by Dan Allen
“No.”
“Very well, then. Supper is served to the guests in the dining hall,” Reann noted, “and breakfast in your quarters.”
“You won’t be joining us for supper?” he asked.
“Why no, sir. I must be in the kitchen washing the dishes.”
“Ah.”
Reann nodded and left the room. The feeling that had overcome her the moment the gentleman entered the room seemed to drain like the water in a tub, leaving her empty and ready. For two days, the experience tortured her. She asked every living soul in the castle about the man, but none knew any more than the rest. Most of all, she wanted to know what he was looking for in the library.
Could it have been her?
She laughed at the thought.
Chapter 5
Montazi realm. Ferrin-tat.
Low hanging clouds over the Montazi capital of Ferrin-tat glowed with the reflected light of dozens of torches on posts.
Terith adjusted the red sash draped over his shoulder, feeling like an archery target. It was a gift from Enala and Lilleth’s stepmother Tirisa, so he kept it on.
The other guests waiting for the feast to begin milled about the open-air courtyard in front of Ferrin’s enclave, representatives from villages across the Montas realm, mostly the old, powerful, and rich.
For centuries, the Montazi chiefs had been riders from the wealthier regions in the south. The move of the capital north was Ferrin’s doing. It gave the realm a stronger presence in the area where the Outlanders were a constant threat. The move had a noticeable impact on trade with the Serban.
Ferrin was the first northern chief in memory.
Some were determined to make him the last.
Thoughts of politics turned Terith’s empty stomach, and the distant sounds of one of Enala’s tantrums suddenly became much more interesting.
Terith followed a short path that ran past a porthole in a wooded ivy stem. In Ferrin’s office, lit well by costly oil lanterns, Lilleth and Enala stood facing their father, their backs to the porthole.
They were the same height, though Lilleth always seemed taller because of the way she handled herself, and Enala seemed more like a grown-up child with legs that were the envy of all, and the occasional temper of an irate toddler.
“Father,” Lilleth said calmly, “I think Terith is old enough to decide with whom he wishes to keep company.” She turned to leave, but Enala snagged the side of Lilleth’s dress with her hand.
“She spent all night with him!” Enala cried.
“You were welcome to come with me to Neutat,” Lilleth said calmly, prying her dress out of Enala’s hand. “It was such a pleasant walk.”
Enala glared. “Oh, that’s all you did—just ‘walk’? You know I had to help in the kitchens. They’re next to useless without me.”
“Just because you want to show off your cooking, doesn’t mean—”
“Girls,” Ferrin said. His chest was round and stout and his hair feathered with gray. His beardless chin was laced with several battle scars. Few Montazi, Terith among those few, had enough facial hair to warrant a regular shave. “I don’t have time for this bickering.”
“If she sits with Terith at the feast,” Enala said, her voice dropping to a low and deadly tone, “I’ll spill my wine on her dress. Then she’ll have to go change, and I’ll have him the rest of the night.”
“I’ll lay you across my knee, child!” Ferrin roared.
Enala turned, bent over and lifted up the back of her skirt. “Just get it over with now.”
“Enala!” Lilleth gasped.
Terith pulled his arm in front of his face and crouched below the window, trying desperately not to laugh.
A few minutes later, in the grand open-air courtyard, Terith leaned against a gold-embroidered floor pillow. Other riders in the challenge lounged about on similar reclining seats, mingling with the eligible women and elder nobles.
The women’s eyes danced with delight at jests and trite poems, while the challengers’ words of flattery spilled freely into the courtyard full of eligibles draped in luxurious silken clothing.
In momentary pauses, their eyes drifted toward the daughters of Ferrin—Lilleth, the wise, who was speaking politely with the elders, and Enala, the firecracker.
Enala, having won the battle, sat astride the back of the pillow that Terith leaned against. She ran her fingers through his short blond hair to spite the other eligible women, especially her sister.
