Hinterland

A WREATH OF LEAVES

“They still shouldn’t be here,” Liannora said. “Tell him, Sten.”

Brant sat across the dining table. He would have preferred to have broken bread with the giants back in his rooms, but the captain of the guard had insisted the group all share the final bell’s meal together, for safety’s sake. All had heard the rumors of daemons beneath Tashijan. Brant kept silent about his own involvement.

Watching from the side, he found it surprising how little the others seemed to be truly worried about the storm, the whispers of daemons, and the bustle of knights in the lower levels of Tashijan. Up higher, a certain degree of orderliness and routine persisted. To Liannora and her two lapdogs, Mistress Ryndia and Master Khar, it was all so much high adventure, requiring such brutal sacrifice as tolerating a meal served late.

And what a meal it was. The board was piled high enough to feed thrice their number. A covey of roasted grouse, stuffed with nut mash and corn, centered the table, surrounded by steaming loaves of oaten bread along with cheeses, both hard and soft, and boiled eggs painted in the Oldenbrook hues of blue and silver. A pair of scullions hauled off a large kettle-bowl of winter squash stew, requiring a pole through the handles to lift it from the table.

Such was the enormity of the fare that the captain of the guard shared a few plates with his men at the doors, who ate standing. While at the table, Sten and the Hands sipped tall crystal flutes of warmed sweetwine.

Brant suspected such largesse was mostly to keep the visitors calm and sated, as much a strategy of the warden as the flaming fortifications below. Chaos in the upper reaches would only hamper efforts below.

So he stayed silent during the long meal.

But Liannora was not satisfied with the fare alone. It seemed entertainment was also necessary this night.

“To keep these wolfkits, on our level, among our rooms, unbathed,” she sniffed and nodded to Sten. “If nothing else, it’s unclean.”

“They will be kept to my chambers,” Brant said.

“How can we know that for certain? Did they not worry themselves free of your giants’ charge, escaping away?”

Brant’s chair rested before the room’s hearth, the fire in full blaze behind him. He felt already near to roasted, and with his brow moist, he found little patience to dance with Liannora. “They’re staying here.”

“That is not your decision,” Liannora said. Plainly she remained upset at being snubbed earlier outside the castellan’s chambers, and now sought to punish him. “In all matters of our security and well-being, Sten is the final word.”

Ryndia and Khar nodded their agreement, murmuring their assent over their goblets of wine.

Brant turned to the captain of the guard.

Something in Brant’s eye gave Sten pause. “Mistress, perhaps it would be better…until the matter is settled below-”

Liannora touched his arm, silencing him. “These are indeed difficult times. We must try our best to be of service to Tashijan. Keeping the cubbies in these fine quarters will strain our welcome here. If any of us should become ill from our confinement with them…”

Ryndia lifted a fold of cloth to her nose. “I smelled them when I walked past Master Brant’s room on my way here. It all but made me swoon.”

Khar nodded, whistling a bit through his thin nose. “And their howling…pierced right through the wall to my bedchamber. I doubt my slumber this night will be undisturbed. Such disorder will surely burden my constitution.”

Brant scowled at the pair of Hands. Ryndia was as hearty as a well-fed cow, and Khar was known to sleep entire days away.

“If that be the case,” Sten began, avoiding Brant’s eye, “then we have a duty to rid them from our level. I’m sure my guards can find some lonely cage, away from the bustle, for the pair.”

Brant stood up, knocking his chair back, almost into the hearth’s flame. “They’ll not be moved.” He stared across the breadth of the table. “I will not play this game of yours, Liannora. If you’re upset with me, then state it plainly. Quit these little pokes.”

Liannora opened her eyes wider, the picture of innocence. “I’m certain I don’t know of what you’re clamoring about. I only seek the best for all.”

Sten sat more stiffly in his seat. “Master Brant, with all deference, I think it mightily rude of you to speak to the mistress in such a harsh manner. Plainly she only wishes everyone’s comfort here.”

Brant’s lips hardened. “Try to take the cubbies-any of you-and you’ll face my daggers,” he said in a low and certain voice.

Liannora waved a dismissive hand. “What did I tell you? He’s as wild as his cubbies. There is no reasoning with him. You, Sten, are witness to his threat against me. Such matters must be brought before the attention of Lord Jessup upon our return. And I’ll ask that you set a guard upon his door or I’d fear some attack during the night.”

Sten was already on his feet. “Master Brant, you leave me little choice. I’ll ask that you retire to your chambers. Perhaps in the morning more sense will prevail, and you’ll apologize for such an affront.”

