A pair of doors at the end of the dinning hall opened into the steamy, fragrant chaos of the keep’s kitchen, and Rowan side stepped as a young boy went hurtling by with an overloaded wooden tray held above his head, shouting a “Pardon, please,” over his shoulder. Rowan turned at the sound of a low whistle of appreciation from Borlin. The Stoneman’s eyes were wide and a great grin split his bearded face.
The light from the morning sun streamed into the hot interior of the kitchen through huge wooden doors that were swung opened at the far end of the room; beyond them, in the large inner bailey of the keep, a wagon was backed up so that supplies and firewood could be delivered directly into the heart of the scullery. Between Rowan and those doors was spread a wonder of culinary delights: sideboards strewn with flour and fresh bread as it was pulled from the rows of brick ovens; vegetables tumbling out of baskets and bowls full of ingredients spread out across tables; giant caldrons simmering with savoury mysteries in the giant hearths.
She stood, blinking and trying to make sense of the directed confusion that was Pellaris Keep’s kitchen when she noticed, presiding over it all – the center of a spinning top, the most enormous man she had ever seen. His eyes were fixed on Nathel.
“By the sweet Goddess, you scoundrel,” he cried. “Come to pilfer my honey cakes and steal the hearts of the kitchen maids?” The great man waded through the activity until he was standing before them, looking down at Nathel. His girth was so impressive, Rowan doubted she could reach halfway around his great bulk.
Nathel turned with a flourish. “May I present Danyl the Great, head cook of Pellaris Keep.”
The giant cook captured Rowan’s hand and delicately kissed the back of it. “We seldom enjoy such important and lovely company down here in the kitchens!” His eyes darted in the direction of Nathel and he whispered conspiratorially to Rowan, “It’s usually only the ruffians that come down here looking to wheedle the tastiest morsels out of us.”
Nathel frowned at the insult. “I always brought you good conversation in return!”
The other cooks and scullery maids laughed and Danyl the Great rewarded them with a mock scowl. “See to your pots, then!”
Rowan’s jaw dropped to see the enormous man launch into action. He moved almost as effortlessly as Arynilas. Feeling like she was caught in whirlwind, Rowan was suddenly seated at a table with steaming food heaped before her. She closed her mouth and inhaled the aroma.
Borlin had not sat down with them and she glanced around to find him leaning over a simmering pot, dipping a large spoon into the contents. The giant cook noticed him as well and caught him just as he lifted the spoon to his lips to sample it.
“Here now! What do you think you’re doing? You’ll ruin my sauce! Get off with you.” Danyl trundled around the large counter towards the Stoneman.
Borlin, ignoring the huge cook completely, tasted the sauce, raised his eyebrows and smiled in appreciative delight. “Tell me, ’ave ye used Tiepan or Savoury Fernisen in this?”
The huge cook stopped in mid-stride and appraised the Stoneman with renewed interest. “Tiepan. Savoury Fernisen is very hard to come by this far north, especially now that all trade has been suspended.”
Borlin nodded thoughtfully. “This would ’ave a subtle difference with Fernisen. Me store o’ the spice is still full. It would be interesting to try it, no?”
Danyl’s face lit up. “You have some Fernisen?”
Borlin smiled, “Oh, aye. I ’ave quite a few lovely spices picked up from me travels, some I ’ave not even tested in a dish as yet.”
The giant cook nearly quivered with delight and the two fell into an excited conversation about the possibilities.
Rowan turned to the others and asked quietly, “I thought you told me that women do most of the cooking in Eryos?”
Nathel smiled. “Cerebus found Danyl in Tabor. It is one of the few kingdoms where men cook. Danyl was head chef to the king of Tabor and Cerebus managed to entice him away from Tyrn. He has been here a very long time now.”
The food was delicious but Rowan found she could not get much down. Her stomach tightened as she thought ahead to the coming meeting with the king.
Nathel leaned over and said quietly, “It will be fine. Cerebus is a good man, and he will listen and act upon your message. You will make a fine impression. Just be yourself.”
