“Good day, Southron, how are you called?”
“Shae, Brashaen’s son.”
“Business in Mazlo?”
“Just passing through.”
“Length of stay?”
“Until that’s over with,” Shae said, pointing over his shoulder.
“I have heard that several times already. I can’t say that I blame you. As for your charge…”
The man’s voice died away when he turned his attention to Gwynn. Within the gate’s shelter, the wind had lost its power, so her hair was no longer whipping around her head. Instead, it fell in tangled silken waves down over her shoulders to cover both the pommel and the cantle of her saddle. Within the relative darkness of the gate, she had an unearthly shimmer about her.
“Gwynn ferch Gryffyn.” The scribe glanced up at the rich sound of her voice, and he too began to stare. When no 63
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more questions were forthcoming and the silence continued to stretch, Gwynn cast a confused look at Shae.
“Gwynn is under my care,” he said sternly, “and I will see her to shelter before that storm hits. Is there anything further you require of us?”
The two men shook their heads like Shae’s words released them from a spell. “No,” the first guard stuttered.
“You may go.” Shae nodded, picked up his reins, and they passed through the arched gateway into the city of Mazlo.
“Stay close. It’s easy to get separated in a city this size with everyone hurrying to find shelter before the storm hits.”
Gwynn edged Rogue over until her stirrup was touching his, ready to believe him. Everything around her looked chaotic and sounded deafening. Vendors were trying to make one last sale, drivers were bawling at their teams, and the milling pack animals were calling out. With her heightened sensitivity, it was almost too much sound and motion for her to bear. Gwynn went pale and clutched the pommel of her saddle with both hands.
Shae put a steadying hand on her arm when she swayed. “It won’t be so bad once we get away from the gate.
The better inns will be closer to the center of town; the ones here cater to poorer travelers and drovers.”
Once they moved away from the vicinity of the gate and the cheaper inns, the crowd thinned out. There were still people rushing through the streets, but the livestock and pack trains were gone. A bit more riding brought them to the section of town he was seeking. If they were going to be stranded the better part of a seven-night, Shae had determined they were going to be comfortable. He was looking for the sort of inn that catered to wealthier travelers, like rich merchants and minor nobility. They passed several before he found one he liked.
“This one looks good,” he said, turning into an inn 64
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yard. “It’s stone and so is the barn, which should be sturdy enough to stand up to the storm.”
“I think that’s a good idea.” Gwynn’s voice still had a bit of strain, but she had more color in her cheeks than she had at the gate. She looked at the sign swinging in the wind above the inn door; it read The Traveler’s Rest. “I think this is one of the few inns I have ever seen whose name didn’t refer in some way to drinking.”
“I believe you may be right,” Shae agreed with a laugh.
An ostler appeared with a boy in tow, neither of them surprised by the Southronbred in the yard.
“Good day Southron,” the ostler said. “Here for a meal or staying the night?”
“Probably a number of nights from the look of those clouds,” Shae told him. The two dismounted, Shae taking Gwynn’s saddlebags from Rogue before she had a chance to get them herself.
She reached for her bridle bells before their horses were led away. “I’ll get those,” the boy offered. He unclipped the bells, turning to hand them to Gwynn, and he stopped in mid-motion, staring into her glowing eyes.
“Thank you.” Gwynn removed the bells gently from his hand.
“You are welcome,” the boy sighed. He continued to stand with Rogue’s reins in his hand, staring after Gwynn when they went into the inn. The ostler cuffed him on the arm, but the boy stared a moment more before he followed him into the stables.
Once inside, an older woman in a spotless white apron greeted them. “Good afternoon, Southron. Do you and your charge require rooms?”
“We do.”
“And we will require them for more than one night with the turn in the weather,” Gwynn added, her voice 65
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echoing in the empty common room. The woman’s mouth fell open when she got her first look at the silver-eyed bard and her windswept hair.