Two guards obeyed some hidden signal and came forward to flank Brant.

Brant only then realized how artfully he had been manipulated. The threat against the whelpings was only a feint, one meant to draw him out for the true attack. And he had fallen into the trap readily.

Liannora’s next words confirmed his suspicion. “And let him keep his cubbies-at least for this one night. I’m sure we can all endure their presence for the sake of peace and good grace.”

“Most generous and reasonable,” Ryndia said.

“More than he deserves,” Khar echoed on cue.

Sten nodded his thanks and faced Brant with an exasperated sigh. “If you’ll accompany us,” he said and headed to the door.

Brant followed. He had dug himself a deep enough grave.

Still Liannora could not help but cast one more dagger. “In the morning, we’ll settle this matter of the cubbies.”

Brant did not rise to this further challenge. He held his tongue and gladly left the small dining hall. The door closed behind him-but not before he caught a small twitter of suppressed laughter from Ryndia.

He also heard Liannora’s soft scold to her friend. “Oh, this is not over.”

Brant allowed himself to be escorted back to his chambers. Guards or not, he looked forward to escaping to the confines of his rooms. But as he neared his door by the central stairs, he noted a knight standing at the landing, framed in torchlight, reminding him of the greater danger they all faced.

Sten stopped at his door.

Brant stepped forward and grabbed the latch.

“Ho!” a call rose from the stairs.

All eyes turned. A group of cloaked figures pushed past the lone guard and entered the hall. Warily, Brant backed a step, especially when the lead figure shed his cloak’s hood. It was the regent again, Tylar ser Noche.

What now? Had something happened to Dart?

The regent’s eyes settled on Brant. “I would have a private word with Master Brant,” Tylar said, turning and acknowledging Sten, noting the crossed raven’s feathers at his collar, marking the captain’s station.

Sten also recognized the triple-striped countenance of the regent. “Certainly, your lordship.”

“Very good.”

Brant swallowed to find his voice. It seemed this long night was far from over. “Please use my chambers…” He waved to the door.

The regent nodded.

Brant undid the latch and pushed. He stood aside for them to enter. He recognized one of the regent’s companions, the thin and bearded figure from before. Rogger was his name, as he recalled. He gave Brant a reassuring pat as he passed inside.

The next figure stood a head taller than all of them, buried in his cloak. Brant did not know him. Behind the stranger, the last figure stopped at the threshold. It was a woman under the gray cloak, though her face was hidden behind ash.

Brant frowned. What was a member of the Black Flaggers doing here with the regent?

The tall man nodded to her. “Keep any ears from our door,” he instructed her.

She turned her back, standing before the doorway, fists coming to rest on her hips. She glanced over to Sten. The captain backed a full two steps before seeming to collect himself.

Brant instantly warmed to her and closed the door.

Behind him, a voice boomed a bit. “Who are you lot?”

Brant turned and hurried after the three men into the greeting hall of his chambers. The giant rose up from where he had been sitting cross-legged by the fire. He stood in his wool stockings, worn through at the toes, and had shed his greatcoat. He had a greasy turkey leg in one hand.

At his feet, a black nose retreated into one of his boots, dragging a worn snippet of bone. It seemed the whelpings had found a den for the night. A thready snarl flowed out of the boot, as wary of the intrusion as Malthumalbaen.

“It’s all right, Mal,” Brant said. “If you wouldn’t mind taking the whelpings into the next room and shutting the door. Where’s your brother?”

The large man pointed his turkey leg toward the back. “Had to use the privy, if that were all right?”

“Of course.”

“You say that now,” Mal answered jovially. “But wait ’til you go in there.”

“I must have a word with the regent,” Brant said, nodding to Tylar, who had bent a knee to peer inside the boot, drawn by the curiosity.

Mal shifted straighter, eyes widening again. “Ach, then I should be joining Dral.” He stepped toward his occupied boot. “If you’ll excuse me, ser.”

So much for Oldenbrook’s surprise.

“Cubbies,” Brant acknowledged and stepped forward. “To be presented to you and the warden after the knighting ceremony.”

“Fell wolves, are they not?” Tylar asked, sitting back, a measure of surprise in his voice. “Handsome creatures. How did you come by them?”

“I rescued them from the same storm that besets us this night.”

“Might near killed himself doing it,” Malthumalbaen added.

Brant felt his cheeks heat up.

The regent shared a glance with his bearded friend and stood.