Terith looked from the red sash draped across his chest to the nine other sash-bearing riders seated and leaning on the pillows among the gathered dignitaries. Only one kept his attention.
Pert.
That man, leaning against a column, stared back at Terith with unblinking eyes.
Terith held his gaze until Enala tugged on his hair, playfully and protectively. As he turned his head away, Pert moved to the corner of his vision, where the light of the awakening first flared in his mind. There, against a backdrop of flowering plants and other guests, Pert’s entire body looked like a hole in his field of view, as dark and black as the volcanic rock of the megaliths. He recalled Lilleth’s words, There is darkness in him. What Terith saw out of the corner of his eye was real.
The feeling of darkness seemed to crawl up inside Terith until he turned his attention to Ferrin, who was rising to give the invocation of the feast.
Despite his growing age, Ferrin was strong-shouldered, with only the slightest bend to his back. He had vivid blue eyes that burned like torches with the unquenchable confidence of a lifelong rider. His own victory in the challenge two and half decades earlier had ended with an exceptionally brilliant flash of the awakening that signaled his rightful place as chief of the riders and their realm.
According to Terith’s sources, namely Mya, the children of Neutat had it two-to-one that whoever won this year’s challenge would show the sign. As for who would win, the odds were evenly weighted on Pert and Terith.
Ferrin gave a nod to his wife Tirisa and then raised both of his hands over his head.
His court musicians, wind organ players, and flutists stood.
“The Suma has begun,” the first lord of the Montazi announced, beginning the customary oblation. “The dragons are returning from the sacred plain.”
A gong sounded.
“May we live to see them return year by year.”
“May we live to see them return!” echoed the gathered nobles, challengers, and eligible.
The gong sounded again.
“And may the ragoon fire burn until the blessed hatchlings emerge.”
“May the hatchlings emerge,” sounded the gathered faithful.
“Let the feast of the challenge begin!”
The orchestra started at once, filling the open-ceilinged court with the eerie and entrancing sounds of the wind organ and double pipe bass flutes.
Ferrin took his place on the center rug and a chorus of conversation arose among the excited guests.
“Seven days until the race,” Terith whispered to himself. “And then we see.”
Enala rested her hand softly on Terith’s shoulder.
Terith smiled vaguely, conscious of the eyes that weighed his every move, especially of Pert’s. The leather-clad warrior from the southern Montas was in a class of his own, both for lethal skill and for treachery. Admirers and stooges hovered around his short, stout figure, even fellows with too much hair upon their faces and arms to be Montazi—likely foreign allies from the Serban coast.
His ambitions were no secret.
Pert had dared no mutiny yet. The people still followed the chosen ruler, but his influence spread like a plague, and no less deadly. More than a few rival riders had fallen under mysterious circumstances.
Like Terith, Pert commanded his own flight of riders. Terith recognized two of Pe
rt’s comrades skulking in the shadows.
“Who invited them?” Enala said. She leaned her head toward Terith’s to follow his gaze and surreptitiously looped her arm over his shoulder.
“Nobody. They aren’t champions.”
“Then why are they here?”
“Me.” There was only one rider in the Montas who could stand up to Pert, and that made Terith a target.
As plates of food passed among the guests, Terith deliberately kept Pert’s sour expression in view. But Pert’s presence wasn’t the only peril.
Another problem was on its way across the courtyard carrying a large tankard of honey mead. The portly man had a glossy look to his pallid skin and greedy eyes.
“Ah, Terith!” He shook Terith’s hand vigorously, pulling him to his feet. “Tellim of Cafertat—good to see you again.”
Terith had never met the man who managed to maneuver himself between Terith and Enala—no small accomplishment given Enala’s tenacity. He steered Terith with an arm over his shoulder to a nook behind a tall shrub. “Not nervous, are you?”
Terith shook his head. The less he said the better. Tellim was a wealthy trader, judging from his gold tooth and gem-studded rings. Apparently he had come to bargain for a son-in-law.
