The Knife in the Dark (The Seven Signs Book 2) Page 5

  A somber mood sat over the companions, and Dormael found it uncomfortable. D’Jenn was saying absolutely nothing, while Shawna kept shooting questioning looks at Dormael. The woman was, of course, not suffering from a hangover like the ones which plagued Dormael and D'Jenn. Bethany watched everything around her in silence, huddled deep into her cloak. Dormael tried to imitate the youngling's stoic attitude, but he felt Shawna's eyes on him like a pair of fingers stabbing into his back.

  Everyone mounted and set off in silence, no one attempting to break the awkward quiet that had fallen over them. Even Bethany, perched on her normal place in front of Dormael, declined to rap his goatee against the saddle horn. The shoes of their horses made loud clopping sounds on the cobblestones as they walked through the empty streets of Mistfall. The smells of the city sat thick in the mist, and their noses were assaulted in turns by sea salt, fresh morning air, and pungent waste. They rode through the surreal streets for a short time, making their way toward one of the city gates.

  Hoof-beats echoed from the walls of the buildings behind them, and Dormael recognized the sounds of a horse approaching from the way they had come. His instincts drove his mind to alertness, and he embraced his Kai. He didn't think someone would be trying to attack them—habits, though, were habits because one didn't perform them consciously.

  He had a sinking feeling that he knew who it was.

  Spread out, make ready. We can't be too careful, D'Jenn gestured to everyone in the Hunter's Tongue. Shawna nodded and moved her horse to the side of the road, pulling one of her blades halfway from its sheath. Dormael allowed his own mount to sidle up beside Shawna's, and gritted his teeth as they awaited the unknown rider.

  A slight form astride a black mare materialized from the mist behind them, wearing a dark leather coat and carrying a guitar strapped to her back. She wasn’t galloping, but it was obvious that she was trying to catch up to them. Dormael gave an inward groan as the girl became more visible, the early morning light glinting from her golden hair.

  It was Seylia, just as he'd suspected. The mood became distinctly more awkward.

  “Morning, boys,” Seylia greeted them as she approached. “How are we all feeling today?”

  She was beaming at everyone in turn, but balked for a spare moment as she caught sight of Shawna with her blade half-drawn. Shawna gave her a predatory smirk, and slid her sword back into its sheath. Dormael could practically taste the tension in the air.

  “A bit disappointed now, actually,” Shawna sighed.

  Seylia narrowed her eyes at the woman, but kept the wooden smile on her face.

  “How terrible for you, dear. I hope it fades with time.”

  “We're still recovering from our bout with you last night,” D'Jenn said, his irritated tone at odds with the smile on his face. “What are you doing, Seylia? You didn't ride all this way to say goodbye.”

  “Oh, I just thought that since you were all traveling to Ishamael, I’d tag along and ride with you, at least as far as Gameritus. There are Inns and Courts to be played there, and a girl alone on the road is easy pickings for bandits and the like. You wouldn’t deny me the pleasure of your company would you? The benefit of all your magical protection? I'd rather not hire out guards, or travel with people I don't know, or trust.” Seylia favored D’Jenn with an innocent smile.

  “It must be so inconvenient to be unable to protect yourself,” Shawna said, shaking her head. “I couldn't imagine being so defenseless.”

  Dormael bit down on his tongue to keep from smiling. He found all of this tiresome, but he had to admit that a small part of him was cheering for Shawna. He cared a great deal for Seylia, but she was an experienced manipulator. Shawna had been out of place since he had found her. Seylia was bullying her, and part of him would rejoice to see Shawna win this little battle of wits.

  Seylia opened her mouth to reply, but D'Jenn spoke up before she could get any words out.

  “Of course we don't mind,” D’Jenn sighed. “We wouldn’t want anything to happen to an old friend.” D’Jenn’s tone indicated that he knew there was something more to Seylia's motivations, and he shot Dormael an accusatory glance before turning his horse back in the direction they were riding. “Let’s be off, then.”

  Seylia gave Shawna a warm smile, which Shawna ignored. The noblewoman gave Dormael a glance much like the one D'Jenn had given him, and moved her horse after D'Jenn. Dormael passed the look on to Seylia, and followed Shawna's horse. Seylia fell in beside him.

