Laurelle caught her eye, her expression ripe with guilt.
It seemed the surprise was on the both of them.
Brant paused at the landing of the level where the retinue from Oldenbrook was housed. “Take the whelpings to my room,” he ordered the twin giants. “Keep them protected.”
Malthumalbaen nodded, his brow furrowed heavily with worry. “I can leave the little mites with Dral. He promised not to eat them. Best I come with you.”
Brant appreciated his large-hearted companion’s concern. “None will dare accost two Hands of Myrillia.”
He glanced over to the young woman, a dark-haired beauty with the large eyes to match. He remembered her from the Conclave of Chrismferry, always surrounded by a giggling flock of girls, circled by doe-eyed boys.
No longer.
She stood alone on the step. And though she had grown softer-edged, and more full of figure, she had also grown more serious. A purposeful set to her lips. A hard glint to the eye. Since she had left the school, the world had tempered her like a sword’s blade under a hammer. And if anything, it made her even more striking to the eye.
“Be safe, Master Brant,” Malthumalbaen warned in a fretful grumble.
He nodded and stepped to rejoin Laurelle-as a door swung open across the hall.
“Ah, there you are!” A sharp voice rang out.
Oh, no…
Liannora swept into the hall. She must have heard them talking and come to inquire. She had shed her silver and jeweled finery and wore a simple yet well-cut dress of white silk, a match to her hair, and a blue wool cape that reached to her ankles.
She barely noted the giants, despite their size. “The guards have been looking for you for the past bell. Sten has ordered us all to our rooms.”
And as if summoned by his name, the captain of the Oldenbrook guard stepped out of Liannora’s room. He was still dressed in the stiff-collared blues of Oldenbrook. But Brant noted the top two buttons at his throat were unhooked.
As he pushed into the hall, the two wolf cubbies suddenly wrestled in the giants’ thick-fingered grips, snarling, baring their tiny milk teeth. Their eyes narrowed on the captain of the castillion guard. They had recognized the scent of their mother’s killer.
“What are those two foul creatures doing here?” Liannora asked with a crinkle of her nose. “They reek most pungently. I thought they were to be taken down to the houndskeep.”
Brant had no patience to explain. “They will be kept in my room.” He nodded for the giants to obey, to get the cubbies out of sight.
Liannora started to protest, but Sten lightly touched her elbow. She seemed to melt slightly toward him.
“Be that as it may,” Sten said sternly. “I will ask that you do the same, Master Brant. With whispers of daemons afoot, it is my duty to protect Lord Jessup’s Hands.”
“I have a duty elsewhere,” Brant said. He would not be caged like the cubbies, kept guarded by Sten and his ilk. He turned to step away.
Sten put a hand on Brant’s shoulder. “I must insist.”
Brant glanced from the captain’s hand up to the man’s eyes and hardened his countenance. He let show the danger if the captain persisted.
Sten lowered his arm. “I have my orders.”
Brant noted that several of Sten’s fellow guards had gathered by now. Ahead and behind. He backed toward the stairs. Some silent signal was passed, and Brant heard the snick of steel sliding from sheaths.
“When threatened by danger, it is my duty to protect Lord Jessup’s Hands-whether they want it or not.”
Then Laurelle was there, at his shoulder. “And does that apply to the regent’s Hands as well, Captain?”
All eyes swung to her, seemingly seeing her for the first time.
The first to react was Liannora. She made a small sound of shocked delight. “Mistress Hothbrin…the regent’s Hand of tears…” Liannora pushed through the swords, waving them aside as if they were mere reeds. “It is an honor. A true honor.”
Brant stared at the two Hands-one from Oldenbrook, the other from Chrismferry. One white-haired, the other with tresses darker than a raven’s feather. But their dissimilarity ran much deeper. Though Laurelle was the younger, there was a well of nobility about her that Liannora would forever fail to fill.
Laurelle ignored the guardsmen and barely acknowledged Liannora. She kept her attention on the captain, immediately knowing who held the power.
“I’ve asked Master Brant here to accompany me on a duty vital to Tashijan,” she said. “Upon the orders of the regent himself-who I have heard is most loved by your god. I fear how Lord Jessup might react if he discovers such a simple request was rebuffed upon the point of a sword.”
Sten’s cheeks grew a little color. Brant suspected it wasn’t all her words. Laurelle’s beautiful eyes were full upon him.
Still, Sten had not been made captain of the guard for a weak will. “The safety of my charges-”
“You may relax your guard, Captain. All those involved in the dark matter have been captured. Tashijan is secure again.” She read the doubt in the captain’s eyes, a doubt he dared not speak aloud. “You have my word as the regent’s Hand. You may send word yourself, but in the meantime, our matter is most urgent and we must proceed with haste to speak to the warden and the castellan.”
To the side, Liannora’s eyes widened. With all this talk of high personages, she must have been biting her tongue to keep from licking her lips. But she finally set loose her tongue. “Sten, mayhap it would be best if we all accompanied Mistress Hothbrin to the Eyrie. Your guards can watch the doors here, while we follow Mistress Hothbrin and Master Brant up the tower.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Laurelle assured her.
Liannora would accept no objections. “Since the feast was dismissed, it is only seemly for more than one Hand from Oldenbrook attend an introduction to the warden and the castellan.”
Laurelle glanced at Brant, leaving it to his judgment.
He knew it would take too long to argue here. Besides, Sten still had swords and guardsmen. And he would bend steel to make anything Liannora wished come true. But mostly Brant recalled the fear in Dart’s eyes as she was led away. Better to relent and quash any further delays.
He nodded to Laurelle.
“We must be off quickly, then,” she said and swept back to the stairs.
Liannora hesitated, running a palm over her woolen cape, glancing down to her white dress. Brant read her consternation. For such an important introduction, Liannora was loath to appear in such meager attire. She was caught between missing this chance and settling for her present condition. The lure of power settled the matter. She set off after Laurelle, but not before casting a withering glance at Brant, as if this were all his fault.
Sten followed with Brant after barking a few orders to the remainder of his men. They continued their climb toward the highest levels of Tashijan. Liannora attempted conversation with Laurelle, but the girl set a fast pace on the stair. Soon shortness of wind silenced Oldenbrook’s mistress of tears.
Brant hid a grin. Laurelle had the wits to match her looks.
Around and around they went. The crowds grew thinner the higher they climbed. A commotion drew his attention back down the stairs. Below, a shadowknight brushed out of the remaining crowd, cloak billowing with Grace. He was masked, showing only the triple stripes of his caste, but something in his manner was black with danger.
Even Sten lowered a palm to the hilt of his sheathed sword.
In the knight’s wake, a stick of a man with a riotous sprout of red-gray beard followed. It looked as if the second fellow was carrying a dead animal in his arms. Only when half a flight away did Brant recognize it to be no more than a rumpled furred coat.
“Out of the way!” he yelled. “Curse you all black, get clear!”
Laurelle paused, half turning. Her eyes brightened with recognition. “Rogger!”
The gaunt man’s eyes found her. And something glinted in his eye. A warning. As good as a finger to her lips.
Laurelle had barely noted the knight at the man’s side-but now she glanced back and stared more intently.
