Wintertide (27 page)

He responded with the genuine warmth her heart sought.

“Well, then, my Lady, you still have a lot to learn,” he teased lightly and grasped her by the elbow. He guided her out of the circle of the circle, the curtain shimmering like a silver veil in the wind as they stepped through.

She paused at the mantle near a trio of platinum chalices but touched a gilt-edged deck of cards instead. She withdrew a card from the center of the stack. With a shy smile, she handed it to him and he turned it over.

The first light of the new day filtered through the east window of the room and caught the brightly gilded colors on the card in the Sorcerer’s hand. On its face was an artist’s rendering of two figures, one male and one female, intertwining in a passionate embrace.

It was the card of the Lovers.

“An omen?” she asked, her hand resting on his arm.

“A promise.” He drew her against him, sealing his promise with a kiss.

They came after First Thaw, up the winding trail through the Nijana Mountains. Their slim-hooved stallions stepped carefully over patches of ice-crusted snow, splashing through mountain streams and rivulets of clear cold water that flowed from the crevices in the gray rocks. The sky was clearer than it had been since Wintertide, though not the sapphire blue of summer. Still, it no longer blended with the snowcapped peaks in the distance. The brown-clad Hill Raiders, their vests and saddle blankets edged in Kemmon-Ro black, saw the pale azure canopy overhead as a good sign.

They crowded in the Great Halls of the castle with the other Kemmons: Kemmon-Drin from the northwest and Kemmon-Nijar from the foothills of the northeast. The deep burgundy and greens of their bandings soon intermingled with the black banding of the last to arrive from the region of the Darkling Forest. All drank and caroused and gambled under the watchful eyes of the Khalar—the castle’s own Kemmon—who wore no bandings, for their vests and tunics and leather trousers, like their cloaks, were solid black. The color of the Master of Traakhal-Armin.

Like their Master, the Khalar were tall, broad-shouldered, raven-haired men, square-jawed. Their large hands wielded the longest swords as easily as they fingered the feather-light reins of their stallions. For Khalar horsemen were the best in the Land, outriding even the flamboyant but now less powerful Fav’lhir whose speckled steeds were legendary in the south.

The four Kemmon-Rey, or leader-chieftans, of each faction were finally led to the Hearth Room which lay directly above the Great Halls of the castle. The rumble of men’s voices and occasional burst of deep laughter followed them up the wide stone stairs. They took their places at the long polished mahogany table in front of the hearth, with burly Tahan of Kemmon-Drin and round-faced Potro of Kemmon-Nijar on one side, chestnut-haired Egan of Kemmon-Ro and dark Humbert of the Khalar on the other. Their backs were to the tall arched windows draped with heavy brocaded curtains, now drawn back to let in the strong rays of the late afternoon sun setting in the West.

At the foot of the table stood Lord Tedmond, a frail, white-haired old man whose thin mustache drooped past the sharp point of his chin. He was clad in robes of rich burgundy, having once hailed from Kemmon-Drin in his youth. But the title he now bore was Lord Chamberlain; his allegiance solely to the man who had reigned in Traakhal-Armin for over three hundred years.

‘Master Ro’ as they called him—and it was only with the greatest of respect—didn’t appear at this meeting, nor the two that followed, having no interest in the minor negotiations of the Kemmons that took place at the Council of First Thaw. Tedmond handled that as he had for seventy years, since he came into Master Ro’s service. He inherited the position from his wizened father who likewise had borne the responsibility of Lord Chamberlain for the Master for nearly three-quarters of a century before he died.

There was the traditional oath of allegiance pledging fealty and loyalty followed by the offering from each Kemmon as proof of their faith: a new contingent of highly trained scouts or trailcutters added to Master Ro’s service or the gift of a finely bred stallion or mare of great bloodlines, all for the betterment of the Tribe.

Minor grievances were aired, territorial disputes, for even within the closely-knit loyalties of the Tribe, the Kemmons often fought among themselves. Inter-family jealousies were traditional.

