father while so young, but that was hardly an uncommon thing in the Moonsea lands. Wars, monsters, feuds, and hard toil in hard lands orphaned many children and left most of those in much grimmer circumstances. At least Natali and Kirr had their mother and their father’s kinfolk to look after them, as well as a castle full of men and women sworn to the Hulmasters’ service. As far as he could tell, the servants and maids who worked in the castle loved the two young Hulmasters as if Natali and Kirr were their very own children.
He reached the bottom of the causeway, which was a small square called the Harmach’s Foot. Mule-drawn wagons clattered over the cobblestones, a steady stream passing both north and south. Those heading north were bound for the mining and woodcutting camps beyond the Winterspear Vale with provisions of all kinds-salted meat, sacks of flour, casks of ale, wheels of cheese, blankets, tools, all the things that men living out in the field would need. Those heading south were coming into town from the valley farms. At that time of year, all they had were eggs, dairy goods, and meat to sell in the town’s markets. It would be months before the summer crops came in.
He didn’t recognize any of the drivers heading out to the work camps. If their accents and manner of dress were any guide, most were from other Moonsea cities. He saw more Mulmasterites and Melvauntians, and even a few Teshans. Geran shook his head, struck again by how crowded the town seemed. “Well, where to?” he asked himself.
He thought for a moment then struck out north along the Vale Road. Once he left the Harmach’s Foot, the area between Griffonwatch and the Winterspear reverted to old, brush-covered rubble, with only a few buildings standing amid the remains of the old city. Most of the living town clustered close to the harbor, and the northern and western districts of Old Hulburg remained ruins except for the best sites, such as the Troll and Tankard, a taphouse on the edge of town.
When the Vale Road finally emerged from the ruins of Old Hulburg and headed north into the Winterspear farmlands, Geran turned west at the Burned Bridge. Centuries ago a fine and strong bridge had crossed the Winterspear on five stone piers. In Lendon Hulmaster’s time a simple trestle of wood had been laid across the remains of the ancient stone piers to link Griffonwatch more directly with Daggergard Tower, a small barracks and watchtower on the west bank of the river. Geran paused at the top of the bridge to lean on the rail and watch the water race by below. The snowmelt of spring was just beginning; in a few weeks the Winterspear would be ten feet higher, roaring with the voice of Thar’s high snowfields and the distant glaciers of the Galenas.
He made his way from Daggergard along Keldon Way, heading south as he circled the town. Above him rose the strange stone forest the folk of Hulburg knew simply as the Spires. Soaring, club-shaped columns of pale green stone stood embedded in the flanks of the ridge marking the western edge of the town, in some cases bursting through the old foundations of the ancient ruins. The Spires were change-land too, just like the spectacular Arches that guarded the eastern side of Hulburg’s harbor. Both were inexplicable legacies of the Spellplague that had swept Faerun nearly a century ago. Odd landmarks such as the Spires or the Arches were commonplace in many lands- rock and root of alien Abeir, piercing Toril’s flesh when the two worlds, long separated, had merged in a decade of unthinkable catastrophes following the Year of Blue Fire. Geran had heard that many such eruptions of Abeiran landscape in other lands were infested with all sorts of strange planar monstrosities or held undreamed-of marvels of living magic, but the Spires were simply tangled, fluted pillars of malachite, silent and inert. No alien perils or deadly magic were hidden within.
From the shadow of the Spires he descended quickly into the trading district at the foot of Keldon Head, where half a dozen tradeyards clustered near the wharves of the harbor. Here Geran slowed his pace and began to pay attention. The storehouse compound belonging to House Sokol of Phlan had stood in Hulburg for many years, but large new yards belonging to House Veruna of Mulmaster and the Double Moon Coster of Thentia were new. He turned eastward on Cart Street and found a striking new building, the Merchant Council’s Hall, standing not far from the merchant yards. A pair of armed guards stood in front of it, men who wore cuirasses of iron and carried short pikes-the Council Watch, or so he guessed. He didn’t like the idea of an armed company in Hulburg other than the Shieldsworn, but the town seemed full of mercenaries and sellswords.
