Hinterland

A BRONZE BOY IN SNOW

He was being hunted through the wintry wood.

The forest whispered the hunter’s presence: with the shushing of snow slipping from a pine branch, the skeletal rub of brittle briar branches, the creak of twigs in an ancient deadfall.

Still, Brant remained calm, as he had been taught.

Unhurriedly, he continued through the woods.

With each crunch of his boot, the brittle crust of ice cracked into the deeper snow. He left a trail of footprints that could easily be followed. His father would shame him if he saw his carelessness, but he was long in his grave, killed by a she-panther, leaving no one around to admonish his son.

Especially not in this strange cold land.

Brant was as foreign to this country as a fish on a sandy shore. Even after living here for over a year, he still found the air too heavy and difficult to breathe.

The elders might force him from his own lands and call it a blessing, place him in a strange school in Chrismferry and call it lucky, have him chosen for service by the god of Oldenbrook and call it fate, but Brant would never truly call this land home.

So he kept a ritual, honoring his father and keeping to the old ways. Each morning, he abandoned the raftered bridges and stone pillars of Oldenbrook and hunted the woods that fringed the great lake. He carried a trio of gutted and skinned snowhares impaled along the shaft of one arrow, borne over a shoulder. His baiban bow was hooked over his other arm, while the feathers poking out from his quiver tickled his left ear.

His father could not fault his skill with the bow this day. He had killed the hares swiftly. Three bolts through three hearts. He dressed them where they fell, leaving entrails steaming in the snow, blood scenting the dry air. It was the Way, sharing the rewards of the hunt with the forest. So it had been taught to every child back in his faraway homeland of Saysh Mal. By the Huntress herself, the Mistress of the Cloud Wood, god of loam and leaf. But the Way was not honored here…except by Brant.

Then again, why should it be? Here was not a realm of loam but a land of river, lakes, and ponds.

Brant stopped to listen again as he reached a familiar brook, greeted by his own footprints, those he had left earlier as he headed out into the snowy glade. The whisper of the forest had gone silent. Still, he waited five full breaths.

With his eyes on the forest, he knelt at the creek’s edge, broke through the thin ice to reach the flowing water, and filled his goatskin flask. The wind brushed the tanglepine branches overhead, dusting him with snow and allowing a spear of sunlight to penetrate.

The ice sparked brilliantly, reflecting bits and pieces of the kneeling hunter: a snatch of brown hair, disheveled and draped across an unlined forehead…a corner of an emerald eye, squinted against the sudden glare…a stretch of thin lips, drawn even thinner…a corner of clefted chin, flecked by two days’ growth of beard.

Brant froze, recognizing in such a broken reflection not himself-but his father. The stubble on the chin was too thin, grown from a young man of fifteen winters, not the dark shadows of his father’s. And certainly one slivered reflection could not be misconstrued: Under the angle of a jaw, a branching scar marred the smooth bronze skin of his throat. If one squinted, it looked not unlike a hand, throttling him.

That belonged to Brant alone.

Shadows descended again as the wind died and branches fell back into place. It was time to go. Brant stood and followed the ice-edged brook as it switched back and forth through the wood. Around the last curve, the great blue expanse of Oldenbrook Lake opened before him. It might as well have been the sea itself. The far shore was only a promise, even in the clear, crisp morning.

The neighboring brook trickled into a misted meltpond bordering the shoreline of the great lake. The rest of the expanse was frozen over, but it was not flat ice. Instead the surface had been rilled into ridges by winter’s winds and dusted with mounds of snow. Out in the city, sections of the lake ice had been shaved smooth for games played atop thin silver blades.

Brant had always watched from the edges or atop bridges. The slick ice made him wary, and not just for its treachery of footing. When smooth, it was glassy. One could peer into the depths of the winter lake. Things were moving down there. And the clear ice seemed more illusory than real.

Brant crunched through the snow, happy for solid ground under his heels. A fringe of dead brown reeds marked the boundary between forest and lake. He was reluctant to leave the land for water.

