by S. K. Alden
First: the north outpost required manufacture of a new arrowhead design and Kirin found himself instantly fascinated. His eyes roved the detailed drawing of the new broadhead, noting three off-set razor-sharp blades and the chiseled, piercing tip.
Perfect for a sharp-shooter, he realized, suddenly wishing he had time to test one himself. You've a whole stack of these to go through, he chided himself, setting the first request down and grabbing a quill. Unlike Gilleath's more elegant signature (of which even old Uncle Connal had approved,) Kirin signed with a quick scrawl that more closely resembled a smith's chop-mark than a Prince's signature. It was really just the “K” with a long leg in three quick motions.
Old Uncle Connal had always despaired of his penmanship, but Kirin did not care. His eye found the line and his pen hit the mark. That was what mattered.
He had just signed several requisitions and approved the re-supply of the Hillhome folk in the northern halls when he heard the cry of "Arise! Alarm!" in the outer hall.
Kirin was on his feet and through the door in a heartbeat, almost relieved to have something to attend.
"Report!" he demanded, finding a breathless cadet facing his clerks.
"Rock fall," the cadet said.
"Anyone hurt?"
"Not that we know."
"Where?"
"West of Overlook."
Kirin frowned as a grim-faced captain rushed in. The Overlook area was solid granite.
"Shearing?" he asked.
"No,” the Captain said. “That rock did not fall on its own." He tilted his chin down to show his suspicions.
Kirin raised an eyebrow. Snowmount was carved into the side of a snow-capped mountain—one infused with the magic of the First Ones, but a real mountain all the same. It was natural for stone to settle and for weather to shape it, and Kirin, as Commander of the Guard, heard weather reports constantly. The day had been cold but not stone-breaking cold. He'd heard predictions of a storm on the way, but it was a day or two off.
"Describe what you saw," Kirin prompted, grabbing his gloves and starting down the corridor at a good pace, the captain and cadet scurrying to keep up.
"We were on the beacon stone, northeast of the Overlook, sir,” the captain said.
Kirin nodded. He knew that rock formation well.
"The ravens were in an uproar—circling and screaming. Then my Lieutenant was pulling me back just as we saw something shoot away from the rock like a great dusty meteor...and then the outcropping just gave way."
"Just like that?" Kirin asked.
"Just..." the captain made a shooting motion and then spread his hands. "As if someone shot a cork and then pulled the wrong cube out from under the puzzle stack."
Kirin nodded. The image of the shot cork was a dead ringer for a blasting charge. Drill a hole, drop in the charge, and when it went off, a cloud of dust would shoot out just before the stone cracked and the rock slid.
And he knew for a fact that all exterior mining was on hold until after the treaty deliberations concluded and all the guests were gone.
And here we are, only on day one... He recalled the words from Brunsder of Grauvale. Have a care, lad. Someone among the seven families is intent on disrupting the Wintermeet.
"Did you see anyone in the area?" he asked.
The cadet and captain both looked ashamed, as if everyone had been caught neglecting duties. "No, sir."
Kirin considered this. "If it had been set intentionally, someone would have set the charge much earlier and triggered it from a distance." Kirin strode for the Hub, the great interior of the castle built into the stone of the mountain—illuminated by terraces of braziers. He took one of the great staircases down to the gate level, using a few little-known shortcuts to dodge crowds of visitors—and there were hundreds of them out this evening, standing on the balconies and admiring the broad inner Hub lit by a hundred braziers. "There was nothing more you could have done," he reassured them. "I appreciate your observations. Tell me, were there ravens about?" he asked.
"Yes, Commander," the captain said.
Kirin frowned as he turned to lead them down a great stairway. The ravens would tell him what they knew and saw, but he would have to wait for daylight. Ravens had become essential allies in the defense of Snowmount, but they roosted at nightfall.
When he made it outside to the Overlook, lanterns showed him what he needed to see. Kirin was enough of a stonesmith (having some of the affinity his Lady Mother had possessed when it came to stonework) to read the signs.