Rowan looked at him with surprise and he winked at her. She nodded and swallowed. That was it, she thought. She was acutely aware that her message wasn’t the only thing required of her. As the Messenger of such strange information they would look to her to understand it and as a woman she would have little credibility in the eyes of the men she needed to convince.
A wave of hot frustration washed over her. Nothing had been easy since she had left her native soil. She looked at Nathel again, at all her friends. That wasn’t necessarily the truth.
Memories
The streets of Pellaris looked clean and clear. A dawn storm had quickly passed and now the early morning sun shone as the clouds broke apart. Wet surfaces glittered, making the old buildings look new.
Underfoot, the cobblestones changed to the rough, rounded style of the oldest part of Pellaris and Torrin was pulled from his cluttered, crowded mind. He was in the old quarter, and had been wandering for more than three hours.
After an almost sleepless night, with the suffocating memories of time spent with his wife and daughters in the citadel threatening to overwhelm him, Torrin had left the keep. Wandering through the sleeping streets had unfortunately done little to alleviate this feeling and he let go the futility of holding the memories at bay, letting them wash over him.
He had shunned the great market square, where Emma had loved to go – had passed it by three streets and still felt its pull. Instead he turned to walk through the merchant quarter with its elegant homes and expensive shops. His path took him further back into memories not touched by pain. Eventually he arrived here where his carefree youth had brought only pleasure.
The narrow streets were crowded like crooked teeth with two story houses and shops that leaned precariously into the street. The ancient buildings were slumped, their mortar nearer in composition to sand than stone. This was a place of history. It spoke of the simple folk of Pellar who, generation upon generation lived and worked in these streets under whatever ruling king was in power.
As a boy, this had been Torrin’s favourite place.
He and Nathel had played hide and seek in the twisting alleys, oblivious to the dangers such a place could present to a pair of young boys. Looking at the streets now, he wondered that their father had let them come unescorted. Perhaps they had only assumed themselves clever enough to elude the castle guards and escape to the old quarter, he thought reflectively. There were always plenty of other children to play with, some half-wild and orphaned, but the promise of adventure was all they needed.
Passing a dark alley where the morning sun had yet to penetrate, he peered down its gloomy length, remembering he and Nathel, torches in hand with a cloth wrapped lunch for the exploration ahead. They had felt like treasure hunters, exploring the dangerous underground labyrinth of catacombs and tunnels under the city. In the course of their frequent visits and mapping they had discovered the decaying bones of the ancient city that lay beneath Pellaris.
A man wearing seaman’s clothes with a sack tossed over his shoulder nodded to Torrin as he passed, heading to the harbour.
Now there was a place to fuel a boy’s imagination. The great sea wall on the north side of the city looked out over the harbour at a forest of ship’s masts swaying with the swells. The stone of the cliff created a natural sweeping hollow, protecting the bay from the prevailing winds. Torrin and Nathel had prided themselves on being able to name every kind of ship that came into the harbour. Sloops and cutters bobbed among the larger galleons; occasionally a tall ship arrived from the mysterious west, filled with exotic spices, foods and fabrics. All were moored at the same quayside amid the
bustle and hum of sailors and shipwrights.
On the few occasions the boys were allowed to descend the tunnel stair to see those ships up-close, they had glimpsed a few of the pale-skinned westerners, slaves who manned the great ships, climbing to and fro in the rigging to repair sails and mend ropes with an agile grace that Torrin had admired. Slaves already mixed into crews were allowed, but the slave ships themselves were not permitted in Pellarian waters. They had to sail further northeast to Krang or make the long dangerous journey around that mountainous realm to sail south and east all the way to Ren. It was a journey only the most experienced – or the most reckless – captains made through the deadly, roiling gambit between the ice flows and northern Krang.
Torrin frowned. Thoughts of Krang brought him full circle to the Raken and their origin. He took a deep breath and released it slowly. The council would be held soon and Rowan would finally deliver her message. All his will had been bent towards getting her here to King Cerebus, a man Torrin trusted. A part of him was relieved, but another part – a greater part – was wary. Everything they had learned pointed to a sinister intelligence and plot behind the Raken.