The growl behind him changed that.

He spun, dropping to a knee, facing the depths of the shadowed forest as the hunter finally revealed itself. In Brant’s hand rested the hilt of his skinning knife, ready. He took a long slow breath through his nose, trying to catch a scent. Back in Saysh Mal, he knew most animals by their musk, but he smelled nothing lingering on this cursed dry air.

The beast moved as silently as the mist rising from the meltpond.

No crunch of ice.

The growl had been the only warning, full of hunger.

Brant dared not nock an arrow to his bowstring. He knew the beast would be upon him if he moved. He remained as still as a heron hunting among the reeds. Crimson eyes appeared in the forest, much closer than he had suspected, low to the ground. Muscles bunched at the shoulders. Bulk shifted. Ghost took flesh.

The wolf’s white pelt blended with the snow, blurring its edges. Still, what he discerned was massive. A giant that stood to Brant’s shoulders. Its head lowered in threat, lips rippling back from yellowed fangs. Large pads were splayed wide, made for stalking silently atop frozen snow. Black claws dug through the crust of ice, gaining purchase for the lunge to come.

Brant recognized the tufts of gray fur tipping each ear, marking the wolf as a hunter of Mistdale, far to the north. A Fell wolf. It did not belong so far south. But this winter had been long-too long. Rain should have been falling since the passing of the last moon, but snow still drifted from the slate skies. Even the hares over his shoulder were mostly bones, having barely survived on the few roots and tubers under the snow.

Brant met the wolf’s gaze, acknowledging the sunken eyes and thin stretch of fur over bone. He noted a single drop of crimson on the lower curled lip.

Blood.

He eyed his own trail of bootprints.

The wolf must have come upon the entrails of his catch, feasted upon them, then followed his track. Looking for more. It seemed the Way was as unknown to the beasts of the forest as the people of Oldenbrook. Or maybe hunger broke all pacts.

Brant sensed that to wait any longer would only drive the wolf to attack.

He knew what must be done.

The wolf had growled. Therein Brant placed his life.

In a swift motion, he swept the arrow from his shoulder and cast the meat toward the wolf. If the wolf had meant to attack, it would not have growled and given itself away. The rumble had been a warning, a challenge, and a cry of hunger.

The trio of hares landed near the wolf.

The beast lunged and snapped up arrow and meat. With a low growl, it retreated to the shadows under a tanglepine.

Brant used the moment to retreat, too. He backed out onto the ice, snapping through the dry reeds. The wolf kept to its bower, satisfied with its catch. Only then did Brant see a pair of eyes deeper in the forest, drawn by the meat and blood. Smaller eyes, closer together. Cubbies. Two.

With a flash of white pelt, the large Fell wolf-a she-wolf-fled with her catch and her offspring. No wonder the wolf had come so far south. Not for herself but for her cubs. Spring cubs, born too soon, born into a bad season. Still, she fought for them, to give them a chance.

Brant understood that only too well.

He rubbed a knuckle along the scar under his jaw.

As he crossed the frozen lake, he sent a silent prayer up into the aether for the she-wolf, from one stranger in this land to another.

With the sun a quarter-way up the sky, Brant climbed a last ice ridge. The full breadth of his new home appeared ahead. Oldenbrook. The city, the second oldest of all the Nine Lands, rose out of the lake itself, raised on stone pylons and stout poles of ironoak. It was a city of archways, bridges, and frozen boats. The sprawl hugged the southern coastline and climbed in snowy tiers from the city’s lowest level to the blue-tiled castillion that sat atop Oldenbrook’s highest point.

Beneath the city’s vast belly, the water remained unfrozen, melted both by the Grace of its god and the heat of the city itself. Even from here, Brant noted how the edifice steamed and misted, like some monstrous slumbering beast, waiting for true spring.

