The hot summer sun was just fading over the horizon in the streets of Banthas. It had been a hot and unforgiving day in the trading city that day, and the temperature had shown in the faces of the people that walked it. Children were unruly, screaming as they were drug off by parents that were a hair's breadth from slapping them until they bruised. Merchants grumbled and fumed as the meats and fruits they sought to sell went bad from the sweltering heat, cutting into their sales. Horses could barely be prompted or threatened onto the street, loathe to leave the grim comfort of the troughs with their depleting water. One of the older villages that flew the banner of Southcross, it had seen much in its day. An independent village, nearly a city in that time, two hundred years ago, Southcross only governed over the trading routes that travelers used to get there and beyond it. Banthas also laid claim that it was the biggest village in-between the kingdom and the mighty port city of Twin Port. It would still claim independence, free to govern as it would if not for the thieves’ guild that plagued it for the latter half of the last century. The thieves were known as the Silent Brotherhood. It was a name that served it well, for none that ever saw a guild member lived to tell the tale. The guild functioned for decades in the same trading route, never being caught while they never seemed to take great care to avoid it. Salvation finally arrived in the form of Gabriel Warrek, then king of Southcross. He led his armies on a campaign to ferret out the Silent Brotherhood, a task that took better than two years. But Gabriel made his pledge to the people, asking them to rally behind him. If they were to pledge their village under the banner of the burning sword, the stygian of the Southcross army, he would set patrols in the village's boundaries and set his army hunting.
The hunting brought him much fame, especially at the end of the hunt when the ring leaders of the guild hung from the neck in Southcross's town square, effectively ending the Silent Brotherhood. It was a day that was often spoke of, and none spoke with greater pride when Gabriel Warrek was mentioned then the people of Banthas.
Still there were hurts in the village. But that was to be expected. None went out of their way to openly harm another, save for when tavern brawls were broken up by the garrison. The heat would be endured as it had every summer since the village's inception, and the people would live under the banner of the Flaming Sword.
One of these occupants was Benmont Grimnight. He was young, no older than eighteen, and large for his age. It wasn't that he was obese, just that he often found employment helping the local merchants lift their cargo from wagon back into their Shoppes or the other way around when a noble would order it in large quantity. He found that after years of lifting and straining that he was larger than most that he called friend. Standing well over six feet he had arms the width of most youth's legs and legs that were nearly double that. Not to mention that his back was broad, skin smooth and tan from many days in the hot sun. He found that he had little to complain about. He lived with his mother, Adrianna, in a small wooden shack that was in the eastern side of the village. He had never known his father, never cared to. Adrianna had given him anything that he might have ever wanted for. There was always love in her voice, even when he had done something that he wasn't supposed to and she went about scolding him for it.
Benmont was walking to his home that evening, rubbing shoulders that were sore with heavy lifting. He had been helping the librarian with carts of new books that he had ordered months ago from the city of Bordertown, only just arrived that day. The boxes were heavy, far heavier than he thought they were going to be. He wouldn't be surprised if he woke the next morning to find that he had pulled a muscle in his side. It sure felt like it.
He passed another street, nodding a hello to a young couple that walked by in the night, laughing. He stared after them, sighing. He had never been very good with women, never found the right things to say to them. It seemed that whenever it was that he found himself near some pretty girl his tongue would bloat up like a leech were attached to it. It was things just like that he would tell her, honest to a fault, and she would look at him disgusted and brush him off. He found that the only person he could talk to was his mother. She always had time to listen, even when she was plying her trade, sewing something for one of the neighbors.
Sighing again, he entered the door to his home and knew right away that something was not right. He froze. In the dark he could hear breathing, labored. Beyond the frame of the door was a hunched shadow. Not a lantern or candle was lit. Benmont scanned the open faced room and the doorway beyond. After the doorway there was a stairwell that took one to the basement. It was little more than cold storage for foodstuffs and wood. Benmont returned his gaze to the first room. The table had been moved, slid from the left side of the room by more than a foot. Other things were out of place, too.