The sun was higher now and the folks of the old quarter were stirring and opening windows and shop fronts. Torrin turned right up a narrow, twisting street, shrugging his shoulders uncomfortably as he passed beneath the precarious lean of the jutting second floors overhead. He struck out with a purposeful stride, his long legs carrying him quickly over the uneven cobblestones. The street zigzagged but it headed in the direction that he wanted to go. The memories surrounding him fell away to be left in the doorways, alleys and corners – more history to add to the oldest part of Pellaris.
The Council
Rowan followed Chancellor Galen down a long, elegant corridor, rubbing her palms against her thighs and needlessly adjusting the vembraces on her forearms. She registered the enormous tapestries and the gilded stand lamps, but was more focused on calming her racing heart.
Here in the public wing, people sat on benches along the corridor or stood in small clusters. Rowan tried to ignore the reaction Hathunor’s enormous figure drew as people shrank back against the walls, looking wildly around for more enemies, and focused instead on Galen’s thin, straight back, trusting the escort of Pellarian guards that strode with them to soothe the people. Nathel and Dalemar walked to either side of her and the others followed. Rowan sighed, missing Nathel’s snickers and jests that had kept her mind from worry during breakfast.
Nathel assured her that Torrin wouldn’t miss the audience; still, Rowan found herself seeking his tall figure among the people in the corridor.
The hall opened into a high circular lobby, its stone walls reverberating with footsteps and voices. Rowan crossed an inlaid marble insignia in the floor – gold stars arranged in the constellation of the Great Northern Huntsman on a red field.
At the opposite end of the foyer a pair of arched copper doors stood open; through them was an enormous circular chamber lined with tiers of benches. There, a tall, broad figure detached itself from the milling crowd and Rowan felt a flutter of relief as Torrin walked toward them, his intense blue eyes fastened on her. He looked tired but his clothes and armour were clean, and the broad eagle wings and crest stood out boldly on the center of his polished leather and bronze breastplate. He fell in beside her and together they walked through the doors into the council chamber.
Galen stopped. “My lady Rowan, if you please, there is a place for you and your company on the floor to the left.” The chancellor indicated a row of seats behind a polished wooden table. “Make yourselves comfortable. Refreshments will be brought to you in a moment. Forgive me, but I must see to the king.”
The lean old man bowed, then walked across the council chamber to stairs leading up to a pair of ornate chairs, set between two carved wooden doors. He disappeared through one of the doors.
Rowan followed Torrin as he strode across the floor to the row of seats Galen had indicated. She ignored the low babble of voices from the people already sitting in the tiers of benches and looked up at the high arched ceiling. Morning light streamed through four large windows set high in the walls of the chamber, lighting the stone interior with a warm glow. The soaring construction of the room was clean and though ornamentation was minimal, Rowan noted the craftsmanship was exquisite.
At the table, she sank uneasily into a padded chair between Torrin and Dalemar. Her stomach flip-flopped. She had not expected to give her message to an entire audience.
The top tier of seating was packed with soldiers dressed in their battle gear, prepared for a call to arms on a moments notice. Women in fine gowns and men in equally fine tunics ranged in the first two tiers above the chamber floor. Behind them the next two tiers were quickly filling with people dressed in less expensive garb. They had the look of trades people and guild members. In spite of the siege, it seemed that folk were still concerned with the machinations of governance.
Rowan cast a wry glance at her huge black friend. The big Saa Raken was crouched easily on his haunches, just past the end of the table, clawed hands relaxed and dangling from his bent knees. Hathunor was as much the reason for the crowd as being privy to the decisions of King and council.
A group of older men wearing long robes similar to that of Chancellor Galen began to file into the chamber. Rowan counted fifteen in total. They dispersed to the lowest seating, padded chairs and glossy tables like the one Rowan and her companions occupied.
Most of these latest arrivals resumed their conversations once seated, casting speculative glances at Rowan and her companions. A few, though, sat back and surveyed the chamber with dignified or haughty expressions.
