Mark Sehestedt: The fall of Highwatch

"Well met, Hweilan," he said.

"Why are you here?" said Hweilan.

Soran did not smile, but she saw a gleam of mirth in his eye. "Is that how you greet your uncle?"

"Well met and all hail," she said in a flat voice. "Now why are you here?"

"My brother's wife is convinced that you've run off to marry a Nar chieftain. She has guards searching every cranny of the castle and servants searching Kistrad. Even Guric's men are hounding the fortress for you."

"She rousted the Captain of the Guard?"

"You know your grandmother."

Hweilan looked up at the other knights circling above. They were so high that she just barely made out the wings. "How did she persuade you to send the knights out after me?"

Soran snorted. "Don't flatter yourself. You are a stop along the way. We have other troubles."

"The Nar?"

"Yes."

It was not unusual for many clans to camp in Nar-sek Qu' istrade for the winter. But come spring, most went back into the open steppe to hunt, tend their herds, and feud. It had been much the same this year, but a great many had not moved on. In fact, more had come and were camping just beyond the main gates of the Shadowed Path.

"Your mother told me where she thought you might be," Soran said. "She asked me to come here and ask you to come back."

"Ask me or command me?"

"If this were a command, she'd have come herself."

"Hmph."

Soran opened his mouth to say something, but then his eyes settled on the thing leaning against the stone coffin beside Hweilan: a bow. Unstrung, it was almost as long as Hweilan was tall. Of the finest yew, it had many runes of power etched along its surface-all inscriptions sacred to Torm and the Knights. Seeing it, Soran's jaw tightened, and his nostrils flared. "That isn't a toy, girl."

"I know," she said. She wrapped her hand around the bow. "It was my father's. It's… it's the only thing I have left of him. That and memories. I bring it with me when I come here."

The anger melted out of Soran. "You've never used it?"

Hweilan snorted. "Used it? I can't even string it."

"Why do you carry it now?" said Soran.

She looked down at the bow. "It helps me remember him. He's been gone so long. My memories of him aren't as clear as they used to be. I come here. To remember. To think. To…"

"Honor the dead?"

"Something like that."

From far above them came a cry, harsh and guttural. One of the scythe wings circling overhead. Arvund, still perched on the ledge nearby, snorted and flapped his wings, raising a cloud of frost and grit.

Soran looked up, scowled, then said, "Would you like some advice from your older and much wiser uncle?"

"Not particularly."

His scowl deepened. "Very well, then. How about a request? Don't be so hard on your mother."

"She's sending me away!"

"Don't be foolish," said Soran. "Of course she isn't. That's your grandmother's doing, and you know it. I've met Duke Vittamar's son. I like him. But that wasn't what I meant about being hard on your mother. I meant Scith."

Hweilan flinched as if he'd slapped her. "You've heard? You… approve?"

"Hweilan…" said Soran. "Your mother is a woman. Your father has been dead for seven years. You can't expect her to spend the rest of her life alone. I would have thought that you'd be the first to defend her. Scith is a good man. And you know that better than anyone. He devoted his life to our family before you were born. He loved your father as a brother, and your father loved him."

"Then why is he rutting his brother's wife?"

Soran stood very still, not even blinking. All the flush drained from his face, and his white skin was almost pale as his short hair. "You will never speak so of your mother again," he said. "If you do so in my hearing, you will regret it the rest of your days." He stood there a moment, looking down at her, then said, "I'm surprised you listen to those nattering hens."

"You don't?"

"If you'd stop thinking about yourself for half a moment, you'd see," said Soran. Scith loves your mother and she him. That's plain. But they can do nothing about it. For one reason."

Hweilan snorted. "What?"

"You."

"What?" Hweilan realized she was shaking. She hugged herself but couldn't make it stop.

"Think," said Soran. "She has long since passed her time of mourning. But you know how things are in this house. Vandalar loves your mother like his own daughter. But your grandmother rules the house, and you know how she feels about your mother-how she's always felt. Your mother's only status in the household is as the widow of the High Warden's son. If she takes a lover or a husband, it'll be the end of any power she holds-and right now, you stupid, ungrateful, little girl-the only reason she's clinging to that is you."

"Me?" The tears were falling now, and Hweilan scrubbed them away with her sleeve before they could freeze.

"Think. If you're your mother actually took Scith into her bed, married him, if she allowed herself one night of being happy and not being lonely, she could no longer protect you. Your grandmother could marry you off to whomever she pleased-and there are a lot of duke's sons out there much less appealing than Vittamar's."

Hweilan turned her back to him. She couldn't stop the tears, and she hated appearing weak. Especially in front of Soran, who had nothing weak in his entire being. Everything he said made perfect sense. She felt furious at herself for not realizing the blazing obvious sooner. Shame welled in her at her own selfishness. She had been behaving like a little girl. But that still didn't change one simple fact.

Her shame melted before her anger, and she whirled on her uncle. "Highwatch is my home. I won't go!"

Soran took two steps forward, glaring down on her as he did so. "You're going if I have to tie you up and throw you in the wagon myself."

Hweilan opened her mouth to reply, but before she could get a word out, the sound of a horn drifted down from the sky. Arvund let out something between a bark and a roar and flapped his wings.

Soran looked up. One of the riders had come down about half the distance from the others. Hweilan could not make out the details of his pennant, but by the colors-white on gray-she knew it was Soran's second.

"We'll talk later," said Soran as he began to strap the faceplate back to his helmet. "Go home."

Hweilan sat for a while after Soran had left. She was still angry. She wasn't going to prance off to some western court, dress in gowns, curtsy, and fawn over some spoiled lordling.

But she knew her uncle was right. Her mother was doing her best for her. Or at least what she thought was best.

And so it went, round and round in her head, going nowhere.

Something tingled on the back of her neck.

Something was watching her.

Hweilan looked around. Nothing but row after row of stone coffins, the mountain rising behind them, and the scraggly winter-bare trees that managed to burrow their roots into the rock. Overhead, the scythe wings were long out of sight. Even the blurry eye of the sun, resting on the tip of the peaks, had dimmed behind thickening clouds. No birds. No breeze. Nothing.

But Hweilan knew the feeling. A hunter developed it. Scith said that all beasts had this sense, though it seemed to have gone to sleep among humanity. But those men who spent much time in the wild, who knew the land and became part of it, learned the old ways, the flow of the blood from ancient times… it would waken in them. And like any tool, it could be honed with use.

Hweilan took up her father's bow and headed home, but she decided to take a different path-another of Scith's lessons. The Nar learned to hunt by watching the wolf packs. Wolves knew the ways of the swiftstags, for the large deer were creatures of habit, always following the same paths. A predictable creature was easy prey.