  The silence only deepened as the companions rode along misty streets toward the western gate of the city. Cobblestones gave way to large, square flagstones as they passed onto the larger boulevards of Mistfall. People began to fill the streets, coalescing out of the mist and flitting back into the haze, like ghosts in an old lich tale. They had to be careful not to run people over with their horses, though no one deigned to dismount and walk.

  The Western Tradefair came into view around the corner of an intersection, spread out before the gatehouse leading out of the city. Wooden stands stood shoulder to shoulder, lining a wide, impromptu avenue that led to the city gate. Behind the stands stood rows of colorful tents, most drawn closed against the cold of the night. A few traders could be seen opening their tents, or placing goods along shelves in the stands, but even these brave souls were wrapped in thick layers of cloth against the cold.

  The companions passed by without a glance, until a heated argument caught Dormael’s attention. Ahead in the road, two men were having a loud discussion about an empty stall. They had both rented the same stall for the day, and neither wanted to share, nor give up their space. It was a common occurrence, and got even worse during the warmer seasons of the year.

  “What are they arguing about?” Shawna asked, slowing to ride beside Dormael. Seylia, he noticed, had dropped back to the rear.

  “Renting rights,” he said. “The stalls along the avenue are rented out. Some pay for a day, some for an entire season if they can afford it. The tents behind them cost nothing to the trader, but the stalls are prime space. Each row farther from the avenue means less business—at least, that's the idea.”

  “I see,” Shawna nodded. “Not a bad idea, really. Not only does a vast amount of trade come into the city, but the officials make a little money off the top for the space.”

  “Indeed,” Dormael agreed. “Looks like someone double-rented that space for the day, though. Could have been a genuine mistake, I imagine.”

  “Or a corrupt official,” Shawna said.

  “No shortage of those, either,” Dormael nodded. Shawna gave him an actual smile, and then spurred her horse forward again. He shook his head and watched her back as she rode. Hadn't she, just moments before, given him a look that said she wanted to punch him in the face a few times? He let out a deep breath and tried to return his attention to the road.

  “You're tickling my hair,” Bethany grumbled as his exhale ruffled her locks the absolute slightest amount.

  “Don't you start acting like these grown women,” he said, nudging her in the ribs. “I like you just the way you are.”

  “Acting like what? It tickles,” Bethany said, though the irritation had gone from her tone. “Maybe Shawna can braid my hair later, like Seylia's. Do you think she can do that?”

  “I wouldn't ask, dear,” Dormael said, stifling a laugh before it could do more than change his expression. “Not in a thousand years would I ask that question.”

  “Why not?” Bethany asked.

  Dormael sighed. “You'll understand one day. Thankfully, though, you've got a few years before that happens. I'm glad of it, believe me.”

  “You're not making any sense,” Bethany sighed.

  “I know. That's the point, little one,” he replied. She tried to dodge as he ruffled her hair, but he caught her anyway.

  The party passed the arguing men, nudging their horses wide of them, and came to the western gate of Mistfall. The gatehouse towered above them, with square stone towers t
o each side of the road and an arched opening in between. Guards lounged against the walls and looked down from the battlements as the companions passed underneath the gatehouse and into the tunnel. The gigantic doors were flung wide to the cool mist of the morning, and Dormael could smell the loamy odor of wet earth wafting through the tunnel. He couldn’t help but smile as he came once again into the sunlight.

  The road meandered west, snaking over hills on its trek inland from the sliver of land that hosted Mistfall. Soirus-Gamerit was a fertile place, and even this deep in winter, swaths of light green could be seen amongst the swishing brown of the grasses. The mist clung to the low places, rolling along the saddles between gentle hilltops and burning away in the morning sun. Horse kicked his legs up a bit as they made the dirt of the road, but Dormael patted his neck to keep him calm. The poor beast had been at sea for too long, and needed to stretch his legs. Bethany giggled as Horse danced, but tried to assist Dormael in calming the unruly animal.

  They rode through the entire morning.