He could also hear the echoing groan and creak of the city. The song of Oldenbrook. On the calmest day in summer, it could be heard. It reminded Brant of the deepwhaler he had sailed aboard when forced from his homeland to these cold shores. The rub of ropes, the pop of planks. Sometimes he woke at night in his room, certain he was back in that ship’s cramped cabin. He would rub his wrists, remembering the shackles.

Brant found himself doing the same now as he stared at the city. As royally as he was treated here, Oldenbrook was not so much home as a place of exile and banishment.

Movement drew his gaze to the sky. A small flippercraft descended toward the city, aiming for the high docks neighboring the lofty castillion. The airship steamed as much as the city, its blood-fed mekanicals hot as red coals in a brass warming pan. Its rudders and skimmers churned the air. A trail of smoke vented from its topside. Burning blood. Someone came with urgency.

Brant squinted at the flag fluttering near the bow. He could not make out the full details. Silver on black. He knew what he would have seen if he’d had sharper eyes. A silver tower embroidered on a black field. A ship from the citadel of Tashijan.

It was not a particularly unusual sight. After the tragedy and bloodshed in neighboring Chrismferry last spring, all of Myrillia was still unsettled. For a turn of seasons, ravens had filled the skies. Ships had sailed water and air in every direction. The thunder of hooves over the stone bridges of Oldenbrook had woken many each night.

But as summer wore to winter, and winter stretched endlessly, the ravens returned to their rookeries, the ships were tied back to their docks, and horses remained stabled. It was as if all the northern lands had pulled into themselves, guarding, wary, waiting for this long cold to break.

Or for something else…an unnamed fear.

Gods had been slain.

With the deaths of two gods-Meeryn of the Summering Isles and Chrism of Chrismferry-the Hundred now numbered Ninety-eight. Though order had been restored by the new regency in Chrismferry, the world still felt out of kilter, unbalanced, and every inhabitant of each of the Nine Lands sensed the rockiness of this ship.

Brant increased his pace toward the city. A flippercraft from Tashijan could only mean some business with the lord and god of the city, Jessup of Oldenbrook. And as the god’s Hand of blood, Brant should be in attendance. It was only through the indulgence and understanding of Lord Jessup that Brant was allowed these morning excursions. He would not pay back such kindness by tarrying too long.

He hurried toward the nearest stone pylon. Each of the hundred support pillars of the city was as thick around as the encircling arms of fifteen men. Four of the columns had hollow hearts. Named the Bones of the city, they were positioned at the cardinal points of the compass. But it was not marrow that ran through these four Bones. Instead it was the true lifeblood of Oldenbrook.

Water.

Brant aimed for the western Bone.

The door to its interior was guarded by two massive loam-giants, men born under the Graced alchemy of loam to grow to hulking proportions. Heavy-browed, limbs like trunks, double muscled. And though Brant had lived all his life under the auspices of a god of loam, he still had a certain discomfort around these guardians of the Bones. The Huntress of Saysh Mal had always refused to allow her Grace to forge men in such a manner, finding it distasteful. Some of her prejudice had found its way into Brant’s heart.

Not that the guards here had ever given him reason to feel uncomfortable. Despite their large size and dour appearance, there was a vein of good nature in their hearts.

And by now the guards certainly knew him. As he approached, heavy axes were lowered, and the iron bar was lifted from the door.

“No luck,” one of them boomed, noting Brant’s empty hands. The guard was a red-mopped giant named Malthumalbaen. It was said that a giant’s name was as long as its bearer was large.

Brant slipped his bow from his shoulder. “Long winter,” he answered with an apologetic tone. He often shared his catch with the guards here. Paid little coin for these long, cold vigils, they appreciated the extra bits.

Malthumalbaen cursed under his breath, but not at Brant, only at the truth in the young man’s words. The large man shrugged deeper into his rabbit-fur-lined longcoat.

The other guard, brother to the first, Dralmarfillneer, only chuckled and clapped Brant on the shoulder as he passed. “Winters always end, Master Brant. Soon Mal will be cursing the heat and swelter.”

“Shine my arse, Dral! You were just whining about the wind yourself.”