"Mother?" he called out. Only stillness answered him. He stepped into the room, pawing his way over to the stand against the left wall where he knew he would find a lantern and matches to light it. He kept his back to the wall, fearing things he couldn't understand. He had never been a superstitious child, even when he was very young. Ghosts were things of the mind, given strength to frighten only if that person allowed them to. He never did. But in the shadows there was something wrong.
He slipped when his foot fell in a pool of water that had spilt over the floor. He thought with relief that must have been why the table was moved. His mother had been cleaning a spill. Cursing himself for being so easily spooked, he pushed away from the wall and snatched up the lantern. He struck a match along the wall and lit the wick. Turning the wick up further, he raised the lantern over his head to examine the room and gasped. In the dark he couldn't have seen the overturned chairs and the bureau that lay half in the far door, near the back of the house.
"Mother!" he cried sharply, fear constricting his throat, "Where are you? What's happened here?" He stepped back for the door. Perhaps she had run to get the garrison. Benmont ran, fully intending to join her when he stopped short, his breath failing him. He saw the pool of water on the floor, the one he had slipped in. It glowed bright red in the yellow light of the lantern.
"One God..." Benmont mouthed, following the trail of slick blood with the wave of his arm. It led to the food closet by the front door. There was a huddled shape in the corner of the closet. Stealing himself, Benmont leaned down, placing one knee in the crimson liquid and reaching his hand in to grab the shape. It was cool, not quite cold to the touch, he thought, never having felt anything like it in his life. He grabbed a fistful of soft fabric and pulled it closer to him, daring to get a better look.
A head swiveled on a stiff neck, eyes wide and lifeless, mouth closed with lips colored blue. A woman, her throat slit from ear to ear, the gash deep with traces of blood seeping from it still. He saw the face of his mother. She was pale, her wide eyes accusing him, burning into him. He screamed, letting the body fall back into the corner. He tried to wheel away and slipped in the blood, falling face first into it. Into my mother's blood, he thought, his mind racing with shock. Dimly there was the creak of a footfall behind him, someone that didn't know where the weaker boards in the house were.
Guilt and fear changed swiftly to rage and Benmont pivoted around, snarling like a wild animal. He leapt for a heavily cloaked man that stood behind him, dropping the lantern to get a better grip on him. Cursing, the cloaked man brandished a long dagger in his right hand. He swung with the blade and Benmont grunted as cold metal sliced open his side, staining his work shirt crimson. He and the man toppled, one over the other as the light danced crazily in the room, the lantern rolling back and forth as if to mimic the battle that it silently witnessed. Benmont pulled back one fist, muscles bunching along his arm, and punched the cloaked man square in the jaw. There was a loud crack and the man crumpled under him, going still. Benmont balled up his other fist and slugged him a second time, rocking the man's head to the side, sending a trail of blood along the floor.
A shadow filled the doorway from the back room and Benmont leapt up to meet it, vaguely aware that he clutched the cloaked man's dagger in his hand. The dagger had been used to kill his mother, he was sure. He fully intended to give it back to them.
He paced the second man, waiting for him to enter. The second man swiveled his head, hidden beneath the hood of another cloak, and looked at the body for a second. Without a word he rushed, baring steel that had been hidden in the folds of his cloak until then. A sword flashed out, small, but double edged, more than twice the length of the dagger that Benmont carried. He dove back, tripping over the first attacker’s body and landing on his back. The sword whipped though air, making a high pitched whine when it found nothing to connect with. Benmont rolled up and onto his feet, holding the dagger before him.