"That is not a shear zone," Kirin declared. "This stone," he moved his lantern in a slow arc. "Would not have failed in this direction without help." He handed the lantern to one of the guard and grabbed a hammer and spike, heading down a thin trail to the place where workers had already started clearing debris. He poked around, leaned close and motioned a lamp over, and plucked out a fist-sized stone with the unmistakable marks of blast grit.
He pocketed the stone and turned to help the workers, driving his spike into just those points that would crack stone and break up the larger rocks, making the job of clearing the perimeter easier.
Two hours later he was satisfied that the job would be done by sunrise and he nodded his approval. By now, Gilleath would be wondering where he was...and while he was personally fine with missing a party, he did not really wish to disappoint his brother.
On the way back to his quarters, he made one stop at the miner's public hall to have a word with the Masterminer.
"Whatever are you up to on party night?" Drustan asked, an ale tankard in one hand. He was his usual jovial self, surrounded by laughing and shouting miners well into their holiday feast.
"Rockfall that might have been set," Kirin said in a low voice.
Drustan’s eyes narrowed. "You have proof?"
Kirin offered the stone he'd found.
Drustan held it up to examine it. "Blasting grit, all on this side," he said.
"My thinking exactly," Kirin nodded, accepting a flagon from a serving lad. He and Drustan looked at each other but said no more.
"I've a mind to get a better look at sunrise," Kirin said.
"I've a mind to join you," Drustan replied. Realizing that the lads around them were wide-eyed and expectant at the sight of their Masterminer and their Prince, Drustan raised his flagon. "To Snowmount!" he cried.
"And its people!" Kirin answered, holding his tankard high as well. "In Eathom's name!" He downed his ale in one long drink, eliciting happy shouts, roars of approval, and calls for more-clearly making the lads glad of the blessing.
Half a bell later, Gilleath's pages found him there, with a demand from the King for his presence in the Royal Hall.
"Tell him I was working on a rock fall and I'll be there as soon as I clean up." One of the pages trotted off. The other stayed.
Kirin gave the lad his best glower, but the page stood still. "My orders are to stay with you until you arrive in the Hall."
"Meddlesome, my brother is." But Kirin capitulated and allowed the youngster to trail him to his private rooms. There he found his brother's junior chamberlains impatient to see him properly dressed.
"The Lady Maeg tells us she cannot convince her princely sons to courtly manners if their uncle ignores his appearances," the senior chamberlain stated.
Kirin took the hint, bathed quickly, and presented himself to the chamberlains for dressing.
They were adjusting the fall of his cloak and the angle of his dress buckles when shouts once again erupted in the outer halls, shouts which included children’s angry voices.
Kirin looked at the page in attendance and the lad vanished, reporting back a moment later.
"The Royal Princes, sir. Some sort of scrape with lads belonging to one of the visitors."
Kirin considered whether to get involved, then heard the heart-rending frightened scream of a very young child—unmistakably Gilleath's youngest, his little daughter, Iri.
He broke upon a melee in the hall with a
calculated roar. Hannik stood protectively over his wailing little sister, while Fjall and Gunnar double-teamed a pair of chubby older lads wearing Hillhome colors, who were in turn backed by a pair of uncertain pages who clearly recognized Snowmount's princes.
Kirin quickly sized up that Fjall was getting the upper hand, but Kirin knew he couldn't let the lad continue. He waded in and extracted Fjall and Gunz each by the scruff of the neck, raising a cold eyebrow when Fjall turned in a fit a temper and raised his fist before recognizing his Uncle Kirin.
And then the lad's face paled and he deflated so quickly that Kirin nearly laughed.
Kirin put the boys on their feet, demanded apologies from all around, and threatened not only 500 lines from the schoolmaster but 500 push-ups from him as well.
"But Uncle. They hurt her. She's bleeding." Fjall protested in a growl, looking up at him with a glower that reminded Kirin not so much of his brother as of their grandfather Aubin.
