Turbull at least recovered quickly enough that it could have passed as a moment’s hesitation. “We have been considering that. There is a place we are scouting that is almost ideal.”
“Almost?” said Roghar.
Turbull waved the question away. “It is Tigerclaw business. Don’t trouble yourself with it.” He looked around the gathered circle. “But now tell me of your travels. Where you’ve been. Where you’re going.”
The change of conversation was so abrupt it left Albanon with a bad taste in his mouth. As Belen, once more taking the lead, launched into an abbreviated version of their adventures, he looked around at the Tigerclaws. All of them seemed to be listening to the story, but except for Turbull, none were actually looking at Belen. Or him, Roghar, Tempest, or Uldane. They’d all suddenly found great interest in their food. Albanon was willing to guess that Tigerclaw tradition frowned on lying to guests, but had no qualms about omitting information. The clan was hiding something.
But then so was Belen. Although her tale was rambling and artless, she hid most of their experiences with Vestapalk and certainly their involvement in the origins of the Abyssal Plague, describing the dragon only as their enemy. Suitably for a warrior, the bulk of her story focused on the details of their battles and that seemed more than enough for her barbarian audience. Her description of the events at Winterhaven brought the attention of the Tigerclaws back to her. They grunted appreciatively-even Hurn-at Roghar’s decapitating Vestagix with the edge of his shield, drawing a nod and the first smile Albanon had seen in days from the dragonborn.
Belen minimized the role he had played in the end of the battle, describing the madness of his lightning storm merely as a powerful spell and hinting that the devastation of Winterhaven had been the fault of the plague demons. When she had finished, Turbull sat back and nodded to the other Tigerclaws. “Learn from this,” he said. “Our enemies won’t always come at us in packs.” Then he sat forward again, his eyes on Albanon. “But what of this urge that draws you north? What have you learned from it?”
Belen hadn’t been able to leave out everything. She had, however, recast the urge planted in Albanon by Tharizdun and his lie about the valley as a vision granted to him by Ioun. Albanon took a breath and did his best to extemporize without actually lying any more than he already had. “Just that whatever we find at the end of the journey will aid us against Vestapalk and the Abyssal Plague. The vision itself is vague. I know there’s a mountain valley and a rock face.”
Turbull looked at him expectantly and Albanon realized that he was waiting for more details. “A… a tall rock face.” As he spoke, the image became more real in his mind. A strange feeling spread through him, as if what he described really was what they were searching for. “Taller than a castle tower. A cliff of pale gray stone.”
“How long is it since you first saw this vision?” asked Cariss.
“A few weeks now. A month perhaps, but no more. I denied it for some time.”
“Why? A call from the gods isn’t something to be ignored.”
Albanon cursed silently. He’d said too much. Why would anyone deny a vision from Ioun? “After the plague demon attack on Fallcrest, I just wanted peace.”
“Peace and denial are luxuries from another time,” said Turbull, “but sometimes they are still possible. You will have peace tonight-you will stay with the Thornpad and continue on your way tomorrow.”
The pronouncement brought two reactions. The Tigerclaws, Hurn and Cariss especially, growled and complained to Turbull, while Albanon and the others glanced uneasily between themselves. Roghar actually rose to his feet. “We should move on,” he said bluntly.
Turbull held up a hand to silence the members of his clan. “Hospitality has been offered. It cannot be called back.” He looked at Belen. “A tent will be prepared for you and later a feast.”
The warrior woman’s confidence seemed shaken. The offer to stay must not have been something she expected. Her eyes went to Albanon.
Tigerclaws take hospitality seriously, she’d said-and as much as Albanon mistrusted the situation, he liked staying on the barbarians’ good side better than offending them. He smiled at Turbull. “We would be honored to stay the night,” he said. “And perhaps you could share your knowledge of the land we’re entering.”
Turbull returned the smile. “Of course.”