The second attacker swung again, stepping in on one foot and bringing the blade down diagonally. Benmont jumped out of the way and the attacker buried the blade in the table, splitting it nearly in two. Benmont jumped in, snarling. The attacker let the weapon go from where it was held and grappled with the youth, falling to the floor. Benmont fell on top, using all his weight to slam himself on the man's body. A loud gurgle let him know that the air left the attacker's lungs. He pressed the dagger down, piercing the man's flesh. The man screamed silently, not having the breath to pull in a real one, as the dagger slid through muscle to the organs beneath. At last Benmont pierced his heart. He tore back the dark cloak with rough hands to see the man that had tried to kill him. On the floor lay a youth, not much older than he, his eyes filled with pain and shock. He let the dagger go, rolling from the body and sitting against the wall, knees close to his chest.
The youth wrapped a hand over the hilt that stuck from his chest, trying to wrench it free. Blood flecked his lips and he chocked, making noises that made Benmont moan and close his eyes tight. Then the choking stopped and there was only silence. Benmont opened his eyes again, letting the lamplight show him the carnage that he had wrought.
It wasn't my fault, he tried to rationalize. They killed my mother! They tried to kill me! They would have too, if I hadn't killed them first! He stood up, panting, the world swimming in and out of focus. He had just killed two men. His mother was dead, in all likelihood slain by these same men. He walked over to one, quietly, almost fearing that one would get up suddenly. That was foolish, he knew, but still the thought was there in his mind, strong. He knelt before the one that he had shoved the dagger into and pulled more of his cloak back. He wore a tunic and breeches of soft wool with riding boots. The face he didn't recognize. Trying to calm himself he stood. He looked back in the closet, grateful that the light from the lantern failed to fall over his mother's body. There was nothing he could do here.
It took him five minutes to get motor skills enough to wash his hands free of blood at the hand pump in the kitchen. He splashed the water on his face, a face that was numb with shock. There would be questions to answer, questions that he didn't have any answers for. Questions that he wanted the answers to more than anyone else. Who were these men? Why were they here? Why had they killed his mother, Adrianna, who hadn't ever done anything so horrible as to merit her death? And why had they stayed long enough to attempt to kill him? Until he knew he couldn't stay. No one in Banthas would understand.
He changed clothes in his room, letting the stained ones lay at the foot of his narrow bed. He took a canvas sack from the kitchen and stuffed clothes in it, and bread to eat. He took the coins that he had earned from the summer and tossed them in as well. He snatched his riding cloak from the wall and threw it around his broad shoulders, clasping it in the front. Tears streaking his eyes, he entered the front room again, staring at the blade that stuck from the table. He could see, in his mind's eye, the place he would sit with his mother and talk. Late at night they would share tea and talk of things that troubled him. He could always unburden himself with his mother. Where was she now, he thought sharply, when he needed her so badly? Swiping a hand over his eyes he edged over to the table and laid a tentative hand on the hilt of the short sword. Gritting his teeth, he wrenched back and freed it, letting wood splinters gather at his feet.
The night had cooled the hot summer air outside, stifling the tempers of the residents. Benmont ran out from the house, crossing the street as fast as he could, listening to his boots scrape on the cobblestone. A garrison wasn't far from him. He could see the lights of their lanterns and voices nearing him. He melted into the shadows of the alleyway, content on lingering in the dark. Five men in light chain armor passed him, swords hanging from their belts. The lantern from one man shined down the alley, but only for a few feet. He knew that none of them would venture down the narrow alley unless prompted to. The garrison passed his house and were gone, their voices and lights fading from his senses.
Thinking it safe, he ran deeper into the alleys, determined to head north. He hadn't known why that choice sprang to his mind, it just had. Southcross was there, he thought. The mighty Southcross had long been the defender of Banthas. If he could find the answers to his questions anywhere it would be in the kingdom of Southcross. Hastening, determined, Benmont ran from street to street, staring at people as if they were strangers, holding the canvas sack close to him. Sights and sounds blurred to him and later, far from the village and alone in the dark, he sank to his knees in a grief struck stupor. Three were dead, two by his hand.
"Oh, mother," he sobbed, letting the sack fall from nerveless fingers. He put his hands over his face and lay against a tree, weeping until the morning sun found him, sleeping fitfully, the sack clutched tight against him.