Dral opened the door for Brant. “Only because I had to empty my bladder, Mal. Once you unbutton, the wind climbs right into your trousers and grabs hold of your eggs. And when you’re as blessed as I am, it takes time to free yourself.”

“Blessed, my arse, brother,” Mal replied. “We’re twins. What Father gave you, he gave me.”

Brant was ushered into the hollow center of the Bone column. He heard Dral’s last retort before the door closed. “Not in all ways, Mal…not in all ways.”

The iron bar scraped back into place, securing the exit.

Brant shook his head and waved a hand over the stone post rising from the floor’s center. Immediately the floor under his feet began to push him upward, sliding smoothly along the polished walls, propelled by the rushing column of water beneath it.

The Grace-fed water chute carried him toward the castillion far above. While bridges and ladders led from the ice to the lowermost tier, the Bones led to the four wings of Lord Jessup’s castillion.

As he was whisked up, his ears noted the climb past the many levels. The snowy castillion lay at the top of the city, the thirty-third tier. He braced his feet as the end of the chute neared. He craned his neck. The ceiling rushed toward him. From the stone roof, steel spears pointed down at him. An extra assurance against the unwelcome intruder. The platform, when bidden, could drive its passengers into those spikes.

As always, Brant ducked his head a bit as he neared his destination-but his life was spared. The platform settled to a stop, and the door was opened by another loam-giant, a mute.

The giant sternly nodded Brant out of the Bone’s chute.

“Thank you, Greestallatum,” Brant said, returning the nod. He knew that only another giant dared shorten a giant’s name, and even then, they’d best be friends.

The giant crossed and opened the far door into the main keep. The western wing of the castillion, the High Wing, housed the eight Hands of Oldenbrook. Brant moved into the wide hall. As was traditional, windows lined one wall, facing out to Oldenbrook Lake. Along the other wall, eight doors marked off the private rooms to the castillion’s Hands.

Brant hurried along the woven rug. As the Hand of blood, he had the room at the far end, closest to the residence of Lord Jessup himself. The god’s chambers rose from the center of the castillion and its four wings. A giant iron hearth stood outside the wide double doors, used for cleansing traces of corrupted Grace from cloth, stone, and steel.

Otherwise, the hall was empty.

Where was everyone?

As if his inquiry were heard, a door opened on his left. A tall, lithe woman dressed in silver strode out of her room. Liannora, Mistress of Tears. She was one of the eight Hands, each representing one of Lord Jessup’s blessed humours: blood, seed, sweat, tears, saliva, phlegm, and both yellow and black bile. A Hand’s duty was to collect and preserve the assigned humour, rich in the god’s powerful Grace.

Such a duty was a rare honor, and one Liannora considered Brant to be undeserving of attending. She stood before him, as pale as the snow outside. Her long straight tresses flowed like an icy waterfall. The only true color was the blue of her eyes. She seemed to typify Oldenbrook in winter. Even the hue of her eyes matched the tiles of the city.

“Master Brant,” she said with a calculating glance over his leathers, furs, and sodden boots. “Have you not heard?”

“Heard what? I’ve only just returned.”

One eyebrow arched. “Oh, yes…traipsing in the woods.” Her disapproval hung about her like a dark cloud. She joined his step down the hall. “We’ve all been commanded to assemble in Lord Jessup’s greeting chamber. A most important guest arrives even now.”

Brant pictured the flippercraft. “From Tashijan.”

“Then you did hear?” Her manner hardened further, if such a thing were possible.

“I saw the ship descending, flying the Tashijan flag, as I arrived back at the city,” he explained, rather hurriedly, trying his best not to seem rude.

“Ah,” Liannora said as they neared the hall’s end, plainly not mollified.

Brant headed for his room, glad to escape. He had never fully fit in here. The previous Hand of blood had been an elder statesman of the High Wing, well respected, revered, loved by all. It was a station Brant seemed to continually fail to fill: too young to respect, too quiet of disposition, and too darkly complexioned in a land of pale men and women.