They lingered over the food-now cold-for a little longer while a hide tent was erected for them. If the meal had begun with uncertain silence, it ended in uncomfortable quiet. With the exception of Belen and Turbull, conversing in broken fragments to satisfy the demands of etiquette, neither party was in the mood to talk. All Albanon wanted to do was go somewhere private so he could discuss their situation with the others.
Finally one of the Tigerclaw children appeared to whisper a message to Turbull. The clan leader rose, bidding Albanon and the others an effusive farewell until evening, then directed Cariss to lead them away. She obeyed with a swiftness that felt less like obedience and more like a desire to have them away from her. Their passage back through the camp drew no less attention than before but was a good deal quicker.
The tent that had been prepared for them was close to the edge of the camp and somewhat smaller than the others belonging to the Tigerclaw. The bent wood poles were new, but the hides covering them were old and stale with years of smoke; a hole at the peak let in fresh air and light. Cariss saw them through the flap of the door, then left.
Tempest spoke before the door flap had even stopped swaying. “They know something. I don’t-”
“Shh,” hissed Belen. She twitched back the door just a bit and looked outside. Albanon could see over her shoulder as she peered around. Cariss and her warriors might want nothing to do with them, but many ordinary Tigerclaws lingered with curiosity. Belen let the door flap drop back into place. “This is a tent, not a cottage,” she whispered harshly. “Sounds will go right through the walls.”
“I thought the Tigerclaws valued hospitality,” said Uldane.
“Value, yes. Are stupid about it, no. Keep your voices down.”
“Just how do you know so much about the Tigerclaws, Belen?” asked Albanon. “I’ve lived in Fallcrest for seven years and I don’t remember Scargash sending emissaries.”
“You weren’t there all the time, were you? Moorin sent you off on errands.”
Albanon narrowed his eyes. “Even if the Tigerclaws did send emissaries, why would the Lord Warden have assigned one guard to escort them?”
Belen’s face tightened and she blew out her breath slowly. “Fine,” she said at last. She stepped to the center of the tent, farthest from the thin hide walls. “My mother was a Tigerclaw.”
“You have shifter blood?” Uldane said.
“No,” Belen told him. “My mother was one of the human class that the Tigerclaws call the Tamed. She met my father, a hunter, near Nenlast and fell in love. Her clan wouldn’t accept him, so they ran away. She was the one who taught me the ways of the tribe.”
“Why didn’t you just say so?” asked the halfling. “Cariss and Hurn might have treated us better from the beginning!”
“The Tigerclaws don’t look kindly on anyone who leaves the clan. They call them Riven and shun them-and that extends to their descendants.” Belen looked around at them. “Don’t tell anyone this. If the Tigerclaws find out, they might force us to leave.”
“That doesn’t sound like such a bad thing,” Roghar said.
“It would be. They wouldn’t be gentle about it.”
“I think we have more to gain by cooperating,” said Tempest. “Like Albanon said to Turbull, maybe the Tigerclaws can tell us more about what lies ahead.” She nodded to Albanon. “Good thinking.”
“I didn’t want it to seem like we were just giving in,” Albanon said.
Belen nodded. “Turbull will respect you more because of it.”
“It looked more like he was mocking me.”
“You showed cunning. Tigerclaws appreciate those who know when not to fight but who will still try to turn a situation to their advantage.”
“Belen,” said Roghar, “is it possible things have changed with the Tigerclaws since your mother’s day?”
“Not likely. Cetainly not so fast. The Tigerclaws place great importance on maintaining their traditions.”
She seemed almost proud, but Roghar’s suggestion dug into Albanon. “Turbull led his clan away from Scargash and the Winterbole Forest in the face of the Abyssal Plague. It sounds to me like he’s willing to break with tradition when he needs to.”
For a moment, Belen’s expression took on a shifterish ferocity. “Some traditions are inviolable. Turbull will respect you, just as he’ll respect the traditions of hospitality. If he didn’t want us here, he would have sent us on