Ferrin lay in his room at the church, staring dreamily at the window just above his bed. He thought it was awfully nice of the father to give him such a cozy room, especially after catching him with those coin pouches in his pants. Coin pouches that he fully intended to get back before his stay here was done. But he liked it in the church. Father Alohm was a nice, if not naïve, man. He had said to Ferrin the very same day he got to the church that no man was beyond redemption. He wondered if the father was speaking to him at the time or about that Cameron fellow that was chasing him. The two sparred with words on the road that day, nearly putting Ferrin to sleep in the act. Both men had wills of iron, Ferrin noted. Not much for rapier wit, but wills of iron, nonetheless.
Swinging his bare feet over the edge of the bed he stared at the wall across from him. There was a painting there of some man named Gideon. He was defending the city of Twin Port from a great menace. The painting had been titled "Gideon's Love". What was Gideon's love, Ferrin often pondered when he looked at that painting. Lots of death? That couldn't be right, because then it wouldn't be hanging in a church. But then again, with the wit that the good father sported, perhaps he never paused to think about the true meaning. And if the good father liked the painting, with its violent battle and almost morbid atmosphere, then who was Ferrin to burst his bubble?
He leaned forward and took a shirt from the chair in his room. The good father had been kind enough to purchase him new clothes, seeing as how the other ones were looking more holy then the church he was staying in. He noted, as well, that the shirt and pants seemed strangely bereft of any large pockets. Perhaps the good father is craftier then he leads on, Ferrin thought. Either that or he didn't have any fashion sense.
Ferrin slipped the shirt over his head and smoothed his hair out, what little there was of it. He grimaced as his hand found little to go over. He remembered also that day, the good father handing him over to sister Julia. She was a dark eyed beauty with a prim demeanor, until she was away from the watchful eyes of the good father. Then it seemed that some devil or another took possession of her. She had a fiery side, he knew, and wasn't afraid to show it. She was in charge of cleaning the youth, and she meant to make good on that charge. Taking him into the back room where she slept in a simple bed with a small dresser beside it, she tried to comb his hair for him. Tear his bloody hair right off his scalp seemed more to the point, wrenching with her comb in hand, looking as righteous as some paladin smiting evil where he found it. She had stopped after a time, seeing that Ferrin's face had turned beat red and he was on the verge of tears.
"This won't do," he listened to her say, "I think you need a trim." He bolted. It seemed like the best thing to do. He had made it to the front room where the priest delivered his sermons, and some damn fine ones, if not a touch windblown, when the good father caught hold of him. Once again. He might as well have struggled to free himself from a set of shackles. In fact he would have had better luck with the shackles. They could be picked. Surrendering to his fate, letting the grumbling sister Julia lead him back to her room, she cut his hair.
It could have been worse, Ferrin admitted silently. She could have asked to see his teeth. He had the most vivid picture of Julia, pliers in hand, leaning over his mouth, speaking to him in a sugar coated voice, "Is that a cavity I see there?" Who knows? Maybe that picture could take the place of Gideon's love? The good father could name it, 'Ferrin's Agony.'
Laughing without making a single noise Ferrin pulled on his pants. They were short, just a touch too short, revealing the last several inches of his bony legs before his boots would hide the rest. He had tried to keep his boots on as long as he could, declining the good father's advances to make himself comfortable. He had almost gotten away with it, too. But then two days prior he had been in his room, amusing himself with a deck of cards that he found in the pockets of one of the church patrons. He didn't think that the man would miss them, besides, what was he doing in church with a deck of cards anyway? As Ferrin saw it, he did the man a service. The One God might have taken offense if he hadn't found the cards when he did.
Anyhow, he was barefoot and it was late. He thought the others had gone to sleep already. But there was light from under his door and before he could slip the boots back on his feet the good father entered.