Brant motioned to Malthumalbaen, who bent down and scooped up his large boot, earning a few sharper growls. The giant carried them toward the back room. “If you need me, Master Brant…”

Brant took some solace in the giant’s support. Once they were alone and the door shut, he faced the others. “How may I be of help?”

Tylar’s brow remained furrowed, crinkling the topmost stripe tattooed at the corner of his eyes. “First, tell us more about your rescue of these cubbies.”

“And the storm,” Rogger added.

Brant stared around the room. The tall stranger stood with one hand resting on the stone mantel of the hearth, the other on the hilt of his sword. It bore a distinct serpent’s head carved from silver, not the black diamond of a shadowknight’s sword. Still, there was something vaguely familiar about the blade.

Avoiding this one’s eyes, Brant cleared his throat and briefly told the story of his search for the abandoned cubbies, of the strange nature of the storm, and of its deadly cold.

“So the storm was gathering force as it swept south,” Rogger said. “Sucking the life’s breath out of the land.”

“I warned Lord Jessup, but once the storm had passed, there was little to discover, swept under a blanket of snow.”

Tylar nodded and mumbled as he paced one length of the room. “It seems this storm has swept all of us here for various reasons.” The regent turned on a heel and again faced Brant. “But what I need to know more is what swept you here.”

“Ser?”

Tylar asked the question that Brant was loath to ever answer. “How did you come to be exiled, Master Brant? What swept you up on our shores?”

Stunned by the strange turn of the inquiry, Brant stumbled for words. “I don’t see how-?”

“You’d best answer the question,” Rogger said from the other side, balancing the tip of a dagger on a finger. Brant had failed to note the man slip it from any sheath.

“And what do you know about a skull?” the ominous stranger asked by the hearth. “The skull of a rogue god.”

Brant fell back a step as the world shifted under his heels. “What…?” The back of his legs struck a chair. He sank down into it. A hand rose to the scar on his neck, a warding gesture.

Three pairs of eyes bore down upon him.

A keening wail filled his head, threatening to drown him away.

“Tell us,” Tylar demanded.

Brant shook his head-not refusing, but attempting to stop his slide into the past. He failed.

It had been a wet spring in Saysh Mal, when the jungle wept and moss grew thick on anything that risked stopping in one place for too long. Such did not describe the three boys that day as they lit out down the soggy forest path, enjoying the warming day that held the promise of a long summer to come in the streaks of bright sunlight cutting through the canopy.

Flitters buzzed the ear and nattered the skin, requiring the occasional slap to neck or arm. A pair of squabbling long-tailed tickmonks caterwauled from the trees, stopping only long enough to pass on a scolding howl at the boys running below before continuing their argument.

“Brant, wait for me!” shouted Harp. He limped after the faster boys, encumbered by a weak leg, a birthing kink that could not be cured with any manner of Grace.

Brant slowed their pace, though Marron ran another few paces before stopping, swinging around with a wide smile. “If we’re any later, we’ll miss seeing the match!”

They had been released early from Master Hoarin’s class on mushrooms and molds to attend a marksman contest to be held at the midday bell. But to make it in time, they still had to hurry.

Marron’s uncle had won the third match yesterday and this was the last spar. Half the villages had emptied out for the yearly culmination of hunting skills, to be held at the Grove. Wreathed crowns had already been handed out for skill with spear, dagger, and snare, for the most fleet of foot, for the most silent of step. This day ended with the crowning Hunter of the Way, the man or woman who had shown the most skill over the course of the four-day challenge. The Huntress herself usually granted this crown, but she had missed many such appearances over the past several moons, falling more and more into solitude and gloomy silences.

All hoped to see her again in her usual shining manner.

If only for the one day.

Perhaps this reason more than any had drawn a larger crowd than usual. If the boys wanted a good view of the final event-a display of marksmanship of bow and arrow-they’d need to hurry.

Harp huffed up to them, limping heavier.

“Take my shoulder,” Brant said.

The boy, younger by two years than the others, nodded his thanks, leaning his weight on Brant.

Ahead, Marron all but danced with his excitement. The family of the winner would be on the dais for the crowning. Marron had been chattering about meeting the Huntress over the past two days as his uncle rose in the rankings.

They took off again for the Grove.

Harp moved faster now. “You’ll be on the dais one of these years, Brant. ’Course, after you cross fourteen.” Brant knew the younger boy held his hunting skills in esteem, mostly because Brant let him come along on a few forays.

