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?
