James Clemens: Hinterland

Still, Gerrod was not done. “If we are going to forge Tashijan to a harder steel, then let it be in a fire born of our own hearts. And I know no heart burns brighter than yours.”

Gerrod seemed suddenly abashed at his last words. His fingers began to slip from hers. “All know this,” he mumbled. “Did not every stone cast for our new warden bear your color? Not a single stone against?”

Kathryn did not let his fingers slip so easily away. She gave them a firm squeeze. “You are kind. But the casting was so clean because Argent stepped aside.”

Gerrod finally freed his hand and took his reins. “How is he faring?”

“ Stubborn -that’s the word Delia used. She came by early this morning. Arrived with the dawn flippercraft from Five Forks. She says he mends well and is slowly adjusting to his new leg, but he is quick to wrath and not willing to listen to his healer’s warnings.”

“Little wonder there,” Gerrod mumbled. “One eye, one leg. The man is slowly being whittled away.”

Kathryn smiled, a rudeness perhaps, considering his maiming, but she suspected even Argent would respect it. Back in Tashijan, Argent had survived by will and alchemy-but mostly by a promise to a daughter. Not to leave. And as always, he stubbornly kept his word.

A commotion drew their attention to the side. A small figure ran toward her horse. “Warden Vail! Warden Vail!”

She glanced down and recognized the youth in mucked boots and muddied clothes. She reined her horse to a halt. “Mychall?”

The stableboy hurried to her stirrup. He held up a strip of black cloth. “I did it!” he shouted proudly and waved the strip. “I’ve been picked!”

She smiled down at him, knowing what he held, remembering when she had been chosen, given a bit of shadowcloak, picked to join the knighthood.

Mychall waved his bit of cloth and ran back down along her retinue. “I must tell my da!”

She watched him race away.

When she turned back to Gerrod, he stared at her. She knew he was smiling behind his bronze. “Still think we lost?” he asked.

She rattled her reins to get Stoneheart moving again. Inside her, the last of Lord Ulf’s ice melted away.

As the last morning bell rang over the meadow field, Brant whistled sharply. They were already late, and still needed to get attired for the knighting.

Stalks of sweetgrass parted in a weaving pattern, flowing down the slight hill. The pair of wolfkits responded to his whistle, running low to the ground, a hunting posture. They burst from the field together, bounding toward the small group gathered in the shade of a wide-bowered lyrewood tree, heavy with midsummer blossoms.

Brant led the pair back to the lounging party.

To the left, the meadows rolled into the green Tigre River, its waters reflecting the castillion of Chrismferry. Four stone towers rose from each bank of the Tigre, supporting the bulk of the castillion that ran like a bridge from one side to the other. A ninth tower, taller than the rest, rose from the center of the castillion, a beacon over the river, its white quarried stone blazing in the midday sun.

Great festivities were planned for the day, but before that happened, they had all wanted a moment to enjoy the sunshine, away from the tumult.

Buried in the shade ahead, Malthumalbaen rested against the twisted trunk. He chewed the end of a churl-pipe, a gnarled piece of wood as long as the giant’s arm. He puffed a trail of smoke as Brant returned with the cubbies.

Resting beside the giant, the bullhound Barrin snored, nose on the giant’s knee. Malthumalbaen stirred with a crack of bone.

“Ach, are we ’bout ready to head back, Master Brant?”

He nodded.

“Good thing that. All this dogflesh is making me hungry.”

The giant slowly gained his feet. Barrin groused about being disturbed, then was pounced upon by the returning cubbies. The bullhound let out an irritated grumble of reluctant tolerance.

“They’re getting big,” Laurelle said, packing the basket and stepping aside so Kytt could roll the blanket. “It was hard to tell when you were working them in the field.”

The pair had arrived late to the gathering, returning from the adjudicator’s office in lower Chrismferry, where they had gone to attend matters in regards to Liannora and her attack on Delia. They had been summoned to give testimony to what they had overheard in a hallway. Since the fall of the towers, Liannora had languished in a cell in Chrismferry, claiming her attack on Delia was all the doing of Sten, captain of the guard, insisting that in the tumult and chaos of the siege, he had misinterpreted a jest.

Unfortunately, Laurelle and Kytt could shed no more light on the foul act with certainty. They had never heard Liannora plainly order Sten to attack Delia. There were rumors she was to be set free.

But Lord Jessup had washed his hands of her. Though she might escape punishment, a god’s judgment was of a higher order. She had already been banned from setting foot in Oldenbrook.

Which left Lord Jessup needing not one but two new Hands to fill his wing.

Brant adjusted his crimson sash, marking him a Hand of blood. But no longer for Lord Jessup. With the god’s blessing, he now resided in the High Wing here, serving the regent while Delia attended her father in Five Forks. And there were rumors here, too, that she might not return at all.

“Look how they’ve grown!” Laurelle said. “Almost to my knee now.”

The cubbies were indeed growing fast, three times their weight when Brant had found them.

“But they’re still young,” Dart said quietly. She bent a knee and muffed up the fur of one of the pups, the sister. The cubbie lolled on her back, tongue hanging loose, happy for the attention.

“And learning fast,” Brant said. “Especially yours, Dart. She’s a true little hunter.”

Dart smiled up at him. He was happy to see it. Her rare smiles cheered him more deeply than he cared to admit. Since she had returned from the Eighth Land, a haunted look often shadowed her eyes. And he could not blame her. He still woke up sometimes covered with sweat, picturing moldering heads on stakes. But at least the real nightmare was over. Back in Saysh Mal, Harp was putting the forest in order, helped by a pair of acolytes that had descended from Takaminara. As the goddess had protected her daughter’s people, she watched now over their land. They should fare well from here.

Dart straightened from her wiggling cubbie and nodded to the other, who sat straight-backed at Brant’s side now.

“That boy of yours is no laggard either,” Dart said. “He might let his sister run down a mouse, but it’s his nose that always roots it out to begin with.”

Her words lifted a proud grin to Brant’s face. The whelpings had been left in his care, a burden shared with Dart. It allowed them both an excuse to escape their roles for a short time-he as a Hand of the regent, she as page to Warden Vail. Out in the fields, with the wolfkits, they could be themselves.

With everything packed up, Dart waved Laurelle on with the others. “Go on ahead. We’ll catch up.”

Laurelle searched between them, a ghost of a smile hovering, reading something more behind Dart’s words. Laurelle had a disconcerting ability to do that, to understand what was unspoken better than any. Brant barely recognized her as the girl he’d known at school.

It seemed they were all learning fast, struggling to find where they fit in this new world.

“We’ll meet you at the gates,” Laurelle said. She turned, drawing Kytt along with her. If the tracker had had a tail to go along with his nose, it would have been wagging.

At least some things hadn’t changed about Laurelle.

As they left, Dart lowered again to her little she-wolf. “We said that by the knighting we’d pick names for them. Have you decided on your boy?”