Geran threaded his way through heavier crowds along Cart Street. The triangle of tangled streets between the Harbor, Angar’s Square, and the Low Bridge was the heart of Hulburg. Clerks hurried from place to place, carrying ledgers and quills. Porters threw barrels of ale or sacks of flour over the shoulders and carried them off. Children ran and shouted among the oxcarts and porters. “It seems that Hulburg isn’t a backwater anymore,” Geran muttered to himself. Was this what the harmach had meant when he mentioned Sergen’s designs for the town?
He turned the corner to Plank Street, and his footsteps faltered. He hadn’t even realized where he was allowing his feet to carry him, but now he was here, not more than ten feet from a familiar hammer-and-grain-sheaf emblem, hanging above a door. The signboard was old and battered, but he could still make out the faded lettering:
ERSTENWOLD PROVISIONER.
The storefront was old and weatherworn too, but it was tidy. Barrels full of last fall’s apples stood by the wooden steps. To his right, a large workyard and storehouse adjoined the store. The Erstenwolds had made a decent living for two generations by supplying foodstuffs, rope, canvas, woolen blankets, and iron tools to the ships that called on Hulburg and the miners and woodcutters who worked the hills to the north and east. Jarad’s family could still look after themselves, and that was a small comfort at least.
He hesitated for a moment, studying the storefront while passersby made their way around him. What are you waiting for? he wondered. His mouth twisted with a grimace of irritation, and he deliberately set foot on the wooden steps leading to the door. Two quick strides, then he pushed it open and let himself inside.
The Erstenwold store consisted of a single long wooden counter that spanned the width of the room. Thick, smooth planks of hardwood gleamed underfoot, old and stained. Dim daylight filtered in through a row of thick glass-paned windows high on the opposite wall. Tack and harness filled the room with the rich smell of fresh leather, and rows of barrels, sacks, and crates lined the walls. A couple of customers-woodcutters in town to stock up on supplies, Geran guessed-negotiated with a clerk behind the counter.
It looks pretty much the same as ever, Geran decided. He knew the Erstenwolds’ place of business almost as well as he knew his own rooms in Griffonwatch. Not terribly busy at the moment, but that was not unusual. If no ships or big supply trains were stocking up, a day could be surprisingly slow here.
“Can I help you, sir?” A dark-haired woman bustled into the room from a doorway behind the counter, brushing her hands against her apron. She was tall and slender, with strong, sharp features and wide-set eyes of a striking glacial blue. She wore her hair pulled back in a single stern braid, but a small spray of freckles danced across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose in defiance of her unsmiling expression. When Geran didn’t answer immediately, she gave a soft snort of annoyance and took a step closer. “Hey! I said, can I…” the shopkeeper began, then stopped. She looked again and shook her head as if to clear it of confusion. “It’s you,” she finally said.
“It’s me,” Geran said. “Hello, Mirya.”
“Geran Hulmaster.” Mirya Erstenwold crossed her arms, fixing him with her sharp, bright gaze. “What are you doing here?”
“I… I heard about Jarad. I had to come.” He rested his hands on the well-worn wood of the counter and lowered his eyes. “Mirya, I’m sorry. I loved him like my own brother.”
Mirya said nothing for a long moment. Then she sighed and smoothed her apron. “I know you did, Geran.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No,” she said. “We buried him last Fifthday, alongside my mother and father. It’s done. You’ve no cause to worry on our account.”
Geran winced. Once upon a time, Mirya wouldn’t have used such a tone on him. Sometime in his seventeenth summer, he’d finally noticed that the sister of his best friend, a girl who had followed the two of them all over Hulburg and the wildlands nearby, was clever, strong, slender, and graceful as an elf princess… and that something in her eyes danced like sunlight on water when he was around her. She’d been his first love, and he’d been hers. But that carefree girl with the easy smile and the soft laugh was just a memory, just as much as the restless boy he’d once been.
“He didn’t leave anyone behind, did he?” he asked. “I mean, I don’t remember hearing that he’d ever married.”