“Where are you going?” Liannora asked as he stepped away.

Brant stopped. “To freshen and change.”

“There’s no time for that. I’m the last to respond to the summons. The party from Tashijan is already in attendance. You’ll just have to appear-” She waved a hand disparagingly over his clothes. “Few will expect otherwise anyway.”

Brant knew the words she didn’t add. For an Eighthlander.

Resigned, Brant headed toward the double doors. Before they could reach the threshold, one of the doors opened. A small figure stepped through, dressed all in black, from half cloak to boot. A hood was pulled up, and a masklin covered chin and lips.

A word escaped the figure, whispered, yet urgent. Brant’s ears, sharpened by seasons of hunting, picked the word out of the air.

“ Pupp… ”

Then the cloaked figure stiffened and went silent, spotting their approach. Under the hood, a pair of eyes widened, flashing from Liannora to Brant. The figure then glanced away, but not before a surprised second twitch in Brant’s direction.

“I’m sorry,” the figure squeaked out, proving herself to be a girl or young woman. She bowed her head slightly. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Here was plainly one of the visitors from Tashijan.

Brant noted a black stripe tattooed on each side of her face, running jaggedly from the outside corner of each eye to each ear. But it was not one of the illustrious Shadowknights of Tashijan. The girl here had earned only her first stripe, marking her as a page. It would take a second stripe to be called squire, and a third to be a full knight. Even her cloak was ordinary cloth, not the shadow-shifting cloak of a true knight.

“Be not afraid,” Liannora said with surprising warmth, almost oily. “Any servant of Tashijan is always welcome in our halls.”

“I only came to look.”

“Certainly,” Liannora said. “And we’d be honored to have you escort us to the greeting hall to join the others.”

The page bowed and retreated back through the door. “It-it would be my honor,” she mumbled, but in fact it looked as though she would prefer to run and hide.

Liannora stepped between the page and Brant. She touched the young woman’s shoulder lightly, in an oddly possessive gesture. “So I hear that Castellan Vail herself will be seeking audience with Lord Jessup. What a distinct honor to have one so highly ranked at Tashijan coming to visit Oldenbrook. I can’t imagine what would warrant such a strange appointment.”

The silence that followed hung heavily in the air.

Plainly Liannora sought to extract knowledge from the page, perhaps something more than would be formally revealed during the high assembly here.

The girl did not bend. She even stepped away from Liannora’s touch, not enough to be rude, but refusing to be lured.

Brant found a ghost of a smile rising unbidden to his lips, suddenly liking this girl very, very much. He remembered that second startled glance a moment before when they had first met. He had dismissed it as surprise at his rough clothes and poor appearance. But now he wondered. He sensed that such things would not matter to the black-cloaked girl.

So why the second glance?

The trio passed through the anteroom to Lord Jessup’s rooms, down a short curved hall, and ended up before the door to the greeting room. The door was already open. Voices, polite and jovial, reached them.

As he stepped to the doorway, Brant noted a mix of familiar figures, dressed resplendently in jewels and fine cuts of cloth. The other Hands of Jessup. Amid them mingled five black shapes, the entourage from Tashijan.

The leader stood near the center. A bright diadem at her throat marked her as castellan of Tashijan, the second in command of the mighty Citadel, after the warden himself.

Brant focused upon her. Castellan Kathryn Vail had played a critical role in ridding Chrismferry of the daemon in its midst. Few in Myrillia didn’t know her story-or that of her former lover, Tylar ser Noche, once named godslayer but now the regent of Chrismferry.

The castellan’s gaze swept over the latecomers. Above her masklin, Kathryn Vail’s eyes found her page and hardened to fire-agates. The young girl hurried to the castellan’s side. So the page served the castellan. No wonder the girl had been so sturdy in the face of Liannora. She had been forged in fires hotter than any Liannora could muster.

As the girl reached the castellan’s side, she glanced once more back at them. No, back at him. Then away again.

This time, Brant knew what lay behind those cornflower blue eyes.