Enala stared daggers at the man’s back. She dangled an empty wine glass between two fingers, apparently contemplating the likely permanent effect of a bright red yaz wine on the man’s expensive clothes.
Terith suppressed a smirk.
Sensing Terith’s distraction the man looked back, but Enala was suddenly engaged in conversation between two old men.
“Looks like you’re a busy man,” he said with a knowing smile that doubled his chins. “So let’s get to the point. I have a son in the race—Gomder. Interesting lad. But he’s not a favorite to win.”
“Best of luck to him,” Terith offered.
“Keep your luck. You’ll need it against Pert.” Tellim crowded closer, pinning Terith against the shrub. “Now, we both know it could get messy out there. Anything could happen. Assuming Pert wins and grabs one of Ferrin’s daughters . . .”
Terith started a rebuttal, but Tellim spoke smoothly over his words. “Of course you’ll give it a go, and why not? Plenty of eligibles in the field this year.” He marshaled an arm around Terith again and turned him to face the corner of the courtyard where several eligible girls were gathered around Pert and his cronies. “Onneth, the redhead over yonder, is my daughter. Gifted with sensing peril to anyone or anything she cares for—quite useful if I may say so. A fine young woman. I daresay I could make an introduction. Of course she’s second heir to my fortune—we could change that to first heir if it tips the tables, eh?”
“Interesting idea,” Terith said, spying Enala approaching with a glass full to the brim with bright red wine she must have taken from one of the elders. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m sensing some danger myself.”
Terith sidestepped the trader in the blink of an eye and collected the glass from Enala’s fingertips as she raised it over his head.
“How thoughtful of you,” Terith said, keeping the glass at arm’s length. Tirisa, Enala’s stepmother, was only a half step slower to the scene. She collected it from Terith with a relieved expression.
“That was too close,” she breathed, returning to Ferrin’s side.
Enala locked her arms around Terith’s waist. “Well it worked. And now you’re mine.”
Out of the dragon’s nest and into the deep, Terith thought.
For Terith, navigating the political mire of the feast and managing Enala’s mischief was as bad as open battle. The difference was his dragon wouldn’t do him any good here—especially against Enala’s tactical maneuvers.
She casually blocked his path as he stepped toward the pillow where he had been eating a moment before.
“Oh my,” Enala said. She placed her hands possessively on his chest. “That’s intimate. I didn’t know you were so forward.”
“Forward?” he wondered.
“All right,” Enala said. “Forward.” She took another step closer, comfortably pressing against Terith, her blue eyes gleaming with pure delight.
Terith’s eyes instinctively, guiltily flicked to Lilleth.
Of course she was watching. She quickly turned her back to Terith. It was worse than a slap to the face, which Terith would have gladly traded to just have Lilleth turn around and look at him with her soft sable eyes.
Great.
As generous amounts of food and drink dulled their appetites and senses, elders and matrons finished their conversations and meandered back to rented rooms deep in the gargantuan ivy roots that fed the curtains of oversized ivy hanging over the cliff walls of the Ferrin’s megalith.
“Yaz?” Terith offered, raising a plate of candied fruits to Enala.
“Goodness, yes,” giggled the precocious temptress, who never seemed to have grown out of her adolescence. She sat down and plucked two of the fruits from the tray Terith held. “I haven’t had one in two seasons. Father sent our extras to Haventat.” She ate one of the fruits, eyes twinkling with delight.
Enala’s long, straight, yellow hair fell on Terith as she leaned over his shoulder. Meanwhile her hand surreptitiously lifted the platter out of his hand.
Terith laughed, but his eyes drifted to the woman standing across the courtyard, only a few yards away.
Lilleth was Enala’s elder by two years, and infinitely more regal. She wore a loose, plain gown that rippled in the gentle evening breeze. A single tie secured it around her waist. A matching ribbon was woven through her long light-brown hair the color of almonds, glossy, and smooth as silk. She was solemn and gentle.