Kirin knelt and picked up the sniffling lass, her arms clinging tight around his neck. He stood and asked for the details. The Hillhome lads had been secreted into the Princes' playroom for fighting games, but when the excitement attracted the little princess, she had become a hostage. The Hillhome lads had escaped into the halls with her and that had prompted all-out battle. A scrape on Iri's forehead attested to the roughness of the ensuing ambush and the accidental swipe to her head.
"I'll fetch a cneasaí," one the nervous pages offered, scampering off.
Kirin had a clean handkerchief in his pocket and used it to dab Iri’s war wound.
"Head wounds always bleed the worst, sweetheart," he crooned. "I should know. I've had plenty."
Her sniffling changed from frightened child to the sort designed to wring more sympathy from her uncle. Still, it wrenched his heart and he tried to soothe her, aware of his nephews still glaring at the contrite Hillhome lads, despite the round of enforced apologies. Hostilities, he realized, could break out again at any moment.
He didn't see the cneasaí until he felt a gentle touch on his arm. He turned, expecting to see one of the studious lads...but it was one of the cneasaí matrons, an older lady. Kirin struggled to recall her name. Hrae, Lady Wife of Var, he remembered. Hardy axehand, that fellow.
The cneasaí concentrated on his niece's scrape. "Oh, sweetheart," she breathed. "You've got a bump." She deftly gathered the child into her arms and nodded for the pages to lead them into the royal children's quarters.
"I ducked, but I wasn't quick enough," he heard his niece begin to chatter. Hrae had little ones of her own, Kirin recalled.
And then his thoughts went instantly back to the cneasaí lass he'd seen earlier riding in with the Grauvale contingent—taller and less buxom than most, fresh-faced, and dark hair pulled back in a long braid. He recalled her sitting astride her horse and how she'd been alert to the ravens.
"My lord?" He turned to see one of the pages motioning him back to the chamberlains.
"Yes, of course," he said, aware of his duty. What was he thinking? And why recall that particular Grauvale rider? He turned his mind back to the matter at hand.
His nephews were sent back to their rooms and the chamber guards reinforced against further childish shenanigans. Kirin returned to the royal chamberlains for one last check of his attire, and then excused himself with Gilleath's page in tow.
He tried to focus on presenting his most amenable face to the revelries in the hall, but for some reason, his brain went right back to thinking about the fresh-faced cneasaí. Did he know her? Was her family here? He couldn't recall an introduction, but it was true that he didn't know everyone in Snowmount anymore. The population had swelled since the fall of the nàmhid and was growing bigger every day.
But the lass was here now. He'd seen her arrive.
Tomorrow, he decided, he would have more than one question for Snowmount's ravens.
Chapter Three
The Royal Hall roared with laughter and excited chatter, the revelry well underway. Midwinter’s day was officially in two days' time, but it was never too early to begin the feasting and, of course, the drinking.
Kirin slid easily into the crowd, and if he hoped the page tailing him would finally leave off, he was disappointed. The lad simply changed places with one of the others and trotted off to report, leaving Kirin with a new minder. The lad looked at him levelly.
He thought briefly of ditching the boy...it wasn't as if he didn't know a hundred ways to shake an unwanted tail...but as he glanced around the crowded room he noticed who else was watching. Garbhan, from an honored place near the King's chair. Allon, from within a circle of scholarly admirers near the roaring fireplace, and even old Dugfus, pretending to tempt a bevy of over-dressed ladies with a tray of delicacies from the table.
And then several off-duty Captains of the Watch were before him, offering Midwinter’s day greetings and bowing in respect, and Kirin honored them with return bows, his courtly manners compelling him to ask about their families and compliment them before their peers. They beamed at him, and before long he was easily caught up in the chatter and jokes, allowing himself to be led further into the crowd for yet more introductions and greetings.
Skirfir, he was happy to discover, brought a pair of frothing ales and with a word in the page's ear, relieved the young lad of his duty.
Kirin had never been so happy to see his protégé. He tapped flagons with the junior archer and drank deeply with him.