Servants clad in gold and red Pellarian livery entered the chamber with trays carrying goblets and flasks of water, which they placed on the tables. Hathunor reached out a clawed hand circumspectly to ask for some as a serving man passed, making the poor fellow jump and squeak like a child. With his face drained white, the man cast wide eyes at the rest of the companions before tremulously holding out the pitcher he had been carrying. Hathunor received the vessel and exposed long ivory fangs in a grin. The man paled even further and scuttled away as Hathunor swallowed the contents of the pitcher in one gulp. The huge Saa Raken’s red eyes shone with amusement and he emitted a low rumble as he placed the jug on the table.
Nathel chuckled and Borlin snickered into his goblet. Arynilas, eyes twinkling, surveyed the chamber through his ever-calm sapphire eyes. Dalemar cleared his throat in suppressed laughter and even Torrin to her other side lost the edge from his stern demeanour. Rowan breathed out a shaky breath. She would have laughed too if her stomach had not been in knots.
General Preven walked across the floor flanked by two soldiers. He still wore his breastplate and the long red and gold cloak of the Pellarian army. The two men following him looked to be officers as well. The tall man on the right wore the armour of the Klyssen cavalry, his horsehair-plumed helmet tucked under an arm and his stern hawk-nosed face looking straight ahead. The man to the left was shorter and darker in appearance and wore armour consisting of many overlapping plates. It looked to be both flexible and light.
Torrin leaned over and said quietly, “He looks to be a commander in the Taborian army. I saw Taborian infantry last night as we fought on the wall.”
Rowan nodded without taking her eye from the warriors; they both looked to be experienced fighting men. “And the Klyssen officer is a captain?”
“Yes, same as our friend, Captain Whelan.”
The men made their way to the last table on the floor directly below the thrones. One final person strode purposefully into the hall. The ascetic figure of Tihir N’Avarin reached the centre of the council floor and paused. As if on cue, the giant chamber doors closed with a hollow boom. His dark, glittering gaze swept the chamber contemptuously, lingering on the well-dressed nobles. He turned toward his seat, black robes swishing about his ankles. Rowan watched him and saw something else i
n his dark eyes. It was there for only a moment before disappearing – hunger. She shuddered as he swept by.
The noise in the vaulted room ceased as all eyes turned in expectation toward the dais. A staff struck the marble floor twice and echoed through the silence. A man and a woman emerged through one of the doors. They came to the thrones and surveyed the council chambers.
Chancellor Galen stood to the left of the thrones. “Ladies and lords of Pellar, I present to you King Cerebus and Lady Queen Elana.” The chancellor’s voice reverberated through the stone room with a strength that belied such a slender old man.
Rowan hastened to her feet as the people in the council chambers stood and hailed the royals. King Cerebus looked much as he had the night before. His armour breastplate and shoulder guards were polished to a gleam and he wore a fur-trimmed cloak. His sword was sheathed at his hip and one large hand rested comfortably on its hilt.
Rowan studied the woman beside him. Queen Elana was beautiful, with pale hair twisted about her head in intricate braids and her proud form clothed in a creamy gown trimmed with gold stitching. She was a match to the king in every way. Though she was slight and fine-boned, she radiated the same strength and conviction that Rowan had seen in the king. The chamber fell away as Rowan gazed at the queen. Not since leaving her homeland had she encountered a woman this powerful. It was innate in her every fibre; if had Elana been a scrubbing woman in the keep’s kitchens, she would still exude that same strength.
King Cerebus raised a hand and his voice rang out over the chamber. “Please be seated.” He waited until the rustle of clothes and the scuffing of feet died away. “I have called this council for one reason alone. Our attentions are limited to the defence of this city and time is short so I would ask that the ceremony be dispensed with so that we might proceed with all swiftness to the matter at hand.” His gaze turned to Rowan and her companions. “We have with us today those who have travelled far to reach our beleaguered city to offer what aid they may and who bring with them a message from afar. I myself have heard but some of the message and felt that it warranted our fullest attention.”
Messenger from Myris Dar (The Stone Guardians Book 1) Page 30