  Bethany made a sour face as they ate dried beef in the saddle for lunch, but didn’t offer any vocal complaints. Dormael smiled as the little girl asked questions about the world around them, pointing out various landmarks and then nodding thoughtfully at the answers given to her. After a while, Seylia began to tell Bethany a story to pass the time, and Bethany listened from start to finish, interrupting from time to time with enthusiastic questions.

  As the sun sank below the horizon and the wind grew cooler in the fading twilight, the companions took shelter on the lee side of a large boulder some distance from the road. Dormael and D’Jenn busied themselves with setting up the campsite, erecting shelters and taking care of the horses, while Shawna worked on the evening meal. Seylia only sat by the firepit, strumming idly on her guitar and making conversation. Dormael tried not to laugh—Seylia had never the type to set up her own campfire—but he could see the tension in Shawna’s jaw as she started putting food together. He came over to help her when he was done, but it didn’t help with the disapproval in her expression every time she looked Seylia’s way, or heard her voice.

  The fire was crackling by the time they had eaten. The conversation was amiable, the mood surprisingly light as the two wizards lit their pipes and relaxed. Shawna was repairing her battle leathers, and Seylia was strumming idly on her guitar.

  “Tell me another story,” Bethany asked Seylia, breaking a long silence.

  “Another story? You haven’t had enough stories for today?” Seylia asked with a smile.

  “No,” Bethany shrugged, her expression completely serious.

  “What shall we tell you tonight, then? Any suggestions, Dormael?” Seylia asked, elbowing him from his half-doze.

  “I think I know something sufficiently bloody,” he smiled. “Tell her the Song of Tirrin.”

  “Good choice,” Seylia winked.

  “What’s Tirrin?” Bethany asked, scooting closer to Seylia and leaning forward to listen.

  “Not what, dear, but who,” D’Jenn explained, smoke pouring from his mouth in a slow cascade as he spoke. “Tirrin was a Farra-Jerran kansil—a chieftain—many years in the past. He died in the Gathan Mountains, on a raid against the Garthorin.” Dormael felt him whisper a bit of magic into the night, and forms appeared in the smoke, shifting vaguely back and forth.

  “The Garthorin?” Bethany asked, staring into the smoke.

  “Monsters that live in the mountains in the northernmost part of the Sevenlands,” D’Jenn said. He gestured, and hazy, monstrous forms began moving around in the smoke. “They’re strong, clever, and mad with hunger for human flesh.”

  “They eat people?” the youngling asked, her eyes going wide.

  “Aye, they do. If they catch you, they’ll gut you right on the spot and gobble you down like a piece of meat,” Dormael said, affecting a dramatic tone.

  “And that, little one, is what happened to Tirrin,” Seylia said, jabbing a delicate finger at Bethany’s belly.

  “They killed him?” Bethany asked in a near whisper. “They ate him?”

  “Seylia can tell you the story,” Dormael said. “Just listen.”

  Seylia winked at Bethany and began to play, plucking out a lilting, sad melody on her guitar. D’Jenn smiled and settled against his saddlebags, pulling his hood over his eyes. Dormael could feel his Kai whispering, though, evoking hazy images in the smoke that poured from his pipe. Bethany sat transfixed as Seylia began to sing.

  “Cold winter winds blew, the ice formed anew

  The day that Tirrin rode forth

  With sword, shield, and lance and lover’s last glance

  He made for the cold, barren north

  Through low stunted tree and loose rocky scree

  Tirrin and party rode past

  Into the snow and no man would know

  That this would be Tirrin’s last

  Into the mouth of the storm he rode

  Carrying his ring and his crown

  Over the ice he met his foes

  And they struck bold Tirrin down…”

  Seylia sang in a light, silvery voice, going through the stanzas with the practiced ease of a professional. Bethany was entranced, swaying back and forth in time to the music, and staring deep into the warring figures that D’Jenn made dance for her in the smoke. Even Shawna listened in, though she kept her hands busy.

  According to the legend, Tirrin had been a foolish Farra-Jerran kansil that had been voted into his position on his popularity. He had many friends among the clan leaders, and had won fame for his prowess as a warrior. Apparently his strengths didn’t translate into ruling the tribe.