"I came to see if there was anything that you needed," Damien had asked. Ferrin only shook his head no quickly, a giant smile plastered on his face. Damien smiled back at him but the smile faltered when he saw his feet. Larger than his frail frame needed, with tufts of light brown fur sprouting off the top of them. Hooked nails, almost like claws, sprang from his toes, giving him the appearance of an animal.
Father Alohm had said nothing, only nodded with a quirky grin and closed the door behind him. That night Ferrin had waited for the men with torches to come and drag him away, the good father leading the whole mob, spouting bible rhetoric the entire way. That had been two nights ago. Ferrin guessed that the good father was alright with his feet. In fact, from the lack of surprise that registered on his face, Ferrin surmised that he had seen that like before. He would have asked him about it, where he may have seen another like him, but there was that pesky mute thing keeping him from it.
He tugged on first his right boot, lacing it up with grace that few humans possessed, and finished up the other. He was curious what was going on. Neither the good father nor his devil possessed acolyte had come to check on him that morning. He wondered if the joy of having him around had faded so quickly. Or was it that the good father was still angry about yesterday when he ended his sermon and Ferrin had been the only one that was rigorously clapping for him. He had craned his neck from side to side and watched the shocked stares of the villagers form on him. Children laughed and pointed at him. Ferrin grinned at the good father, shrugging. He had been lead by Julia into the back, her face so red that Ferrin thought someone must have goosed her. He was entertaining the thought when she almost threw him in his room, telling him to stay there, stay out of trouble.
But that was yesterday. He must be over it by now. Unless his sense of humor was anything like his fashion sense. Opening the door quietly, he peered first down the left then the right. Both sides of the hall were empty but his ears picked up voices from the front room. Moving in silence he stalked up the hall, careful as not to make a sound to draw attention to himself. He peered around the corner, past the altar where Father Alohm gave his sermons, and saw him and Julia sitting on the front pew furthest to his right. He crouched low, intent on listening to what it was that they were saying. Both of them looked flustered, perhaps even angry. Sister Julia twirled a lock of her hair with a finger, a sign that she was feeling nervous.
"It seems the king's ambition knows no bounds," Damien said to her, Ferrin catching only the end of his sentence.
"It makes one long for the days when Mikal Steelbreeze sat on the throne," Julia sighed, her tone morose.
"Oh?" Damien looked over at her, his eyes filled with mirth, "And here I thought you were too young to even have noticed those days."
"I'm not that young, father. And you're not that old."
"So I'm not," Damien admitted, "So I'm not."
"Why would the king rally his army?" Julia asked, "To bring them all together and set them westward. I mean he would only do that if he were meaning to..." her words trailed off but Ferrin didn't need them to finish the thought.
"He wouldn't!" she cried, raising her voice. It echoed in the halls of the near empty church, "Why in the name of the One God would he declare war on Southcross? They have been friend and ally ever since the Krestin dynasty! What reason would he have for wanting to destroy it?"
"I told you," Damien waved a hand to quiet her and she did, hands falling to her lap, "His ambition drives him. He's nothing like Mikal, I fear. He seeks domination and he hides that dark ambition behind the High Throne."
Julia gasped a long intake of air as she let the father's words sink in. The High Throne was in Dynasty, off a western island, isolated from the rest of Umbriel. There was no army to defend it. There was no government to control it. The castle that was Dynasty was inhabited only by the Chosen, a sect of priests that had been visited by the One God in their dreams. The One God had given them each a quest, a test of their faith to Him. If they succeeded they became one of the Chosen, to live nearer the One God in spirit and flesh, for only men of the cloth, the most steadfast in faith, were allowed on that hallowed ground.
The High Father was the eldest of the Chosen, wisest of them and keeper of the Chronicle, the oldest known Testament and the true word of the One God. It held the secrets to the Ritual of Unity, the empowering that a king undergoes when he is bonded to the High Throne, to the wisdom of the One God. Only the Chosen know what the ritual truly consists of. And the High Father above them knows how to invoke it.
