Elvish.
A faint veil of violet mist coalesced around him, growing stronger and brighter, shaping itself into hundreds of scalelike shards of diamond-bright force that rippled and cascaded from his shoulders to his knees. The elf swordmages knew the incantation as the Scales of the Dragon. It armored him as well as the finest dwarf-wrought plate.
“Did you hear that, Bann?” said the Veruna armsman by the back of the store. The man recoiled two steps. “It’s elven witchery! He’s a mage of some sort!”
“Steady, lads,” the lead armsman, Bann-or so Geran guessed-said. His voice was steady, but his eyes narrowed, and he suppressed a small shiver. Slowly he drew his blade, a sturdy basket-hilted broadsword, careful to keep the point to the gleaming wooden floor. “Wizards are just men. They can bleed and die like anyone else.”
“We’ll see,” Geran replied. “Ilyeith sannoghan!” He swept out his elven blade as he spoke the spell, and the subtly curved steel began to crackle with dancing sparks of yellow-white, almost as if he’d parried a bolt of lightning. In a voice as quiet as death he promised, “The next man who damages Erstenwold property will regret it for the rest of his life.”
The Veruna armsmen exchanged glances and hesitated. None seemed willing to be the first to try Geran’s steel, not while shimmering veils of magic shrouded him and brilliant sparks danced like fireflies along his blade. The armsman Bann met Geran’s gaze with a fierce glare. “Fair is fair,” he grated. “We told you our colors. So whose colors do you wear, wizard?”
“None but my own,” Geran snarled. He shifted his feet, and raised his blade into a high guard.
“Stop it!” Mirya barked. “I’ll not have this nonsense in my store! Take your quarrel to the street, all of you!”
No one moved. Mirya snorted in disgust, slid a few steps along the countertop, and pointed at Geran. “Oh, by all nine of the screaming hells. He wears no colors because he’s Geran Hulmaster, kin of the harmach,” she said to Bann and the other Veruna men. “Think on that before you strike!”
Geran scowled and moved away. “Stand aside, Mirya. I know what I’m doing. This’ll be over with soon enough.”
“The harmach’s nephew?” the armsman by the door said. He frowned. “Bann, I’m not sure about this. Someone cut up the Chainsmen last night. I heard it was him. And what’ll the townsfolk do if we hurt him?”
“If he chooses the quarrel, we’ve broken no laws,” Bann said.
“Aye, but Lady Darsi’ll have your heads if you lay a finger on him without her permission!” Mirya retorted.
That dart found its mark. The Veruna man winced, and uncertainty flickered across his face. He glared at Geran a moment longer, and then he contemptuously spun on his heel and slammed his sword back into the sheath. “You might be surprised, Mistress Erstenwold,” he said to Mirya. He angrily jerked his head toward the door. “Come on, lads. We’ll just come back sometime when Mistress Erstenwold isn’t so busy.”
The Veruna man strode out of the store, sparing Geran one more look before he bulled his way into the street. The other two blades followed him. Geran watched them pause and speak together for a moment out in the street before they turned and left together. He sighed and released the spells he’d been holding. With a simple flourish he returned his sword to the scabbard. “I suppose that’s done for now,” he said.
Mirya watched the Veruna armsmen leave, her face a tight mask of disapproval. “And when did you become a wizard?” she demanded.
Geran shrugged. “I know a few shields and evocations, but I’m no wizard. Sword magic is all the magic I can master.”
Her eyes fell to the blade at Geran’s hip, and she studied him more thoughtfully. “I’ve heard stories of elven swordmagic,” Mirya finally said. “I thought the elves weren’t in the way of sharing their magic with outsiders. Is the sword enchanted?”
“The lightning was a spell of mine, not the sword. But, since you ask-yes, the blade’s enchanted. I earned it in the service of the coronal.” He halted, unsure what else he could add. The people of Hulburg knew elves and elven ways only by what they heard from merchants of Hillsfar or Mulmaster, and the folk of those cities had good reason to fear the wrath of the elves. Consequently elves were likewise regarded as mythical and perilous in Hulburg too.
I’m going to have to be careful about saying too much about my time in Myth Drannor, he realized. He grimaced and moved on. “The Veruna men shouldn’t trouble you for a while. I’ve dealt with their kind before.”
“Well, that’s helpful,” Mirya said in a sarcastic voice. “And what do you think’s going to happen when they come back after you’ve gone away again? I’ll tell you, Geran Hulmaster: They’ll hold me to account for your nonsense. That’s what.”
“If you have to, tell them that I interfered without your blessing,” he said sharply. He’d expected at least a little gratitude for his trouble, after all. “It’s true enough.”
“It’s not so simple, and you know it.” Mirya clenched her fists in her apron. “You’ve been gone for ten years, and you’re sure to be gone again before the month’s out. I don’t need you to pick a fight and then sail off, leaving it to me!”
Geran snorted. “If you beg forgiveness for standing up to a bully, you’re asking him to rob you again. You should know that, Mirya.”
“You’ve not been here, Geran, and you don’t have half an idea of what’s going on in this town!” Mirya snapped. “And it’s not just my own neck that I’m worried for. What if those black-hearted scoundrels thought to teach me a lesson by hurting Selsha? Now how could I live with myself if I let her get hurt on account of my stubbornness? Or yours?”
“All right, then. I’ll make sure that I don’t involve you in my quarrels, Mirya. But I’ll be damned if I’ll stand still and watch some Mulmasterite thugs threaten my friends right in front of me. I promise you I’ll make sure my fights are finished before I go.” Geran shook his head and stormed away. He tried not to slam the door behind him, but he didn’t quite succeed. Mirya shouted something after him, but he turned back toward Griffonwatch and set off without looking back.
Slavers in the Tailings, the Shieldsworn keeping no laws within the town’s walls, and thugs dressed in the colors of foreign companies extorting native-born Hulburgans. Somewhere at the back of it all, Jarad Erstenwold had been murdered in the Highfells by tomb robbers. Geran fumed silently as he shouldered his way through the narrow streets. It seemed that looking after Jarad’s affairs might take longer than he’d thought.
FIVE
13 Ches, the Year of the Ageless One
The day after the encounter at Erstenwold’s, Geran rose early and spent half an hour practicing his weapon- forms in a little-used court on the castle’s south face. When he finished, he returned to his chambers, splashed himself with cold water for a teeth-chattering bath, and dressed. Then, before leaving his rooms, he took a large book written in Elvish from his baggage. Geran spent an hour studying the words and symbols from the spellbook, pressing into his mind the arcane phrasings and signs he would need to unlock his magic quickly and surely should he need it. Given what he’d seen of the state of affairs in Hulburg so far, it seemed wise to be ready for anything.
With the swordmagic spells fixed in his mind, Geran took a few moments to renew the protective charms he usually maintained from day to day. He quickly rewove wardings of keen perception and deflection, defenses that just might save him from a dagger in the back or see him through an unexpected skirmish. His battle-shields were much more powerful, of course, but he couldn’t maintain them for long; the wardings he could wear all day, like an invisible shirt of light mail. He returned his spellbook to the trunk at the foot of his bed and whispered a locking spell out of habit.
“All right,” he said aloud. “Now for some breakfast.”
He trotted down the stairs leading from his old bedchamber to the great room in the Harmach’s Tower, where the family normally took their meals. Hamil was ahead of him, already finished with his own breakfast. The halfling was engaged in a game of dragon’s-teeth with Geran’s young cousin Kirr, who chortled with delight every