“Of course, lady bard, whatever you wish,” she gushed. “Please, come with me. I have the most wonderful rooms for you. You simply must play for us tonight.” She led them across the common room and upstairs.
The innkeeper opened a door to reveal a large sitting room with easy chairs, a well-cushioned settle, and several small tables that led to a room with a four-poster bed and a private bath. There was plenty of space to wander around if the weather kept them confined. Shae eyed the settle. It did not appear long enough to accommodate his height, but it seemed a bit early in their acquaintance to point out that it was a big bed, and he had no designs on her.
Gwynn read his look. “If you promise that you won’t steal the blankets, we can share. I’m not particularly prudish, and it’s a rather large bed. I’m also better suited to using the settle should you be the prude.”
“I think you know me better than that already,” Shae responded with a wink before nodding to the innkeeper.
“Thank you, this will suit us well.”
“Can we expect you to play for us later, lady bard?”
“I will be down for dinner; I will play after I have eaten.” There was an edge in her voice that caught Shae’s attention, and he turned from his inspection of the sitting room to find Gwynn had grown pale again. He crossed the room in two strides, wrapped an iron grip around the innkeeper’s elbow and before the woman realized what was happening, she found herself in the hall, staring at a closed door. “Thank you,” Gwynn whispered, sinking into a chair.
“I suppose I was a bit short with her.”
“I’m sure she thinks I was the rude one,” Shae laughed, but sobered when he noticed Gwynn had her head 66
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in her hands. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she sighed before rising restlessly again. She went to the window, stared out at the roiling clouds, and rubbed her temples. “I just wish the storm would begin.
There’s so much energy surging through it that it has given me a ghastly headache. I hate it when my head is pounding.
It makes me feel nauseous.”
“Sit, I might be able to ease the pain a bit.” She returned to her chair and Shae’s strong fingers expertly located the pressure points on her neck and shoulders.
Gwynn gasped a few times when he hit a particularly sensitive spot, but the pain began to recede immediately. The warmth and pressure in his touch eased the tension, and in a short time, her headache disappeared. “Is that better?”
“Much, thank you! Wherever did you learn to do that?” “From my father, who tries to drill a bit of skill into thick young Southron skulls. He knows quite a bit about headaches,” he chuckled, tugging gently on her hair. “Now, why don’t you brush out this tangled mess, and I will see about lunch. Storm or no, we still need to eat. That’s probably part of the reason your head hurt so much; you didn’t eat anything this morning.”
“I didn’t? I don't remember.”
“I never miss a meal if I can help it, and I notice when others miss theirs. Now, go brush your hair like a good little girl.”
“I don’t like to be good,” Gwynn pouted, settling obstinately deeper into her chair.
Shae wound his hand into her hair and pulled a little harder. “I know, but I expect you to listen when I tell you to do something. Sometimes, it will be for your safet
y and, sometimes, to make you take care of yourself. Brush your hair while I go hunt and gather for us.” He turned her loose, 67
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stalked across the room and the door closed behind him before she could protest. He returned with two wine bottles, and a heavy-set young woman followed behind him with a large platter. Gwynn had brushed her hair and was tuning her harp when they came through the door.
“Just leave it on the table,” Shae told the girl. He uncorked a bottle and filled a glass, offering it to Gwynn.
“This should finish off your headache. If it doesn’t, lunch followed by a long soak in a hot tub will.” Seeing the question in her eyes, he continued, “Yes, I asked for your hot water. I knew you would be ready for some. It’s being heated now, and you won’t have long to wait.”
Setting her harp beside her, Gwynn took the glass from him; over its rim, she watched the woman leave and looked slyly at her friend. “A brunette and something less than willowy, how disappointing for you.”
“She’s the innkeeper’s daughter, and she chatters just like her mother.”
“The hardships you Southrons face,” Gwynn sighed in counterfeit sympathy.
“Deprivation is good for the soul, they say. However, there was a little dark-eyed blond polishing pewter in the kitchen.” Shae glanced at her with a smirk. “So fortunately, deprivation doesn’t always have to last too long.”