Recognition.

And with that realization, the same occurred to him. As she turned, a slip of hair fell from beneath her hood. She tucked it back, but not before Brant recognized the distinct yellow-blond curl.

Memories disassembled and came together in a flash. He stumbled as he entered the hall, bumping into Liannora, who shot him a daggered look, then left his side, as if proximity to him might taint her.

Brant stared at the girl. He remembered the night he had been chosen from among his fellow students, when Jessup’s Oracle had placed a stone into his waiting palm, claiming him as his new Hand of blood. Prior to that, down below in the chamber beneath the High Chapel, Brant had defended a young girl from the bitter words of other students.

The same girl now hid in black here.

Like Brant, she had been chosen that night, to serve as a Hand of blood for the daemon-possessed Chrism. But then after the Battle of Myrrwood, when the daemon had been vanquished, she had vanished. Few noted her disappearance on a night when gods were slain.

Now she was here.

Alive.

A girl named Dart.

For a full quarter bell, Brant kept to the shadows of the gathering and edged along the room. He kept watch on his quarry as he maneuvered around the chattering islands of castle gentlefolk and mingling visitors. He approached no closer, preferring to study the castellan’s page from afar.

What was the girl doing here?

Before any answers could be discerned, the resonant strike of a gong echoed across the greeting hall. All chatter stopped, and eyes turned toward the arched back door as it swung open.

Lord Jessup, god of Oldenbrook, entered the reception hall. As was his custom, he wore the simple cloths and leathers of the sailfolk that plied the great lake: soft bleached boots into which were tucked the hems of his baggy black trousers, a billowing white shirt hooked at the neck, and a peaked cap of blue velvet.

The only bit of true decoration was an azure sapphire fixed at the base of his throat, an ancient gift granted to Lord Jessup shortly after settling this realm. The sapphire had been discovered by a fishwife as she scaled and gutted one of the mighty lake shaddocks, the fierce bottom dwellers found only in the deepest depths of Oldenbrook Lake. Pulled from the shaddock’s gullet, the gem was a blue that matched exactly the hue of the lake, and all knew its portent, the lake welcoming its new guardian and god. Lord Jessup had come to cherish the gem as much as he did the people and the lands here.

As the god strode slowly through the gathering, the jewel glowed slightly, a reflection of the god’s shining Grace, like moonlight on still waters. Reaching the high seat in the room’s center, Lord Jessup settled to the cushions.

The god’s eight Hands, including Brant, lowered to one knee.

The emissaries from Tashijan bowed, even Castellan Vail.

Lord Jessup waved them all up. “Kathryn ser Vail, Castellan of Tashijan, Magistrate of the Order of the Shadowknights, be welcome,” he said formally. His manner then melted to warmer tones with a tired smile. “It is an honor to have you gracing Oldenbrook once again.”

“My lord,” the castellan said, bowing more deeply, then straightening with a shift of her cloak.

“How long have you been away from our shores?”

“I believe six years, my lord.”

Brant recognized the slight pause, the inflected lowered timbre in her voice. It was an awkward subject, one to be skirted. And with good reason. It surely had to be a tender matter still to the castellan. She had been betrothed to Tylar ser Noche, a shadowknight once in service to Lord Jessup. All in Oldenbrook knew their story. Balladeers still struggled to capture the pain and tragedy in strum of string and chord. For the ballad of Tylar ser Noche, a shadowknight stripped of cloak and love, remained unfinished. First lover, then murderer, then broken knight and slave, and finally godslayer…now risen anew as regent of neighboring Chrismferry.

The other half of the tragedy stood here. Tylar’s betrothed and lover. Forced to damn him with her own testimony, she was equally cursed, banished and humiliated into a secluded life. Some even whispered that an unborn child had been lost to her sorrow and heartbreak. But her wheel had turned also, and she rose again as castellan of Tashijan.

But did the song end even there? One served in Chrismferry, the other in Tashijan. And with no true end, the balladeers struggled for a satisfactory final chord.

