge Traven’s entrance. “She was poor — an easy target.”
7 Folds of Winter Page 4