Few extended such invitations to the hobbled boy. His manner was odd, and whatever ailment had left him with a shrunken leg at birth had also sapped his strength. He was thin-boned and hawkish of features. And in a realm where swiftness of foot and skill with spear and arrow were valued, few found him a desired companion.

But Brant also knew that behind that weakened body hid a keen mind and a generous heart. There was a reason the boy had advanced two years in schooling. Sometimes Brant noted how his eyes seemed lost in some other place, gone off to somewhere deep in his mind. And a part of Brant envied his escape.

“You’ll definitely be Hunter of the Way one day. Surely- girly,” Harp said. It was one of his strange habits: rhyming when he was excited. Several of the boys taunted him about it, but Brant knew his friend couldn’t help it.

“Your father was crowned, wasn’t he?” Harp continued, rushing and gasping. “Twice, right?”

Brant felt a sharp pain, puncturing his joy and draining it away. It had only been a little over a year, and the loss of his father still tore like a fresh wound. He fought back the melancholy that filled so many of his days and even more of his nights. He wouldn’t let it ruin this day. It was too bright for dark thoughts. Still, a shadow followed him. It felt like dread.

Ahead, Marron ran faster when the murmur of the crowd flowed to them, sounding like the great rustling of dry leaves. “I’ll save a spot!”

Fleeing his dark thoughts, Brant hurried after his friend, almost tripping Harp. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

They rounded a bend in the path, and the Grove opened ahead. It was a great natural hollow in the forest, ringed by ancient pompbonga-kee trees. They were the great sentinels of the cloud forest and grew no place else in all the Nine Lands. Their wood was iron strong but light as the mists that crept through the cloud forest. It was from such wood that all the keels and ribbing for Myrillia’s flippercraft were hewn, enriching the realm.

The nine mighty trees that circled the hollow were known as the Graces. It was said they were planted by the Huntress herself when she chose to build her castillion here at the edge of the hollow, in the bower of the most ancient of all the forest’s trees, a great behemoth that was already ancient when she settled this realm.

Brant led Harp out into the edge of the Grove. The giant pompbonga-kee trees circled the hollow, their branches forming a wreath of green over the natural amphitheater. In the center, it was open to the sky. The midday sun blazed down upon the center of the hollow, turning the green meadow below into an emerald sea.

Spreading up the slopes were crowds of onlookers, many with blankets spread, enjoying the spring warmth as much as the games. Down farther, ringing the center field, the crowd was packed shoulder to shoulder. Out here at the fringes, many had climbed into the branches of the Graces, where balconies and stands had been built long ago. Drapes of spring flowers decorated the levels and twined up the stair railings.

Brant craned upward. It seemed not a seat was open.

“The whole world must be here,” Harp whispered, breathless with the excitement.

A low roar swelled around them. Down below, flags fluttered, marking clans and families.

“Over here!” Marron called to them off to the left, waving an arm. “Hurry! My brother has a free bench held up here!” He pointed to the stairs that led up to into one of the Graces.

Brant ran toward him.

Farther ahead, his eye caught upon the castillion of the Huntress, perched and tiered in the tenth and greatest of the pompbonga-kees. It rose at the easternmost edge, where the rising sun would first touch its green crown. What once had been crafted and constructed within the branches had long been swallowed as the ancient tree continued to grow. The castillion was no longer built in the tree but was part of the tree. It was a sight that humbled any eye that fell upon it, proof of the power of root and leaf, of the force of loam.

There was no more fitting home for the god of their realm.

Brant searched the high balcony of the castillion. The Huntress usually watched the games from such a vantage. But presently it appeared empty. Maybe she would appear when the competition began.

Brant reached Marron with Harp in hobbled tow.

“How…how high must we climb?” the younger boy asked, plainly winded.

Marron pointed his arm straight up, earning a groan from Harp. “Don’t fret. Brant and I’ll carry your bony arse to the top if we have to. Let’s go!”

Marron was in exceptionally good cheer. He often had little patience for Harp, but this day, nothing could squelch his fine spirit. He led them toward the stairs at the base of the towering pompbonga-kee.

As Brant followed, he noted a cloaked shadowknight by the foot of the steps. She was inked in darkness, half-melded into the shadows beneath the giant tree. She must be one of the Huntress’s own knights, come to view the games.

Brant searched around the curve of the hollow. Another knight stood at the base of the next tree. Had there been another at the tree behind them? He glanced back. It would’ve been easy to miss someone hiding in the deeper shadows.

Straightening forward, he almost ran into the chest of the knight. The woman had flowed so silently out of the shadows.

“Pardon me, ser,” he said shyly, starting to step around.