"Have you seen Brunsder?" Kirin asked when he'd drained his share, appreciatively wiping the froth from his upper lip with the back of his hand.
Skirfir nodded, last mouth full of ale still in his mouth. He raised his flagon in the direction of a knot of Grauvalers gathered nearby.
"All settled?" Kirin asked Brunsder when he returned a hand-on-heart bow with the hardy Grauvale warrior.
"Very much so," the Grauvaler inclined his head. "After thirty-seven days on the road, rooms underground are a blessing, lad."
Kirin blinked. "Not your entire group in one place, I hope."
"Not at all." Brunsder assured him. "The trainees, of course, are with their crafts. I saw the cneasai to their Hall myself—though I'm afraid they've been put straight to work." He nodded toward one of the trainees, dressed in healer blue with an emblem denoting Grauvale still on her arm band.
"We've a bit more folk here than usual," Kirin said. "That one seems to know her way around, at any rate."
"Aye," Brunsder nodded. "One of your trainees that we’ve returned. Four years away was not long enough for her to forget this place.” he raised an eyebrow to acknowledge Snowmount's significance to any Warrior.
Kirin let himself be turned toward Brunsder's captains, exchanging yet more pleasantries and answering yet more questions. Skirfir kept Kirin's flagon filled and even managed to deter several giggling lasses and send them in the direction of the dessert table.
Kirin snorted silently at the over-dressed flirts. If he was going to consider ladies, it was someone like the cneasaí maiden who stood out in his mind—here on duty when by rights she should be allowed to enjoy a welcome home evening. He scanned the crowd for her, not seeing that particular lass anywhere. He wondered who her kin were and if she had joined them for a celebration in private.
And that's when he saw her again, bending to speak quietly to one of Maeg’s ladies in waiting, an older lass heavy with child.
There was definitely something about her...and he found himself fascinated by the way she moved—fluid, easy...and with a cute, quirky swing of her hip now and then.
He watched her, unaware that Skirfir followed his gaze to discover what had his commander's attention.
Kirin couldn't take his eyes from her. She was no simpering wallflower like the highborn ladies. She was a lass with purpose, with her own craft and skills. She understood duty and honor. So intent were his thoughts that he never realized how long his gaze stayed on her or that he smiled as he watched—she was there, adjusting the shawl of an
old timer (again, the cute hip thing) and then across the way, making a polite bow to an older matron.
Then a plump silversmith stepped into his line of sight, bowing and introducing Kirin to his son and daughter, the lass covered in so much silk that he couldn't tell her arms from her ruffles. He carefully hid his annoyance and bowed.
Much later, when it was time for the toasting, he stood at his brother's side and Kirin dutifully raised his flagon and applauded Gill's words.
Then Gilleath, King of Snowmount, spread his strong arms wide once again. "Enjoy the week of festivals and thankfulness, my good friends," he finished, his voice resonating in the great hall.
The gathered crowd raised flagons in response, murmured happy replies, drank to the memory of Eathom, founder of Snowmount, and well-mannered applause broke out.
With the blessing concluded, Kirin smiled as Gill's eyes met his.
"Well done," Kirin said, pulling his brother into a warrior's embrace. "You grace these halls with honor, veli."
Gilleath slapped him on the back and grinned. "I'm just glad to see you finally joined us."
Kirin laughed. It was important for everyone to see the King and his brother together.
Then Gill's hand was hard on the back of his head, pulling him close enough to touch foreheads. "May this be the year that it's over," he whispered fiercely.
Kirin felt a stab of dread in his heart. "Maybe," he murmured. One hand found Gill's arm and gripped tightly. Yet in his heart he held no hope of that. Eighteen years of living with a curse—with the pain and agony of it—had taught him to endure it and not wish for impossible things.
He heard Gill's sigh as they stepped back.
They looked at each other and Gilleath nodded once.
And then old Dugfus was there, begging leave to introduce a Ryland noble, and Kirin stepped away to accept a bid for attention from one of the Snowmount merchant families. They had a young lad of age to begin warrior training and Kirin approved.
