them well. He quickly ushered them through the door to his shabby little hut. He gave an angry scowl to the line of boys that followed, which sent them scurrying every direction but forward. Then he pulled the elk skin door closed and tied it fast.
“On the table boy,” Granfather said, with an excited grin on his wrinkled old face.
Hyden set the bundle down gently on the table, while Gerard found their grandfather’s food box and pulled out some bread and cheese as if he owned the place. In council and in public, this man was the Eldest of the clan, and all of the Skylers treated him with the utmost respect, but here inside his harvest hut, just like in his home, he was just the grandfather of two excited boys.
He leaned over the table and studied the chick for a moment, and then he brushed the long, silver-streaked hair out of his face and sat down. He motioned for the boys to do the same, indicating that Gerard could bring the bread and cheese with him.
“This is a wondrous thing,” he said in his deep, scratchy voice. “Great things will come of this.” He looked to Gerard, then to Hyden, and the smile on his face slowly faded. “But there is the potential for terrible things as well.”
Gerard handed Hyden some bread and cut them both some of the cheese as he spoke.
“The story says that a man will harvest an egg and that it will hatch for him. Then, he and the hawkling will go off and do great things together.”
“Aye, Gerard,” their grandfather agreed. “That the story does say.”
He stood slowly, then walked to the other side of the little hut, and began rummaging through a pile of old furs and leather satchels.
“The story though, is just that. It’s a story. The true legend is written in the old language-the language of dragons and wizards. It may or may not be a true prophesy. The Elders and I have often argued that.”
He stopped speaking suddenly as something came to him. He dug around some more, and then pulled an object out of an old bag made from the skin of some shaggy mountain animal.
“Here it is!” he exclaimed. “My father’s translation.” He opened the tattered volume and looked at the pages for a while.
A few long moments passed, so long that it began to appear that he had forgotten the two boys sitting at his table.
Hyden looked at his brother with a grin. He was about to clear his throat to politely remind the old man of their presence, but the hawkling chick did the job for him.
The little featherless bird wiggled his body and rose trembling to its tiny, clawed feet. It extended its neck up into the air, opened its beak, and began screeching for food. Gerard immediately pulled some jerky from his pack and gave it to his older brother. Hyden chewed it up just like before. Once the meat was soft, he gave it to the bird.
“Is this the first time you’ve fed it?” their grandfather asked with a look of childish excitement on his old face. He seemed to have forgotten his book entirely now, and he watched with rapt attention as Hyden took out another piece of chewed meat and fed it to the hungry bird.
“Mmm-no,” Hyden answered as he chewed. “I fed it-mmm-once this-mmm-morn.”
“Then it will be your familiar,” the old man said matter-of-factly. It was the voice of the clan Eldest speaking now, not their grandfather. “It will bond with you alone now, Hyden. You’re its mother.”
All eyes seemed to fall on Gerard at that moment, searching for some sign of disappointment, or other ill reaction to the decision. Gerard wasn’t very upset. He had the ring after all. Besides, he told himself, what respectable clansman wanted to be a mother?
“I and the Elders who are here at harvest will hold a council on this at moonrise,” their grandfather informed them as he opened up the old book again. “Stay near the lodges this night. We will want to speak to you about this… Both of you,” he added before Gerard could ask the question that had already formed on the tip of his tongue.
Walking with his face in the old book, the Eldest gracefully shouldered his way through the elk skin door and was gone.
Chapter 3
“Where ye headed, Mik?” Ruddy, the nightshift stable master at Lakeside Castle’s Royal Stables, asked.
“Can’t say,” Mikahl replied. Mikahl was the King of Westland’s personal squire, and the King had told him, with much distress in his voice, to prepare for a long journey, and to do so quietly. Mikahl was almost certain that by “quietly,” the King had meant undetected. Mikahl had asked if he should prepare the King’s mount as well, and the answer had been firm. “You’ll be going alone, Mik, and the journey will be a long one. No one can suspect that you’re leaving.”
The conversation had taken place a short while ago when Mikahl and the king were alone, just after the feast for the Summer’s Day delegation. The oddness of it was just now starting to sink in. “Just be ready Mik,” King Balton had told him. “I’ll try to send for you, and give you more instruction later this night.”
All of this was very cryptic to Mikahl. King Balton, the ruler of all of Westland, had seemed afraid. The way he had cleared the entire dining hall and whispered into Mikahl’s ear with wild, darting eyes, had been unnerving. To top it off, the King had sent Mikahl out through the back of the kitchens so that the bulk of the nobility, and the castle’s staff, would not see him depart. King Balton had never acted like this before, at least not around Mikahl. It was all very strange and Mikahl was beginning to worry about the King’s health. The man was fairly old, no one could doubt, but he had never acted like this before. Maybe he’d reached the end of his rope?
“Bah!” Mikahl chided himself for thinking such thoughts. King Balton was a great man, fair, and wise beyond measure. He had been terribly kind to Mikahl, and his mother, before she had died. There had to be something wrong. The sudden journey must be extremely important for it to be so secret, and cause the king such distress.
Mikahl looked at the nosy stable master, thought about it for a second, and then pulled a small, but fancy, silver flask out of his saddlebag.
“They never tell me where I’m going or why,” Mikahl lied. “But it doesn’t matter at the moment because I’ve been itching to try this. I filled it from the royal cask at dinner.”
“King Balton’s own brandy?” Ruddy asked eagerly.
“The very same.” Mikahl took a sip and passed it to the man. “Missy, the servant girl, held the table’s attention by leaning over and wiggling her arse while I filled my tin.”
Mikahl pretended to sip, and let the stable master slowly finish off the flask. His story worked like a charm. The size of Missy’s breasts was well known to every man on the castle staff. They were so large, that even the priests couldn’t keep their eyes off them. In truth, Mikahl drank from the King’s cask often. Doing so was just one of the many benefits that came with his job as King’s squire.
There wasn’t enough liquor in the flask to put Ruddy down, but it was enough to dull his wits. With thoughts of Missy’s giant breasts swirling around in his head, his mind wouldn’t dwell on Mikahl and his business. At least Mikahl hoped not.
Just as Mikahl finished loading his packhorse, a man peeked through the stable doors. After wrinkling his nose at the fresh, horsey smell, he told Mikahl that King Balton required his presence again – immediately.
As Mikahl followed the scurrying servant through the castle’s myriad of torch-lit hallways, it became clear that they weren’t going to the council chamber, or the throne room, or even back to the dining hall. The ancient castle was a monstrosity of towers, hallways, apartments, and gardens, all added one on top of the other. Mikahl had been born in the servants’ wing almost twenty years ago. He had spent his entire youth running the castle’s halls and corridors, but he still hadn’t managed to see it all. The fourth flight of stairs they climbed told him exactly where they were going, though. They were going to the King’s personal bed chamber. Mikahl had visited the Royal Apartment only once since becoming the King’s squire.
As they topped the stairs and turned from the landing to face the Royal Apartment’s large oak double doors, Lord Alvin Gregory came out. He was extremely pale, and the look of sadness on his face sent a chill through Mikahl’s blood.
