The fall of Highwatch

CHAPTER TWO

"Hweilan?" the lady Merah looked up, her gaze catching the young woman in the shadows. "Hweilan, is that you?"

Lady Merah was sitting on a bench near the far wall of the garden. Her long hair wafted unbound in the morning breeze, save for a braid over each ear. Scith leaned against the wall behind her, his thick arms crossed over his chest. Where she was lithe and fair to the point of paleness, he was dark and thick, giving the impression of immovable stone. Deep lines creased the corners of his eyes, and a bit of gray had begun to pepper the hair over his temples, but middle age had not softened him.

Hweilan stood in the corridor that led from the eastern towers to the garden. Clear sunlight bathed the garden. It gave little warmth. Her breath steamed in the air before her. The priests' calendar proclaimed that spring was here, but one would never know it. Both Merah and Scith wore heavy cloaks, rimmed in fur. But Hweilan wore only her 'rough" clothing-suited for a day spent outside the castle walls: thick breeches, her heaviest tunic, jerkin, and boots. She had left her room in such haste that she hadn't donned a coat or cloak.

"How long have you been standing there?" said Merah. Her voice was firm, but Hweilan saw the look of guilt on her face. She was trying to hide it, but Hweilan knew her mother too well.

"I saw nothing I shouldn't, if that's what you're worried about," said Hweilan. "Is it true?"

"Is what true?" said Merah.

"That I am being sent away," said Hweilan. She walked across the courtyard. It was broad as a tourney field, surrounded by a low wall not far from the edge of a fifty-foot drop to another courtyard below. A grove of windbent pines, frosted in snow, grew in the middle of the garden, surrounded by bushes and shrubs that sprouted bright white and blue flowers in the summer. Their branches were bare and sparkled with rime. Ivy clung to the walls, forming a ring of green about the place.

The Garden of First Light. So called because it was the best place in Highwatch to watch the rise of sun and moon. Merah often came here for the latter. Though she worshiped in the temple of Torm along with the knights and the rest of the household, her heart had always tended more to Selune. Hweilan had vague memories of other rituals dedicated to the minor gods of her mother's people. The Lady Merah was only half human. Raised among elf "barbarians" (a term Hweilan's grandmother was fond of using until her grandfather had put a stop to it) in the east, Merah had clung to her people's faith even after wedding Hweilan's father. But after her father's death, things had changed. Too many things.

Merah sighed and said, "Who told you?"

"Grandmother. I called her a liar. But it is true. Isn't it?"

Merah looked away, and it gave Hweilan a small flicker of hope. There was little love between her mother and her father's mother. If this was the doing of her grandmother, then her mother might "You will apologize to your grandmother," said Merah.

"What?"

"She should not have told you yet, but you will show her-"

"It is true!"

"You are not being "sent away,' Hweilan. In these troubled times, alliances are important. You are going to accompany a delegation to Soravia where you will be-"

"Married off! To the highest bidder, is that it?"

"No one is forcing you."

"Really? Then I will stay here."

"You will not," said Merah. "Your family has decided-" "Who?"

The first hint of anger entered Merah's voice. "Who what?"

"You said our family has decided." Not true. She had said your family. Not our. But Hweilan knew that sting-had felt it herself. "Was it grandfather or grandmother? I know Uncle Soran would never-"

"Hweilan, calm yourself." Merah moved over to one side of the bench-away from Scith-to make room. "Please sit. We will-"

"I don't want to sit," said Hweilan.

"Hweilan!" Merah stood to her full height. She was a formidable woman, her beauty undiminished by middle age, and she looked down on her only daughter. "You will not interrupt me again."

Hweilan ground her teeth, breathing heavily through her nose, and held her mother's gaze. She gave Scith a sidelong glance. He looked elsewhere.

Hweilan looked away. "I won't go," she said.

"And what will you do? Spend your days wandering the wild and hunting with Scith? You're not a little girl anymore. You will serve your people and your family."

"How? By bedding some fat lordling's son? How does that serve my people?"

"No one is forcing you into marriage, Hweilan."

"Really?"

"A delegation is going to Soravia to solidify relations between our houses. Your Uncle Soran is going as well."

"But he isn't staying," said Hweilan.

"You will be fostered there for at least one year in hopes-"

"I know what hopes are. The duke's son-and heir, grandmother was quick to point out-is ready to marry."