She blocked him. “You are the boy named Brant, are you not?”

To find his name uttered by the likes of a shadowknight unnerved him. He lost his tongue.

“Yes- mess, ” Harp rhymed, eyes huge on the knight. “He is, ser.”

An arm smoked out of the darkness and gripped Brant’s shoulder. “The school said you were headed here. We were sent to fetch you.”

“Why?” he asked, finally freeing his tongue. “I-I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Never said you did. And I can’t say why you’ve been summoned. Only that you have been.”

“Summoned by who?”

“By the Huntress herself.”

Brant was drawn away with the knight. His two friends gaped after him. Harp looked on with awe, while Marron wore an expression more confused.

Shock silenced Brant all the way around the curve of the hollow. The knight gathered another two of her cloaked brethren, falling into step with him.

Brant heard them mutter behind him.

“What does she want with the boy?” one asked.

“Who can say? Of late, there’s no predicting her mood. Even her Hands have been whispering of her irritable dispositions and strange, prolonged silences.”

“What’s so strange?” the other said with a snort. “Sounds no different than my wife.”

They reached the ancient tree and passed through an arched opening between massive roots. Sunlight vanished. The knights melted into the darkness on the stair, fading into whispering shapes. But once they passed up to the first level, sunlight returned, dappled and in a thousand shades of green leaf. The rising levels from here seemed to have grown out of the wood itself: stacks of balconies, hollowed rooms, snaking staircases that wound through the open air or delved deep through the outer layers of the trunk. It was hard to separate what hand had hewn and nature had grown.

And none more so than the High Wing.

Here in the canopy of the very world, the crown of the castillion appeared like a carved flower atop the tree, all surrounded by a wide terrace, whose polished planks of pompbonga-kee glowed with a molten warmth. A delicate railing framed the balcony, sprouting leaf and tendril, while the High Wing itself had been sculpted into curves and archways, appearing more like petals. Here straight lines had given way to more natural arcs. Even the rooms and halls bulged out of the central trunk as though they were born of the wood itself. Only when very close could the lines between planks be seen.

Brant traced a finger along one as they climbed the last stair to the upper terrace. It reminded him of the curve of a flippercraft’s bow. Was it from this example that the ancient wrights had learned to craft the mighty airships of Myrillia? Brant intended to ask Master Sheershym, the chronicler of Saysh Mal.

When at last they reached the great terrace, Brant caught a glimpse of the Grove below. Flags fluttered and cheers rose. The games had begun. But Brant had all but forgotten them.

“This way,” the knight ordered.

Brant was led through a great carved archway into the High Wing proper. Even after they crossed the threshold, the sunlight seemed to follow them, flowing through windows and reflecting off mirror and crystal. The air almost danced with the spring light. Brant inhaled the spiced air, heady with the natural oils of the pompbonga-kee.

Despite the beauty and wonder of it all, Brant’s legs had begun to tremble. He was not worthy. He grew acutely aware of his poor attire: leggings patched at the knees, a loose jerkin that was missing two hooks. Even his soft boots, gifts from his father two years ago, were scuffed to a dull brown. He combed fingers through his hair, working away some old knots. At least he had bathed two days ago.

He lost track of the turns through the High Wing.

Suddenly he found himself before a set of tall doors, carved like a single leaf of the pompbonga-kee, but split down the middle in an S-shaped curve, following a vein in the leaf.

The knight pulled a twined rope of leather and a bell rang beyond the door. Moments later, a thin woman, wearing an ankle-length white dress sashed at the waist, pushed open one leaf of the door. Her eyes, pinched at the corners, glanced over them, then she bowed them inside. Only Brant and the lone knight, the woman, stepped through.

“Matron Dreyd,” the knight said. “We’ve come with the boy your mistress asked us to bring.”

“Thank you, Ser Knight. The mistress will be pleased.”

The matron’s words were spoken staidly, as if she doubted them herself. Brant noted how she glanced out the door as she closed the way, almost as if she weighed fleeing through it and away.

Still, she turned and offered a wan smile of welcome.

The chamber here was lit by an arched window to the sky. It shone down upon the floor, where the graining was so fine that Brant could not discern the individual planks. Smaller archways branched off the hall, some open, others sealed.

“My mistress has instructed that she would like the boy to join her in the Heartroom.”

“Truly?” the knight said, unable to mask her surprise.

A nod answered her.

The knight stepped back. She placed a palm on Brant’s back and gently pushed him. “Go. Do not keep the Huntress waiting.”