But Lord Jessup held no such conflict in his heart. “It is good to have you here again,” he said. “What brings you from the Citadel to our shores with such haste?”

“Haste arises because of a dire storm due to strike from the north. Wyndravens sweep south out of Mistdale and Five Forks with messages of a last great winter squall, the worst of them all, one raging with snow and bitter winds. The northern edge of Mistdale forest lies blasted and dead, trunks burst with ice. The rivers of Five Forks are frozen solid to the sea, and the freeze continues to flow south, crushing ships, stalling all movement.”

“I have felt the echo of pain through the waterways,” Lord Jessup said. “Is that why you have come with such speed?”

“I come also at the behest of Warden Fields.” Stiffness entered her voice. “He has asked that I personally attend each god of the First Land and announce a ceremony of noted distinction to be held at Tashijan, one which is meant to heal a rift across our Land.”

“And what ceremony might that be?”

“The sanctifying of a knight to a new cloak.”

Lord Jessup’s brow pinched with curiosity. Brant could almost read his thoughts. It was a common rite when a knight first gained his shadowcloak for the god whom he first served to oversee the sanctification, to bless the moment with the god’s own Grace. But then why come with such a distinguished emissary for such an ordinary event?

Understanding suddenly smoothed Lord Jessup’s face. “The knight to be cloaked?” he said. “Am I to assume this is Tylar ser Noche, regent of Chrismferry?”

Castellan Vail bowed her head in acknowledgment.

“Is Ser Noche not already a knight? Did he not bend a knee where you now stand when I first blessed his cloak?”

“And that cloak was stripped,” the castellan reminded him in a pained voice. “The ceremony I come to announce is one to reinstate Tylar-Ser Noche-to the Order of the Shadowknights. He will receive back his cloak and his diamond-pommeled sword, certifying his station. Warden Fields has asked that I request all the gods of the First Land to send high representatives to Tashijan for the event.”

Lord Jessup raised his hands, steepling his fingers before his lips. He spoke between them, one eyebrow lifted. “And so to heal a rift…”

Brant read the layers of meaning in those few words. The knighting ceremony was more than an attempt to right an old wrong. It was fraught with layers of import and consequence. All winter long, rumors had abounded of a continuing tension between Tashijan and Chrismferry. Whispers spread of how Warden Fields had employed Dark Graces during his bloody and savage pursuit of Tylar, back when the broken knight had been declared a godslayer. As such, there continued to be enmity between the two most powerful men in all the First Land. It could not last. All of Myrillia looked to the First Land for stability and guidance. The histories of Tashijan and Chrismferry stretched back to the Sundering, when the gods first came to Myrillia and settled its Nine Lands out of savagery.

The growing rift threatened all.

The knighting ceremony plainly was intended to unite Tashijan and Chrismferry once again, to spread a healing balm over the recent frictions. And the gods were being called to witness and bless the new union.

It now made sense why Kathryn ser Vail had been sent as emissary. The woman stood between all: between the two men, between the two strongholds, between the past and the present.

“When is the ceremony to be held?” Lord Jessup asked.

“In a half-moon’s time.”

“So soon?”

“Thus the urgency.”

Lord Jessup nodded his head once. “Then we must hope that the coming storm is truly the last dying breath of this interminable winter.”

As final matters of scheduling were discussed, along with minor issues of trade and conflicts, Brant’s attention drifted.

Motion drew his eye.

Castellan Vail’s page-the girl he had once known as Dart-was staring hard at him. Or rather at his knees. Brant glanced down, fearing his leggings were soiled or torn or somehow offensive enough to warrant such heated attention.

But nothing appeared amiss with his wardrobe.

Glancing back up, he watched the girl make a dismissive, shooing motion at him. What had he done so wrong to irritate the girl? Though they had not known each other well back at the school, neither had there been animosity between them.

His face reddened as he found himself obeying her silent command. He backed toward the door. Her eyes followed him. Across the hall, matters of the realm were quickly settled, and Lord Jessup stood, signaling the gathering at an end.