  The story went that Tirrin spent much of his time at sport, chasing women, and going on raids into the Garthorin territory. He had led many successful raids into the Gathan Mountains, but as the story went, the man had grown overconfident. Tirrin was supposed to have been obsessed with attaining personal glory.

  Inevitably, his recklessness caught up with him. He organized the largest raid that Farra-Jerra had ever seen, and led it north into the mountains in order to wipe the Garthorin out. Legend had it that Tirrin went so far north that he found the home of the Garthorin, and it was there that he and his entire force were slaughtered.

  When Tirrin’s expedition disappeared, he took his crown with him. The story was that he also had some sort of magical ring—an heirloom significant to the office of the kansil. For as long as anyone could remember, brave—and idiotic—adventurers had been traveling into the Gathan Mountains looking for Tirrin’s Lost Treasure. The ring was apparently priceless and powerful beyond measure, but Dormael suspected that it had never even existed. No one knew for certain, of course, because no one had ever found the remains of Tirrin’s expedition. Whether it was because no one had made it far enough to the north, to the mysterious home of the Garthorin, or because Tirrin was nothing more than a story, Dormael couldn’t say. To this day, peddlers tried to sell cheap trinkets dubbed ‘Tirrin’s Lost Treasure’ to anyone who was foolish enough to buy them. They were a favorite with children.

  Dormael turned in to sleep earlier than normal. He enjoyed the company of his friends, but Seylia’s voice was lulling him to slumber like the song of some mythical creature. He made sure to lay his bedroll somewhere away from the others, to make a point about wishing to sleep alone. Dormael burrowed down into this blankets, and let the Song of Tirrin drag him into a deep sleep. He thought he felt Shawna’s eyes on him, but he was too tired to take a peek and find out.

  The next few days went by with little comfort.

  Seylia worked at being as condescending as possible to Shawna, and acted oblivious to the effects of her manner. Shawna, in answer to Seylia’s baiting, became ever more irritable as the days wore on. Fake smiles flew back and forth like arrows as the two women fenced, and Dormael could feel the tension resonating in his Kai.

  For his part, Dormael made sure that he did nothing to draw either woman’s ire. D’Jenn shot him look
s that said plainly where he thought to lay blame about the situation, though Dormael wasn’t sure how in the Six Hells he was supposed to do something about it. He was sure that it had less to do with him than D’Jenn thought, and if he hadn’t been part of the equation, the women would just find something else to drag between them—most likely Bethany.

  The youngling was already being tossed between the two women like a ball in a village square. Shawna had taken to teaching Bethany a few basic things about fighting—like how to move her feet, and where to watch for danger. Seylia, by the third night out from Mistfall, would tempt the youngling away with lich tales and songs about princesses. Bethany was always given free reign to do as she pleased, so Shawna grinned and pretended as if the intrusions didn’t bother her. Dormael, however, could see her jaw working as she watched Seylia ride. Her expression was a thundercloud.

  On the sixth night out from the city, they camped a good distance from the road near a sprawling field. After the meal was finished, Dormael and D’Jenn settled down to enjoy a pipe around the fire. Bethany finished her lessons and meditation, and Dormael spent a few moments enjoying the silence.

  “Lady Shawna,” Seylia asked, “why do you carry such beastly weapons?”

  Dormael braced himself.

  “The reason I carry Sheran blades,” Shawna said, keeping her tone light, “is that they lend themselves to my style. They're light, elegant, and quick.” Shawna reached to her side and slid one of her blades from its sheath, letting the quicksilver steel catch the firelight. “They conceal a certain brutality, though. The blade is a bit wider toward the tip than other swords, which adds just enough weight to sever a limb clean from its socket—often on a single swing. A Sheran shortsword is so often underestimated by the careless, and the foolish. As I said—they suit me.”

  Shawna pointed the sword across the fire at Seylia, letting the flames lick over the surface of the metal. The fire’s reflection sent shimmering patterns of light swimming along the blade’s length. She held the sword there for a moment before pulling it back and favoring Seylia with a cool smile.