"That's madness! He claims the High Throne! Where did you hear such wild rumors?"
"A few peddlers came through here earlier this week, saying that he had come into favor with many nobles in the land. They said that rumors abound of those nobles backing the king with coin and men. What other reason would a king need such favor from these noblemen if not a campaign for war?"
"And you believe these peddlers on their word? Likely that they heard something and then blew it up far greater than it was!" Julia snorted, sitting back, thinking her point proven. Ferrin had to agree with her. Many times had he heard rumors of war, and many times had those rumors been proven false. Still, he waited to hear more.
"There is more. Just today farmers had come to Hamla saying that their lands were confiscated, animals taken from their pens with only promises that the kingdom of Dagoth would reimburse them. Now they have nothing, only the family that they knew would be here if nothing else. Would you say that there is nothing to their words, either? Or am I that poor a judge of character?"
"Well you did bring that trouble making boy in here," Julia told him. Ferrin's jaw dropped. Trouble making boy? The woman that nearly tore his hair out by the roots and smiled at him over it had the nerve to call him a trouble maker? He huffed indignantly, then quieted fast to ensure that they didn't hear him.
"Ferrin is a good lad. He's just never had the chance to prove it. I intend to give him that chance and I expect the same from you," Damien eyed her critically, letting her know that the subject had been dropped.
"Do you think the king intends to take the High Throne by force?" Julia asked softly, fearing the answer.
"With this man, I don't know. Perhaps he just wishes to extend the boundaries of his kingdom. Men often grow tired of things they already have, wanting what their neighbor possesses as well."
"A war now would devastate us," Julia sat back, leaning her head on the back of the pew, "Harvest isn't far from now. A war could harm the land and the people."
"I fear there is little we can do. We can pray that the One God show him the error of his ways. Pray that lives won't be taken in vain."
"Wait!" Julia exclaimed, making Ferrin nearly fall over, "The king can't assume the High Throne if he has children! I remember reading somewhere that law forbids, so that the mantle of power never sits too long on the shoulders of any man."
"Darius has no children," Damien explained, "None that I or any I've spoken with know of."
"Do you...?" Julia began, and her voice wavered. Damien looked closely at her, silently prompting her to go on. She swallowed; her throat suddenly dry.
"You don't think that he would force the Ritual of Unity, do you?"
"It is said that when a man is chosen to rule over three that the One God would come to him and make it known. That is why there hasn't been a High King in some three hundred years. No man must have been found worthy of the task. What's more is the One God also lets the High Father know who this man is, to recognize him when he comes. I doubt the High Father must have known him if King Darius is willing to go to war over it."
"Is the High Father in danger?" Julia asked him, her face a touch pale.
"Of course not, sister. The High Father and the Chosen are servants of the One God. He will watch over his children." Ferrin watched the good father as he said this, though, and it didn't look all that convincing. If Ferrin didn't know better he would've sworn there was a hint of worry on that face.
Having heard enough, Ferrin back peddled and started walking normally again. He entered the room and gave a friendly wave to Julia and the good father. Both returned his greeting, falling silent from their talk.
"Sleep well?" Damien asked. Ferrin shrugged and nodded, plopped down in the seat beside him. Julia stood from the pew and straightened her skirt before excusing herself, saying that she had chores that needed doing. Ferrin waved after her, not all that sad to see her leave.
Ferrin signed, Do you think I upset her? Damien watched the hand display and shook his head.
"I'm sorry my young friend. It seems that I'm no better at reading this 'sign' then I was last week. It seems that I make for a pretty poor student."
Yes, you are a pretty poor student, Ferrin signed again and smiled. Damien clapped him on the back and stood up. He offered his hand to Ferrin and the youth took it. Damien brought him to his feet and scanned the high ceiling of the room. Everything was polished oak or tainted glass, giving the church a slightly gothic appearance.