Master Ro himself wasn’t above these petty jealousies and there wasn’t a man now present in Traakhal who didn’t know the reason for their existence: they were the defenders of two-thirds of the Land claimed three centuries ago by their Master and the Khalar. The other third was held jointly by Lady Melande, the Witch and Lord Lucial, the Wizard. It took the two of them and all their combined powers to attempt—for attempt was all they did—to keep Master Ro, their eldest brother, at bay. For he was Lord of Traakhal-Armin, first-born of the God of the Underworld, Tarkir, and the only one to bear the title and power of the Sorcerer. He was Rothal-kiarr.

The usual Great Hall gossip around who had transgressed who’s ‘Nest,’ or who had the fastest steed or comeliest wench between his legs since Fool’s Eve was not, at this Council, the main topic of conversation. Two events had occurred over Wintertide. It was discussion and speculation on these subjects that flowed through the Great Halls as freely as Master Ro’s excellent ale.

The first event was not an event at all but rather the lack of one. The almost constant confrontations between the Khalar-bred Kemmons of the north and the Magrisi and Fav’lhir and their Kemmons to the south had been visibly, noticeably absent since Wintertide. Border infractions were few and none had occurred at all deeper in the Khalar region of the Darklings, where for three Wintertide’s prior, the red-banded Magrisi had struck. Nor had the Covetowns that lay against the Great Sea, villages like Cirrus, Nimbus and Bright’s Cove, seen any South Land Hill Raiders charging over the dunes. The Covetowns were neutral, aligning with none of Tarkir’s offspring; their God that of the Sea, Merkara, or the Heavens, Ixari. Consequently, they were often used as pawns in the bitter game of sibling rivalry.

Even the trade city, Noviiya, set out on its finger of land, was unusually placid; the shopmasters, templemasters and whoremasters carrying on business as usual.

This tranquillity, though a tense one, that descended upon the Land since Wintertide was directly attributed to the second event of Wintertide: the arrival of the Sorceress, the Lady Kiasidira of Traakhal-Armin.

She was now the subject of much speculation. An ethereal beauty, it was said, with hair as pale as lightning. Slender of form, but able to command the fiercest of stallions, wield the broadest of swords, cast the most powerful spells. It was her alliance with Rothal-kiarr that now tipped the scales heavily in the North Land’s favor. And it was rumored that Lucial and Melande were more than greatly displeased and worrisome. For while Tarkir’s youngest proved enough of a deterrent to the Sorcerer’s acquisition of new territory, they weren’t even remotely capable of stopping the combination of Rothal-kiarr and Kiasidira. For she was the only other one, besides the Sorcerer, who had access to the Orb of Knowledge, a gift from Tarkir to his eldest and favorite child.

Yet it wasn’t Kiasidira’s magical prowess that caused the raising of dark eyebrows as earthen mugs were drained, filled and drained again of bright ale. It was speculation on her official position in the life of Master Ro that was argued from table to table and hearthside to hearthside. For not once in the Sorcerer’s three-hundred and thirty-three years was there ever a woman residing in Traakhal.

Not that his amorous adventures were not well-renowned. It was said he had his own ‘private stock’ of pleasures at Noviiya’s infamous Games Palace where anything and everything that could involve pleasure could be obtained. And he had three centuries to sample the best that beauty had to offer, from the sloe-eyed seductresses of the Darklings to the buxom blondes found in the south’s Bright’s Cove. But never, during that time, had any woman accompanied him back to the fortress carved from solid rock that was, it was said, as hard and as cold as the Sorcerer’s heart.

Yet Lady Kiasidira was here, had been since Wintertide. Though gossip said their relationship predated even Fool’s Eve. And from the most reliable of sources, the castle’s chief cook, a jolly woman as rotund and brown as the bulging meat pies she baked, it was heard that Master Ro rarely let the pale beauty get farther from him than an arm’s length. And most of the time he kept her much closer than that.

*

“Well?”

Egan eyed the balding man whose dark fringe of hair had become increasingly ruffled from the hand-clasping and backslapping and boisterous mug-clanking toasts that echoed through the Great Halls on the final night of the First Thaw Council.

“Well, what, Druke?”

“Well, Egan my boy, did you hear of your little friend?”

He scratched at his downy reddish beard, his ‘winter coat,’ as Druke called it. It would come off shortly during his annual shearing. “Didn’t see her in my travels, no, though to be honest, I’ve been only to the Hearth Room upstairs, the stables and here.”