“In the short time I’ve known you, I don’t think you have suffered deprivation of any sort.” Gwynn’s tone was sharp.
“Harkir’s Forge, I just spent the last two years in a mining camp in northern Caeross. I have a lot of deprivation to make up for,” Shae told her self-righteously. “Now eat, before you waste away.”
Just when they finished their lunch, the storm finally began. The wind howled fiercely, slamming the rain into the windows with such fury that the panes rattled, and Gwynn 68
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went to look out. The rain was falling in thick, gray sheets, and she could barely make out the stables or the already flooding street in front of the inn. Whipping the water in all directions, the wind seemed to blow the rain sideways as well as from the sky.
“Will it be like this the whole time?” Gwynn started at Shae’s question, not having heard him leave the table. She was surprised to find him standing beside her.
“At first, but it will probably subside somewhat after a bit. I’m glad we’re here. I hate riding in the rain.” She placed her slender fingers against the window and felt the chill. “It is cold rain too; there is nothing worse than being wet and cold.” “I could not agree more. Much later and we would have been just like that poor man.” Shae pointed at a rider trotting into the yard, his head down against the wind. He rode straight to the stable door, handed his horse to the ostler, and dashed across the yard. Gwynn shook her head and her gaze turned inward for a moment. “Is something wrong?”
“No, not at all, he’s a bard!” She was already at the door to their rooms.
He followed. “So you know him?”
“No.”
“Then how did you know—” Shae began.
“Bards always know when another one is nearby!”
Gwynn stated with lofty exasperation while she approached the stairs.
“Of course they do.” He muttered sarcastically when he found himself taking the stairs down two at time in order to keep up with her.
The innkeeper was fluttering over the sodden rider; he had shed his cloak and was carefully examining his harp case to make sure the rain had not managed to gain entrance.
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When Gwynn reached the bottom step, he turned with a smile, his hazel eyes lit by a golden flame.
“Well met, little sister. I am Corwyn ap Daffyd.” He too was in voice; a rich baritone filled the room. He offered his hand to Gwynn, doffing his drenched hat with style.
Corwyn was older than she, probably in his mid-thirties, with dark hair and a pleasant rugged face.
“Gwynn ferch Gryffyn. I—” she was cut off by the innkeeper.
“Two bards of Inishmore under my roof! Who would have thought this foul storm would bring such good fortune!
Please, let me show you to your room, sir!”
“A moment please.” The command in Corwyn’s voice silenced the innkeeper instantly. He took Gwynn’s hand and gallantly raised it to his lips. “Could it be that I stand before the long-sought heir to Talaysen’s genius? I had always hoped one day our paths might cross. Well met indeed.” Corwyn’s golden eyes took in Shae towering at Gwynn’s side, and he offered him his hand. “I have the feeling this is someone looking after you. It takes a brave man, even among Southrons, to have a young lady bard as his charge.”
“Corwyn, this is Shae ap Brashaen.” Shae took the hand offered to him; fortifying himself against the arcane jolt he thought was coming. It was there, but not nearly so powerful.
“Blade Clan are you not?” Corwyn asked.
Shae’s left eyebrow rose in inquiry. “I take it that you’ve spent some time around Southrons?”
“A few, a Lifeguard, in particular, when I was at the Sicarin court.” Gwynn was looking at Corwyn, so she didn’t see the sudden dangerous flare in Shae’s eyes at the word Lifeguard. “You have the look of your Clan.” Corwyn’s eyes bored into Shae’s for a moment before he turned back to 70
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Gwynn. “Perhaps we can all have dinner this evening, when I’m more presentable.”
“We will see you for dinner.” Corwyn suffered himself to be led away by the innkeeper, throwing a smile at the two companions over his shoulder.