"Your grandmother… misspoke," said Merah.

"Did she?"

Merah sighed. "Hweilan, you're seventeen. You're a member of a noble house. Did you really think you were going to spend the rest of your life wandering the wilds?"

"I can serve my people here."

"How?"

Hweilan scowled. She had no good answer for that, and it made her even angrier.

"Perhaps you will," said Merah. "But for now, you will go. As soon as the Knights deem the Gap safe for travel-"

"The Gap is never safe, no-"

Merah's voice rose to override her daughter's. "-you will go west, and you will conduct yourself in a manner worthy of your family. You will not shame me or this house." Her mother closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and softened her tone. "I will not lie to you, Hweilan. Your grandmother hopes that you will marry this duke's son. It would bring a strong alliance between our houses. And who knows? He might be a fine man. But your grandmother does not rule Highwatch, and she does not rule my children. You are going. If things warm between you and the duke's son… well and good. If not, I promise that you will not be forced into anything."

Hweilan could feel tears welling in her eyes, but she squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath, forcing them back.

"You will go to Soravia," said Merah. "If your fate lies elsewhere… so be it. But heed my words, daughter. Your childhood is over. You must find your fate, or it will find you."

Hweilan turned her back on them and walked away.

"We have her, my lord."

Guric turned to look at the man who had spoken. Argalath stood enveloped in dark robes and a deep cowl. The skin of the hands that protruded from his robes was mottled sickly white and covered with patches of blue. Argalath's entire body-every hairless inch of it-had been so scarred after encountering spellplague.

The last of the day's light was bleeding from the sky, but in the high valley night already held sway, and the men had lit torches against the dark. Even their meager light pained Argalath.

"The seals…?" said Guric.

"Unbroken," said Argalath. "All went as planned."

Guric let out a great breath. "I…" He struggled to find the right words, then settled on, "Thank you."

Argalath bowed.

Guric pushed past Argalath and through the graveyard gates. The common folk of Highwatch and Kistrad buried their dead outside the village walls in the valley of Nar-sek Qu'istrade. The Nar burned their dead in elaborate rites in the open grassland beyond the Shadowed Path. The dwarves had carved elaborate crypts in the deep places of the mountain. But the Damarans, so far from home, still clung to their old ways. The High Warden's family had elaborate tombs farther up the mountainside, but the other Damarans of Highwatch buried their dead here, in a small valley on the mountain above the fortress, accessible only by a small path, too narrow even for horses. The hardship in getting here was part of the point. Damarans were a hard people, a proud people.

When the day's work had begun, the light had still been strong in the sky. But after the first few strikes of the workmen's picks, Guric had fled the graveyard. The sounds of iron and steel breaking through the frozen earth had been too much for him. Every blow only served to remind him of what lay below-and of what he was about to do.

The men-a few Damarans, who were loyal to Guric, overseeing the work of Nar, who were loyal to Argalath-stood round an open grave. The Damarans held their torches high, and inky smoke wafted up into the dead air. Before them, the Nar stood over a long bundle, and one of them-one of Argalath's acolytes, Guric knew by his shaven head-was carefully using a horsetail brush to clean away the bits of frozen earth.

"My lord!" Argalath called from behind him.

Guric slowed, not because of Argalath but because of what lay before him. It looked like a large bundle of supplies, wrapped in fine linen, various symbols drawn round the knots of cord that bound it.

"Valia…" said Guric.

"My lord, please," said Argalath. "We must not break the seals until we have the blood."

Guric took one step forward. "I must see her."

"No." Argalath grabbed Guric's shoulder.

Guric looked down. "Unhand me, Argalath."

There was no anger in the words. No threat. Guric was not a man to threaten. People did as he told them or suffered the consequences.

Argalath released him and bowed. "My lord, I beg you. Seeing her now will only bring you pain. We are so close, so close…"

Guric looked down at the bundle. At his wife's corpse. He had not seen her in three years, and that last sight had haunted his dreams since.

"Those who wronged you," said Argalath, his voice pitched for all to hear, 'who wronged her, must pay."

Guric contemplated all that lay before him. His mouth felt very dry. "There is no other way?"

"No. Kill them. Kill them all, my lord. And save the youngest for last. Her blood shall bring Valia back to you."