Happy to be freed from his obligations here, Brant edged out the door and back into the High Wing of the castillion. He closed the way and muffled the low cacophony of the voices inside. He suspected it would be another full bell before the gathering would truly disband. It was seldom that a god-realm had the privilege of Tashijan’s second-highest-ranking personage in attendance.

Alone, Brant turned to the empty hall.

Before he could take a step, his skin prickled. He tensed, going dead still. As out in the forest, he sensed something near, unseen, hunting him. He even heard a growl inside his head, an echo of the Fell wolf’s hungry warning.

What could-?

Brant’s chest suddenly burst with a searing fire. A silent cry burned from his lips as he fell to his knees. One hand ripped at the hooks and strings of his shirt, tearing to his woolens, fighting for the source of the flame. He yanked on the twisted leather thong around his neck, tugging free what hung from it. It was the only piece of home he had carried out from the misty jungles of Saysh Mal.

The black stone fell free, glassy and iridescent.

Brant knew it was the source of the fire. The stone had burned like this once before. It was one of the reasons why he still kept it near.

He stretched the talisman as far from his body as the corded braid around his neck would allow. The stone appeared no different than before, drilled through the middle and threaded with the leather cord.

With his other hand, he hauled his woolens lower, expecting to see a ruin of blistered and charred flesh. But the skin of his chest was smooth and unblemished.

Still on his knees, holding the stone aloft, Brant lowered his palm to the floor, leaning his weight. He blinked away tears, breathing heavily.

It was over. He knew if he touched the stone it would be cold again.

As he pondered the mystery, a creature flickered into existence before him-almost nose to nose with him on the floor. It sniffed at the outstretched stone, setting the talisman to wobbling on its braid.

Brant froze.

The daemon stood knee-high, flowing in molten bronze, half wolf, half lion, spiked at collar and hackle, black jeweled eyes lit by inner fires, maw lapping with flame, fangs forging and melting in a continuing eruption of savage barbs.

Its eyes stared into his for a half breath; then it pulled back-and vanished.

Released from the spell, Brant jerked like a snapped bowstring, falling on his rear and scuttling away like a crab on hot sand. But the beast was gone. He searched around. Nothing. Shaking, he forced himself to settle his center. Muffled laughter and conversation arose from the room behind him.

As he sat, he sensed a vague lessening of pressure inside his skull, something receding. Then in a moment, nothing.

Slowly he gained his feet, only now noting how his left fist clutched the black stone. It had indeed gone cold. He opened his palm and stared down. Had the stone somehow conjured the daemon and again banished it?

As he began to tuck the stone away, the door creaked open behind him. His free hand went for his knife.

But it was a familiar figure, a page cloaked in black.

Before Dart could say a word, a call reached them both, arising from Kathryn ser Vail. The Tashijan party was departing.

Dart glanced over her shoulder, back into the room. She retreated toward the castellan, but not before her blue eyes latched upon him again. She bowed her head as if they had just agreed to something.

A secret between them.

Then she also vanished, closing the door with a snap.

Brant remembered the word she had whispered with such urgency when first caught creeping into the High Wing.

As if she had been searching for something.

Pupp…

And the strange shooing motion at him a moment ago.

Had she been warding him away-or someone else?

Brant stared at the stone in his palm. Two stones had led him to this moment. One had been pressed into his palm by Lord Jessup’s Oracle, selecting him to serve in the god’s household. But before that, another god had gifted him with another stone, the one that hung around his neck.

Was this one also a call to serve?

He pictured the fiery figure on the jungle path, crumbling in flames and rolling the stone to his toes. What did a rogue god of the hinterland need from a lone boy out of Saysh Mal?

Brant tucked the cursed stone away.

To root out that answer would take a great hunter.

But at long last, Brant had finally found his first trail marker.

He pictured the girl’s blue eyes and mumbled a name to the empty hall, full of promise as much as curiosity. “Pupp.”