“I’m well aware of where ye have been, boy.” Druke only called his late sister’s husband ‘boy’ when he was well into his cups. There was but a seven year difference between them. “What I’m askin’ is did you ask Tedmond if any ‘justice rides’ would be made.”

It was the last order of business in any Council; the assignment of men, or at times whole Kemmons to retaliate for wrongs done by the Magrisi or Fav’lhir during the season. A family whose farmlands had been burned or livestock slaughtered or worse, whose children had been stolen by South Land Hill Raiders had a right to petition the Master of Traakhal for retribution. And justice when assigned was swift. And deadly.

“Not involving a Camron or Lady Khamsin of Tynder’s Hill, no.” Egan answered Druke’s question, his face expressionless. But there was a note of disappointment in his voice.

“Well, had she even been here? D’ye know if she even made it to Traakhal?”

That had been a deep worry of Egan’s ever since he’d watched the young girl, disguised as a farm lad, ride off into the Nijanas just before Wintertide. A blizzard blanketed the north shortly after and not a day went by when he didn’t find himself straining for the sounds of hooves on the trail, hoping to see her come riding back to him on the large brown horse she called ‘Cinnabar,’ for the road to Traakhal was rough in the Winter and even the best of his riders were forced at times to turn back.

But she never returned. Nor had news of either a Lady Khamsin, a Healer, or a farm lad from Tynder’s Hill named Camron been mentioned as seeking retribution for the death of a family during a South Land raid.

He assured himself through the worst of the Winter, while sitting with his daughter Elsy in his lap before the hearth, that he would hear news of, or find his Lady, when the Council of the First Thaw came ’round. But it was now the final night and he had heard nothing.

Though in truth, he hadn’t really asked.

“Why not?” Druke was, as usual, very direct.

“Because…because…” and the Kemmon Rey, who was by nature a strong and stalwart man, floundered in his reply. He could fight South Land Raiders, break the wildest of stallions, had even stood his ground against a Mogra, an ensorcelled Demon from the depths of Lady Melande’s own private Hell. But when it came to confronting the aging Lord Chamberlain Tedmond, well, it was almost like confronting the Sorcerer himself. And no man in his right mind willingly did that.

“Just be respectful when ye deal with the old goat and don’t take up too much of his time. And ye’ll get the answers to your questions.” Druke peered into the bottom of his near-empty mug and, scowling, raised it in the air over his head. A well-rounded serving wench sauntered by and, with a smile and a pat on his balding pate, refilled the mug for the sixth time.

“It’s easier than not knowing at all, isn’t that for true, Egan?”

Egan had to admit it was, for the worry caused him to lose more and more sleep lately. And he had a full summer of riding ahead. Besides, he had held the position as Rey of Kemmon-Ro for fifteen years now. He had more than a small right to inquire, in ever so respectful a manner of course, regarding something of a personal nature of Lord Tedmond of Traakhal.

He found the frail old man about to enter a set of rooms he knew were off limits to any but those who resided in the castle on the Khal and hesitated. Perhaps this wasn’t the best time.

But Tedmond already saw the broad-shouldered Kemmon Rey approach, a concerned look on his rugged face, so he turned and called after the man by name.

“Master Egan, is there something you require?”

Egan nodded and stared at the scuffed tips of his boots. “If it please your Lordship, I would but request a moment of your time. In private. It concerns a matter of a personal nature.”

Tedmond raised one bushy white brow and for a moment Egan’s heart chilled as if one of the icicles dripping from the castle eves dropped through his chest. He, an outsider, was requesting to speak privately with the Lord Chamberlain. What could’ve possessed him to make such a request?

But then the frail man motioned to the interior of the room he was about to enter. With trepidation, Egan followed the Lord Chamberlain into the library of Traakhal-Armin.

The library was large and like the rest of the main floor, high-ceilinged. Shelves packed tightly with leather-bound volumes in varying shades of green, gold and brown lined two walls. Egan regarded the collection with awe. He’d only learned his letters this winter from his daughter, now turned eleven. Together they’d spent hours by candlelight just so he could write his own name. That any one person, or even persons, could fill up pages upon pages upon pages…it was beyond his comprehension.