Shiar?'
'What? You're joking, right? They're a myth.'
'They're not. I have one. Or I did, anyway.'
Maybe it was his eyes, maybe his voice, or maybe the fact that he'd have to be insane to risk escaping-and then breaking back in-on a jest. Whatever the case, Irrial obviously chose to believe.
'My gods.' She began pacing the length of the bedroom and back. 'Rumor has it that Audriss the Serpent and Corvis Rebaine each had one, you know.'
'Did they.' His voice, flat as an undertaker's slab, made it a statement rather than a question.
'I saw an axe hanging at Rebaine's side, the day he took Rahariem.' She was whispering, her expression unfocused. 'I don't even know why I noticed it, there was so much else about him… Was that it, do you think? The Kholben Shiar?'
Cerris said nothing, and Irrial scarcely seemed to notice his silence. She shook her head as though dragging her thoughts more than twenty years forward, back to today. 'If you don't know what form it's taken, how am I supposed to recognize it?'
'It keeps certain traits,' he said, hoping now that her memory wasn't too precise. 'It'll have runes and figures adorning the head, blatant no matter what it looks like. If you stare at them long enough, they'll even seem to move.'
She nodded, though her expression remained doubtful. 'All right. And if I find out who has it, what then?'
An hour and more they spent in discussion, making arrangements, suggesting adjustments to each other's plans. Night was pregnant with the dawn by the time they'd finished, and Corvis-with a lingering 'Thank you' whispered in Irrial's ear-had just enough time to recover his stolen uniform, make his way back through the gates, and sneak into his bunk, where he waited to rise-exhausted but newly determined-with the guards' morning summons.
Chapter Three
TWIN COLUMNS OF HORSEMEN, clad in burnished steel and draped in iron-hued cloths, wound along the highway, a single armored centipede scurrying across rolling coastal hills. Every tabard, every shield, sported the hammer-and-anvil emblem of the Blacksmiths' Guild-as though the sheer quantities of quality armor and mail weren't evidence enough of that particular loyalty. Although they moved at a stately, even staid, pace, the drumming of a hundred hooves shook the earth, melding with the distant waves into a single endless, rolling percussion. The ocean's tang filled every visor, and each soldier knew with a sinking certainty that, though his armor gleamed brilliantly now, he would spend many an hour this evening polishing and scraping, lest the coming rust dig too deep.
Between the columns rolled a carriage-and-four, rumbling and thumping over every rut in the road. It, too, was painted iron grey, and it, too, bore the hammer-and-anvil. The driver, a narrow-faced, leather-clad man with sandy hair, held the reins idly in one hand, content to allow the horses to set their own pace. Beneath him, the passengers were concealed from view by curtains of golden cloth.
Another rise, another dip in the road, and the column drew to a halt as the men took stock, their destination finally in view. For most, who had never been so far from Mecepheum, nor come anywhere near the sea, the sight of Braetlyn was an exotic wonder.
Sprawled along several miles of meandering coast, the province consisted primarily of fishing towns. Trade and travel flowed constantly among them, by land and by sea, and those largest communities in the center had begun to meld, early signs of what might one day sprout and blossom into a sizable city. Many a sail fluttered and flapped out atop the waves, nets draped over the sides. The scents of an economy based largely on the fish caught by those nets, day after day, staggered several of the riders like a physical blow.
Above it all, perched atop a low hill, watched a sturdy keep of old stone, surrounded by a palisade of sharpened stakes. From its towers flapped the peculiar ensign of Braetlyn, the crimson fish on a field of blue too dark to accurately portray the sea it was intended to evoke.
The polite thing to do-the safe thing to do-would be for the riders to wait, perhaps after announcing themselves with a trumpet blast, for knights of Braetlyn to come and escort them the rest of the way. Instead, after their moment of examination had passed, the soldiers of the Blacksmiths' Guild resumed their march, wending their way into Braetlyn proper.
Citizens poured from their homes, unaccustomed to visitors making so grand, so ostentatious-and indeed, so militant-an entrance. Faces roughened by life in the sun and by the salty spray of the sea stared at the armored forms and the carriage they escorted. On the fishermen, the craftsmen, the carpenters, and the bakers, those faces twisted into expressions of distrust, and occasionally even fear. The local men-at-arms, however, showed little expression at all, despite the caravan's failure to await a proper escort. Some even looked happy to see the new arrivals, and none wore the crimson-and-blue tabard of their supposed home.
Ignoring them completely, the columns followed the road up the final hillside, halting before the drawbridge and the gates-the lowered drawbridge, and the wide-open gates-of Castle Braetlyn.
Here, and only here, a quartet of armored guards wore Braetlyn's ichthyic ensign. Three sets of gauntlets clenched tightly on three gleaming halberds, while the fourth knight approached the newcomers. His salt-and- pepper beard was clearly visible, for he carried his red-plumed helm beneath one arm.
'None may enter Castle Braetlyn under arms,' he announced, his voice calm but loud enough to carry over the constant song of the sea.
'Out of the way!' one of the armored horsemen snapped. 'We're here to see-'
'I know who you're here to see,' the knight replied, offering the mounted soldier a withering glance before returning his attention to the carriage. 'There's only one person here to see. You still shall not enter under arms.'
'You've no right to stop us, you-!'
'Sergeant!' The carriage door drifted open, allowing a sharp, commanding voice to emerge from within. 'We are guests here, and we will behave as such.'
The horseman grumbled something under his breath, seeming determined to bowl the knight over with the force of his glower alone, but nodded curtly.
The woman who stepped from the carriage was as broad of shoulder as many of the guards ostensibly sent to protect her, and her bare arms were corded with muscle. Her dark hair, wearing just a few streaks of grey, was pulled tightly back in an unflattering bun, and she was clad, not in formal gown or finery, but in a sleeveless tunic of emerald green and leggings of heavy wool. She carried under one arm a small wooden box, latched with an ungainly padlock, and from her thick neck hung an iron pendant: a hammer-and-anvil that did not quite form the ensign of the Blacksmiths' Guild nor quite the holy icon of Verelian the Smith, but something in between.
'Lady Mavere,' the knight of Braetlyn greeted her, and if there was any resentment in the clench of his jaw, he managed to banish it from his voice. 'You are, of course, always welcome.'
'You are too kind, sir knight.' With a gesture, she waved the driver down from atop the carriage. 'You needn't fear for your lord's safety,' she assured the soldier. 'My assistant and I will see him alone. My men will remain outside.'
'With the rest of your mercenaries,' one of the other gate guards muttered, just loud enough to be overheard. The elder knight, and the emissary of the Blacksmiths' Guild, both pretended not to notice.
'Is my lord Jassion expecting you?' the knight asked instead.
'I'm sure he is, since one of you surely informed him of our presence as soon as we crested the hill.'
A scowl was all the response he offered. 'Very well. Follow me, please.'
'Isn't it astounding,' the driver whispered to Lady Mavere as he fell into step behind her, 'just how much 'please' sounds like 'bugger right off'?'
In the presence of the elder knight, she was too much the diplomat to grin.
Scattered around the edges of the courtyard, and framing every doorway, stood marble nudes that were either exquisite replicas of Imphallion's classical style, or just perhaps actually dated back to lost antiquity.