Brant tripped a step, then followed his new guide, Matron Dreyd. She led him straight down the hall to another set of doors, a smaller version of the ones through which they had entered. The matron led him through those and deeper again down a narrower hall. Here lamps flickered on wall hooks as the sunlight was left behind. The spicy scent of tree oil grew stronger.

Brant realized they must be within the very trunk itself.

Gooseflesh prickled his skin.

They continued to the end…where a single plain door stood closed.

Matron Dreyd knocked softly. “Mistress, I have the boy named Brant.”

Silence answered her.

The matron glanced back to Brant, then back to the door. She lifted her arm to knock again-then words whispered through.

“Send him in. Alone.”

The matron nodded, though her mistress plainly could not see her assent. She stepped back and motioned Brant to the door. “Go inside.”

Brant took a deep breath, then reached for the latch.

Fingers gripped his shoulder, stopping him.

“Do not upset her.”

Brant glanced up to her. She clasped a hand over her mouth as if surprised the words had escaped her. His shoulder was released, and he was pushed forward.

Hands in full tremble now, Brant tried the latch, found it unlocked, and creaked the door open. A slightly foul smell wormed through the spiced oil.

Brant glanced again to the matron. He was shooed inside, but the matron’s words were stuck in his head. Do not upset her.

He had no choice. He stepped into the room.

The space was small, almost cozy, oval-shaped, with a low-domed roof and a hearth on the far side that glowed with red embers, the flames long died away. Still, it was the only light in the room. The glow washed over the walls and roof, bathing it in dark crimson. Brant noted the graining, all whorls and rings. This was no planked construction, but a chamber hewn from the tree itself.

The Heartroom.

On the far side, a chair rested before the hearth, alongside a small table. A single figure sat there.

Brant froze at the threshold.

“Do not fear, Brant, son of Rylland. Come forward.”

The words were spoken with soft assurance, sweetly melodic, though with a deep trace of melancholy. It spoke to the sorrow in his own heart.

He crept forward, unsure if he should bow or scrape a knee. He circled wide, edging around the oval room, attempting to keep as much distance between him and the speaker.

The Huntress of Saysh Mal.

One of the Hundred gods of Myrillia.

She sat, head bowed, brow resting on her folded hands, elbows on either arm of her chair, a posture of forlorn concentration. She was dressed in green leathers and white silk, a simple hunter’s cut. As he stepped into view, she lifted her head. Eyes glowed at him, rich in Grace. Even her skin seemed to shine with a waxen sheen.

He sagged to his knees.

A cascade of curls, as dark as shadow, framed her dark skin. Full lips formed the ghost of a smile, like a memory of innocence. Brant felt himself stir, deeper than his loins.

“I knew your father,” she said, glancing away, releasing him. She stared into the dying embers. “He was a great hunter.”

Brant stared at the floor, unable to speak.

“I’m sure you still miss him.”

Grief and pride freed his voice to a quiet squeak. “Yes, mistress, with all my heart.”

“Just so. He sifted many great treasures out of our sea here. A pelt of a balelion. The head of a manticrye. The antlered rack of the rare teppin-ra. Did you know teppin-ra comes from ancient Littick? Tepp Irya. Meaning fierce buck.”

“No, mistress.”

“So much forgotten…” She sighed. She remained silent for several breaths. Long enough for Brant to peek up.

Her gaze had shifted to the table at her side. A single object rested there, draped in black sailcloth, which appeared damp as it reflected the ember’s glow.

“But this was the greatest treasure your father ever attended.”

Curiosity drew Brant straighter.

She reached to the heavy cloth and tugged it free. Brant caught again the waft of stench. Only now did he recognize it. Black bile.

Dread flared in his chest.

In the ember-light, the skull glowed like blood.

At his throat, a fire exploded. Gasping, he clutched at the stone, the bit of rock that had been rolled to his toes by the dying rogue. The same fire that had consumed the trespassing god had come to claim him. Brant tore at his jerkin, ripping hooks.

The Huntress seemed oblivious, focused on the skull.

“He brought this to me…not knowing…surely not knowing.”

Brant cried out, digging for the stone. He had known his father had collected the skull after the god’s body burnt. He had picked it free of the ashes with the tip of an arrow through an eye socket. He had wrapped it in his own cloak. Brant had not known what had become of it. Of course, his father would have brought word here, of such a trespass by a rogue god. But afterward, Brant assumed the foul thing had eventually been destroyed or laid to rest in some manner. All but forgotten.