Terith thought back to Mya’s passing comment on the trail.
“Will she be satisfied with a simpleminded man like you? My mom wants to know.”
Of course, she had just been trying to goad him into saying something.
I’m not simpleminded.
Terith took a yaz fruit from the platter and chewed it. The buzz on his tongue gave warning too late. The fruit was steeped in distilled liquor, and Enala had just finished her third.
That’s trouble.
“Shall I tell you something naughty?” Enala teased, fingering a fourth yaz ball, just out of Terith’s protective reach. She wore a halter top that exposed her midriff, paired with a gossamer silk skirt, anticipating the imminent summer heat.
“Best if you didn’t,” Terith said uneasily. “But I expect you will anyway, just so that you can see me embarrassed—why don’t you put that platter down? Those are rather potent.”
Enala gave a laugh of delight and raised the platter out of his reach.
“My legs,” Enala said, lifting her white skirt to show her sun-bronzed legs, “are longer than Lilleth’s. What do you think about that?”
“I . . .”
“Well, what do you think about it?”
“I suppose it shouldn’t matter so long as both sets are covered up,” Terith said, swallowing and checking behind him to see who might be watching.
“But what if they weren’t covered up?” Enala said, eyes daring Terith to come up with an answer. She leaned back and bent her legs, causing her skirt to slide up her thighs.
“Lord Ferrin!” Terith called, loud enough to startle Enala, but not loud enough for Ferrin to hear over the scattered conversations.
“Terith!” Enala squeaked, sitting up as if a blood hornet had just bit her. She even tinged a shade of pink in the face.
Terith gloried inwardly at actually getting Enala to show a touch of embarrassment, which made her all the more attractive.
Terith made a reach for the platter, but Enala swept it expertly away.
“You are as much trouble as I am,” she chided, glancing around the diminishing crowd. Her eyes sparkled with new mischief. “Terith,
why don’t you invite me on a walk?”
“I suppose you’ve had enough yaz to warrant an escort,” he admitted, as eager to leave the party as any. He cast a glance over his shoulder, meeting Lilleth’s eyes for the first time as he stood to leave with Enala.
He tried to make an expression of apology, but Lilleth had already averted her eyes.
It stung. With everything happening so fast, the only sure thing about the challenge was getting hurt or hurting someone else.
Here he was at last, a champion. He was in control of his own fate. Yet he felt swept along, as if there were nothing he could do to change it and it was carrying him toward something he knew he could never return from. Change was coming.
Enala sidled alongside Terith as they passed through blossom-
laden trestles. Her blond hair caught highlights of flickering lamps in the distance. Once outside the glow of the courtyard torches, she took his calloused hand in hers and threaded her fingers between his. “I love to walk. Don’t you like walks . . . with me?”
“It’s nice,” Terith admitted, eyes flying about for watchers. With Enala by his side he was unassailable—except by accusation. Though he didn’t mind Enala’s attempts to interest him, he wasn’t excited about explaining a midnight excursion with Enala to Lilleth.
Their path took them around the perimeter of the Ferrin’s luxurious enclave, along boardwalks that overlooked the deep canyons surrounding the natural citadel. Giant ivy leaves draped from every corner like great green-veined tapestries.
Terith surveyed the shadowed cliffs. An irregularity in the leaves might be one of the merciless dragon predators hanging motionless waiting for prey to stray within their reach.
Enala likely had predatory intentions of her own.
Terith kept a cautious, comforting grip on Enala’s hand. She was as coordinated as any of the Montazi, but a trip and fall into the blanket of constant fog that shrouded the canyon deep was instant death: death by broken bones, flesh eating flies, or sinkhole. Any way you like it, the deep was death.
“Perfect,” Enala exclaimed as she saw her destination. She hurried forward, tugging Terith along the walkway that wound down several switchbacks of stairs to a wicker pagoda on a terrace.