"We have work today, you and I," Damien said. Ferrin looked up at him, eyes wide. He prayed that he misunderstood what the good father just said. When the father walked over to the wall and retrieved a broom with dust pan he knew he hadn't.
"Let's get to it then, shall we?"
Cameron paced back and forth in the hay loft of the barn, his thoughts troubled. He listened to Huros enter the barn from the main doors, calling for him. The youth was eager to return to the old church and pick up where they had left off yesterday. Huros walked under him, into the stables, still calling for him. He gave up after a short time and left from the same front doors, not bothering to close them. A warm wind blew in, stirring up hay, brushing his hair. Cameron sighed and paced in the other direction, arms overlapped.
"A month here and I think you're growin' tired of this place, Cameron Reol," he heard the voice of Karnov near. He spun on his heel to see the old man in a dark corner, under one of the loft doors. He had a large floppy hat on, tilted toward his face and both of his work shoes were cast down into the loose hay. A flagon of Meldian Spirits was clutched in one hand. Cameron couldn't help but think that Spirits didn't sound half bad at the moment. He carried himself over to the old man and sat down on a hay bale just beside him, using the wall to lean against.
"What makes you say that, old man?" Cameron questioned, taking the flagon from Karnov's hand. He laughed hard, wheezing and sitting up partially. Cameron shook the flagon and put it to his mouth. Three quarters gone, no wonder the old man's so quick to laugh.
"Cause here ya are, pacin' and mopin' when the young master just ran in an' out lookin' for ya. I figure that there's somethin' on your mind. Somethin' that's makin you ready to dash on outta here. Tell me if that's not what you're thinkin?"
"I can't say that the thought never crossed my mind," Cameron admitted, taking another nip from the flagon, "But five silvers a day is good money for watching over a pair of kids that never seem to find trouble. I can't complain."
Karnov took the flagon back from him, downing the last of the Spirits and tucked the flagon into a front pocket in his over-alls, "And yet you do. Complain, that is. Not so much with yer mouth, but with your eyes. Ya got the look of a caged animal lookin' for a way outta here."
Was Karnov right? Perhaps that was what was really bothering him. The fact that he wasn't on the go like he had been so used to. But that had been out of necessity. He found someplace that he liked. Hamla was a nice village. Devlin Telba, for all his exterior roughness, was a great man. A good employer.
"No, I don't think I'll be leaving. I told lord Telba that I'd be on for a year and that's what I intend to do. Nothing more, nothing less."
"I can understand that," Karnov replied, "You're a man of your word. What else are you a man of?"
"Pardon?" Cameron asked.
"What else is there to you? What brought you to Hamla in the first place?"
"Circumstance," Cameron told him. When he thought the old man was going to continue with his questions he added, "It was between myself and Lemall."
There was a creaking noise below, one that Cameron recognized. He guessed that Huros had finally discovered where his tutor had been hiding and was coming to claim him. But instead he saw Kirstin, dressed in a dress that was pulled in at the sides, sewn sturdy to endure the rigors of horseback riding. She had leather gloves covering her hands, a gift from her mother after they had left mass yesterday. She smiled ruefully when she found him sitting there beside Karnov. He was sure the smell of Spirits hung in the air. To her credit she said nothing.
"Are you coming with to escort me?" she asked him.
"Where would that be?"
"Riding, silly! I want to go to the village and ride north. There's a field there where wild flowers grow. Mother said she wanted to know if I could pick some for her. Seeing as how you're my guardian, I thought you would want to come with me."
"Of course," he muttered, patting Karnov on the shoulder before he stood up and went to fetch Starn. He could still feel Karnov watching him as he went down, his eyes never leaving him. Kirstin already had her horse outside the barn; Edgar was helping her mount it. My doubts are my own, Cameron thought as he watched her prance about on the horse, laughing and waving to him. Nothing is going to happen, nothing at all. Still he couldn't help but feel the foreboding in him. Something was coming, all of his battle instincts warned, and nothing was going to change it.
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