creature would as likely rip his poor sister’s hand off.’
‘Probably not.’ Halliron smiled, watching thoughtfully as bystanders scattered and the buckskin’s striped rump bucked and sidled through the leaping ring of torchlight. ‘The little imp only hates boys. And, truth to tell, I’m not sorry. A storm rides the wind, can you smell it? Not even an initiate’s hostel graces this stretch of forest. I expected to endure a nasty night.’
When the weather finally broke, young Jieret was hours in bed and Halliron comfortably settled on cushions in the lodge tent of the regent of Rathain. Although no one had asked the Masterbard to perform he had generously offered his talents to the clan chieftain’s family until nature’s fury defeated even his trained voice. The storm struck Strakewood from the south, battering with windy fists and rattling rain over oiled hide with such force that the crack and roll of thunder could barely be heard above the noise.
Steiven came in wet from helping the scouts secure the horse lines. ‘Strange,’ he mused as he peeled his sodden jerkin and swiped dripping hair from the unmarred side of his face. ‘We don’t often get squalls from the south. Usually they spend themselves over the Mathorns and rattle the mansions in Etarra.’
‘Greater changes are afoot than mere weather, since the return of true sunlight.’ Halliron hooked the final ties on the fleece-lined case that protected his lyranthe, and took wine from the hand of Steiven’s lady. ‘You’re too kind,’ he thanked her, and raised the flagon in tribute to clan hospitality.
Clad in rare finery, her magnificent, heavy russet hair braided with sequins worn for dancing, Dania shone with pleasure. ‘We’re blessed. Your singing is a treasure unequalled.’
Her warmth sparked sorrow from the bard, who seemed suddenly absorbed with savouring the taste of his wine.
‘No successor yet,’ the lady sympathized with an insight that tended to disorient grown men. She shared a quick glance with her husband, who knelt and tugged a fresh shirt from a chest alongside the wall.
Halliron sighed. ‘Not for want of trying, lady. I’ve auditioned candidates by the thousands. Many had talent. Yet I was never satisfied. Something indefinable seemed lacking.’ He tried and failed to shrug off a bitterness at odds with a nature smoothed over by advanced years. ‘I’ve earned the reputation of an overbearing old crank. Perhaps justly.’
But the bard’s face by candlelight showed only heartsore regret. Halliron’s the tragedy, Dania thought, that no apprentice had been found to inherit his title, perhaps the deepest regret of his long and gifted life.
‘Dania,’ Steiven said gently. ‘Bring out the telir brandy and refill the Masterbard’s cup.’
The lady moved with the lightness of forest-bred caution to fetch the cut-crystal flask, while the bard’s attention strayed toward the shadows that dimmed the rear of the lodge. Lord and lady followed his gaze, to find Jieret slipped from his bedroll, the heavy curls that matched his mother’s tousled still from sleep.
‘Afraid of the lightning, are you?’ Halliron said in gentle satire.
‘Like Dharkaron he is.’ Steiven straightened up in annoyance. Muffled by a thick layer of linen as he belatedly donned his dry shirt, he said, ‘Jieret, haven’t you stirred up trouble enough for one night?’
The boy licked his lips. As he took a hesitant step closer, the light fell full on him and revealed his alarming pallor. Shaking, he announced, ‘Father, I had a dream.’
‘Ath, it’s the sight,’ Dania exclaimed. Sequins sparkled like wind harried droplets as she sprang across the carpets and swept her young son in her arms. ‘Steiven, he’s cold. Find a blanket.’
The bard was on his feet with a speed that belied his age. He flung the lady his own silk-lined cloak, then stood aside for Steiven, arrived in a flurry of untied laces. He lifted the boy from his wife and bundled him to the chin in rich black wool lined with silk.
Halliron helped the shaken mother to find a seat upon the scattered cushions. ‘The forevision runs in your line, my lady?’
Trembling now as violently as her son, a woman who was seasoned to disasters, and who had sword scars on her from past raids, gasped against the bard’s shoulder. ‘Steiven’s line. He has the gift also.’ She swallowed, her dark, fine eyes fixed worriedly on the crown of red hair that poked through the folds of the cloak. ‘The visions are too often bloody.’
Halliron recovered his flagon, refilled it with brandy and pressed Dania’s icy fingers around the stem. ‘You need a blanket also.’ He fetched one, while the lodge poles rattled to a booming crash of thunder.
Throughout, the murmur of Steiven’s voice never faltered. ‘What did you see? I know you’re frightened, son, but tell me.’
Jieret answered unsteadily that he had seen the king ride from Etarra.
‘Blessed Ath.’ Steiven pressed his scarred cheek into his boy’s crown to hide eyes that flashed with suspect brightness. After a moment, muffled by fox-brush hair, he said, ‘And how did you know him for your king?’
‘He wore a silver circlet and a tabard with the leopard of s’Ffalenn.’ Ever an observant child, Jieret added, ‘His face matched the portrait of Torbrand that you keep in the cave with the sceptre.’
Steiven swallowed. Fighting to keep his tone light, he said, ‘You’re a scout reporting for a raid. I want the particulars, carefully and accurately.’
‘His Grace was alone,’ Jieret said. ‘Armed with only a sword and shorter of stature than Caolle. He rode in haste. His horse was winded almost to death and by his handling of the reins, his right palm or wrist was likely injured. He was pursued.’ The boy stopped, wrung by a fresh bout of trembling.
‘Who pursued?’ pressed Steiven. He stroked the boy’s back with a firm touch but his eyes, when he raised them, were hard as rain-rinsed granite.
Doggedly, Jieret finished. ‘Twoscore lancers, Etarra city garrison.’
‘That has the ring of true vision.’ Steiven set the boy back on his feet. ‘Did you happen to recall if it was raining?’
Dania held her breath. Halliron reached out and patted her hand as the boy across the lodge tent frowned in tight concentration. At length Jieret raised eyes intent as his father’s and said, ‘Funny, that. I saw snowfall. But the trees were green with new leaves.’ His chin raised, determinedly defiant. ‘I’m not lying. What I dreamed was real.’