The only remnant of the frightening adventure was the small black rock, no bigger than the end of his thumb. His father had let him keep it so long as he swore to tell no one of it. The stone was a secret bond between father and son.

And now the stone meant to burn him to ash.

The Huntress finally seemed to note his writhing. At some point, he had collapsed to the floor. She rose to her feet.

“Do you hear its call, too?” She drifted toward him. “Poor boy. It can’t be resisted. I try to stay away, to keep it steeped in the blackest of biles, but still it calls. Day and night. And now I hear words…but I can’t quite understand…not yet. Only that somewhere it asked for you.”

Brant gasped out, “Help me…”

She knelt next to him, her face strangely calm as he burnt.

“I wish I could.”

She reached out and touched his cheek. Where her fingers touched, a cooling balm pushed back the searing agony. But the pain had to go somewhere.

The Huntress screamed.

Brant forgot the remaining burn. He struggled to roll away from her touch. He could not let her come to harm. But her fingers dragged down into his cheek and, nails scraping, her hand grabbed his throat. His skin flamed with her touch, more fiery than even the stone. Her eyes fixed upon him. The Grace within her flared brighter.

“No…you must not be here. You must go.” These words were spoken with a sudden intensity, shedding the strange malaise that had haunted her earlier words. She threw him aside by the neck. He smelled his burning flesh. Then the stone flared anew at his chest with its own flaming agony.

He writhed on the floor.

She stumbled to the table and ripped the bile-encrusted cloth back over the skull. The flames from the stone immediately vanished. He pawed at his chest, expecting crisped skin and burnt bone. But all he found was smooth skin. There was not even a residual warmth.

Not so his throat.

Where she had throttled him, his skin blistered and weeped.

The Huntress stood by the table, trembling from head to toe.

A pounding erupted from the door. “Mistress!”

Brant recognized the shadowknight who had led him here. They must have all heard the god shriek.

“Attend me! Now!” she barked out.

Brant remained on his knees on the floor.

The Huntress turned to him as the door burst open and a flow of shadows swept into the room, shredding into individual knights. Brant kept his focus on his god. He watched the flare of Grace subside in her eyes.

But before it was gone completely, she shoved an arm toward him. “Take him, chain him, get him out of my land by nightfall.”

Brant’s mind refused to make sense of her words.

Her eyes bore upon him, fading with Grace, full of sorrow and certainty. “I banish him.”

A world and a lifetime away, Brant wept in a chair. He could not stop the tears. He had told no one of his full story, his full shame, until this moment.

Tylar came forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.

Rogger had sheathed his dagger. “You and your father witnessed the rogue’s trespass and demise?”

Brant nodded.

The bearded man shared a studied glance with the regent.

Tylar tilted up Brant’s chin to examine the scar. “And you’ve been marked by a god, too,” he mumbled and stepped back.

The regent’s hand drifted to his shadowcloak.

Brant knew that beneath that blessed cloth Tylar bore the black handprint of a god, pressed into his chest by Meeryn of the Summering Isles, branding him a godslayer. He met the regent’s eye, sensing some bond between them-for better or worse.

“May I see this burning talisman of yours?” Tylar asked. “This stone.”

Brant reached up and tugged the black stone free. Tylar leaned down and reached for it.

“Take care with that,” Rogger warned.

The tall stranger edged closer, one hand on the serpent-headed pommel of his sword.

Tylar picked up the stone between two fingers. Nothing happened. He turned it around, examining all the surfaces. “Appears like a shard of rock, rough-hewn. I sense no great power here.”

“Let me see.”

Rogger shouldered up and bent down.

Tylar stepped back and to the black-cloaked stranger. “Did the Wyr mention anything about a black stone associated with the skull?”

“No,” the other intoned dourly.

“Those Wyr-lords do like to keep their secrets.” Rogger straightened, a fist resting on one hip. “But there must be a connection. I find it awful fateful that this boy ends up trapped here with us. The skull and the stone brought together again.”

“But is that a boon or a curse?” Tylar asked. “If the Huntress exiled him, banishing him away, perhaps she thought it best to keep them as far apart as possible. The way we keep Dart and the sword separated.”

“I don’t think we can place too much weight on the Huntress’s word. It sounds like the seersong had already sapped her in some way.”

Brant finally found his voice. “Is it true? The rogue’s skull? The one possessed by the Huntress is here? How…?”

Tylar nodded to his companion, permitting him to speak. “He should know.”