They returned to their rooms; Gwynn could barely contain herself. She had not spent time with a fellow bard in over a year, and she was looking forward to playing with someone who shared her passion for music. When her bath water arrived, she disappeared into the other room, humming a new song on which she was working. She was so intent on her own interests that she had failed to notice Shae’s pensiveness.
He was relieved; it was taking a lot of control not to show his charge that he was reeling inside from his encounter with Corwyn. It had not been what he had said, but what Shae had learned from him. He had somehow heard Corwyn wondering why a Southron would keep something secret from his charge. That alone was unnerving, but the question was making him recall things he had not allowed himself to think about for a long time.
When he heard the door to the bath close, he walked silently into the bedroom and reached for his saddlebags. He dug toward the bottom of one, his fingers closing around the top of a small doeskin bag. When he removed it, the contents made a faint clanking noise when he sat on the edge of the bed. After listening again for Gwynn and hearing only snatches of song and splashes, he untied the thong at the top of the bag and slowly turned it upside down.
Two vambraces spilled onto the coverlet. The mirror finish on the steel was the result of a well-guarded Southron smelting technique, and they gleamed in the gray light from the windows. They were elaborately engraved with chased 71
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gold around the edges, and the panels vividly displayed the devices of his Clan and family. Corwyn would have had no trouble identifying them; they were the signatures of a Southron Lifeguard.
Lifeguards were the closest thing Southron had to a noble class, but unlike nobility, it was not based on an accident of birth. Any Southron had the chance to become a Lifeguard through hard work and diligence. In addition to the intense martial training Southrons were subject to, a prospective Lifeguard pursued a more advanced education.
They became fluent in several languages, studied history, the art of diplomacy, strategy, and instruction in the rigid protocol of a royal court. Like all Southrons, a Lifeguard’s word was good until death, but their more advanced education allowed them to fit seamlessly into a different role than that of the average Southron hiring out his services.
Lifeguards were diplomats, military advisors
, captained elite guard units or, like Shae’s parents, taught the young in their homeland. Most common, however, was taking the position that had given rise to the term Lifeguard.
That Lifeguard was ostensibly a personal bodyguard, but they were far more. Usually hired only by nobility or royalty, a Lifeguard was intimately involved in every aspect of their charge’s existence. They often became the one completely trusted individual in their charge’s life, because a Lifeguard had no loyalties to anyone other than their charge.
To have such loyalty was expensive in two ways. First, the person seeking a Lifeguard paid a huge wergild to secure their service. The second part of the expense was the burden born by the Lifeguard alone. The other types of positions held by Lifeguards had set limits; those limits might be a few months, several years, or for the duration of a crisis. For a personal Lifeguard, the oath ended only in death, either the death of their charge or the death of the Lifeguard. Few ever 72
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returned to their homeland and rarely saw family or friends.
The wergild was often called “making the sale of your life”
but behind the dark humor was a sober reality; Lifeguards gave over their life to the fulfillment of their oath.
Shae stared at his vambraces, allowing memories shut away for years to seep through his thoughts. He had once been a Lifeguard in Hasdran; his brother Laef and Laef’s Oath-mate Shelah still were. Unrest stirred by powerful nobles had torn Hasdran for many years, and more than once, those seeking power had reached for the throne.
Queen Rayna was determined to protect her son Vaethen and her daughters Rashelle and Caralyn.
Rayna’s Lifeguard Kane had hoped that being brothers, Shae and Laef would match well with Rayna’s son and youngest daughter while Shelah would look after Rashelle. Kane had forgotten an old Southron proverb about making plans too far in advance. Vaethen’s obsession with riding and hunting every moment he could steal away from his tutors and arms-masters struck a chord of understanding in Shelah. She also preferred the open sky to the elegant roof of a palace. Caralyn’s love of physical activity equaled her brother’s, while her acidic, but truthful, observations about her mother’s courtiers and councilors left Laef struggling to maintain the expressionless face sported by a Lifeguard in public. The Oath-mates offered their bond within a month of arrival in Hasdran.
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