Rogger sighed and related his own experience in Saysh Mal. His description of the state of affairs in Brant’s former home helped push back his grief, replacing it with anger and horror. Over the four years he had been here in the First Land, ruin had settled over the cloud forest and its denizens.

All because of a cursed skull.

One Brant’s father had carried into the land.

“I would see this skull destroyed,” he said.

“Well, that’s the slippery part,” Rogger said. “We left it in a rather precarious situation. It’s down there with those daemon knights that you so kindly rooted out for us.”

Brant stood up, almost bumping the regent. “We must get it free from there!”

“We intend to,” Tylar said. “And after your tale, I think it’s even more important that we do so immediately.”

“Then you’ll destroy it?” Brant asked. There could be no question that it was riddled with black Grace.

The two men’s eyes glanced to the third, the tall stranger.

“It seems we still need the skull for a bit of bartering.”

“What?”

Tylar headed for the door. “We have no time to explain.”

“I will go with you!” Brant followed.

Tylar held out a hand. “No. You are safe here.”

“Nowhere’s safe this night.”

Rogger nodded. “The boy’s right there. And somehow he and his rock are tied to this skull’s story. It’s time we completed the tale.”

Tylar hesitated.

“Like you said,” Rogger argued. “Bringing them together is either a curse or a boon. If it’s a curse, then better it happen deep under Tashijan than up here. If it’s a boon, then the sooner we join the two the better.” He punctuated it with a shrug. “Besides, he can carry an extra torch. And right now, stone or not, that’s fine with me.”

The regent’s jaw muscles tightened. “So be it.” He forced the words out.

Brant was relieved. He would have followed them if necessary.

Others were not so certain. The back door to the room burst open and two large forms tumbled into the room.

“No, Master Brant!” Malthumalbaen shouted. “You can’t go alone. We’ll come with you!”

Tylar shared an irritated glance with his bearded friend.

“It seems someone’s been listening at our door,” Rogger said.

“Not listening,” Dralmarfillneer said. “That weren’t so. Our mammers gave us big ears. That’s all.”

“So I see. Too bad she didn’t gift you with the brains to match.”

Brant shook his head at the two giants. “Someone needs to watch the cubbies.” He dared not leave them unguarded with Liannora hovering about.

“One set of eyes is enough,” Mal said. “I’ll go and Dral can stay with them.”

“Shine my arse. The bloody nippers like you better.”

“We’ll pound for it, then.”

The two giants agreed, stepped back, and swung out with their fists, smashing them against the other. Malthumalbaen stumbled back a step. Dral kept his footing and turned triumphantly.

“Mal will stay.”

With the matter settled, the regent led them out into the hall-where a crowd had gathered, held back by the gray-cloaked woman’s sword. It seemed Sten had spread the word of the regent’s visitation. Liannora, Ryndia, and Khar stood amid a few of the captain’s guards.

“Clear the way,” Tylar demanded.

“Where are you taking a Hand of Oldenbrook?” Sten replied. “I have the right to inquire.”

Liannora stood at his shoulder. Brant suspected the inquiry and challenge truly arose from her.

“We have matters to attend below concerning the security of Tashijan. Brant has been in the cellars and his knowledge may be of assistance.”

Sten glanced between Brant and the regent. “This is the first I’ve heard of such matters.”

“And the last.” Tylar motioned for the others to head for the stairs.

Sten stumbled forward, shoved surreptitiously from behind by Liannora. “Wait!” he called. “If a Hand of Oldenbrook is to be taken from our halls, I must accompany him. The security of the retinue was placed in my charge by Lord Jessup himself. I will not shirk it, nor let it be taken from me.”

Tylar turned, face darkening, a fist forming.

Rogger stepped forward. “What’s another torch? Never hurt to have another sword, too.”

“We’ve wasted enough time here,” the tall stranger grumbled. “We’ve learned what we needed. Let us be off.”

The regent nodded. “You’re right, Krevan. Come if you may, Captain-but you’ll obey every word from here.”

Sten bowed, and Liannora smiled behind his back.

As a group, they headed toward the stairs. Brant studied the cloaked stranger’s back. Krevan. He now understood why an ash-faced member of the Black Flaggers had guarded their door.

Here was Krevan the Merciless, the leader of that black guild.

Brant also remembered the regent’s bearded friend mentioning some matter of bartering with the skull. With the Black Flaggers here, it could only mean some treachery or dark design.

Though he could not fathom what that might be, Brant knew one thing with steel certainty. No matter what the others planned, Brant would destroy the skull. Since the morning the flaming rogue had stumbled into his life, all had come to ruin.

This night, it would end.