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  “Mirya, you should’ve told me about this,” Kara said with a frown. “If there’s any reason to suspect Urdinger, I need to know. Do you realize what you’re suggesting? If you’re right, House Veruna’s armsmen ambushed and killed the captain of the Shieldsworn. That’s a direct attack on the harmach.”

  “You were away up at the northern posts, Kara,” Mirya replied. “Besides, what I saw’s no proof of anything. Even if I’ve got the right of it, well, as Hamil said, Urdinger could claim that he came by that dagger in any number of ways. All I’ve got are my suspicions.”

  Geran met Mirya’s eyes. “I take your suspicions seriously, Mirya. I’ll remember what you’ve told me. And I’ll keep my eyes open for this fellow Urdinger. He’s got some questions to answer.”

  Kara shifted in her seat to look at both Geran and Mirya. Her armor rasped and jingled. “Geran, you’ve got to move with care,” she said. “You can’t just challenge this man in the street, regardless of Mirya’s suspicions. The harmach’s law applies to you as well as everyone in Hulburg—especially to you, since we can’t afford to have anyone say the Hulmasters are above the law in this city. Besides, you might be playing into House Veruna’s hands. Someone arranged for Isolmar to meet a professional duelist four years ago. Whoever arranged that for Harmach Grigor’s own son wouldn’t hesitate to arrange something similar for you.”

  “I hear you, Kara. I’ll choose my steps carefully, never you fear.” Geran leaned back in his seat and motioned at the road leading back down to the town below. “Now, before I go looking for this Veruna man, I want to take a look at the place where Jarad was found. Could you take me to the barrow?”

  Kara nodded once and flicked the reins. The horses whickered and leaned into the traces, trotting on the mossy old cobblestones. As they turned out of the cemetery gate and began to descend, Geran glanced back up the hill at the lonely stone markers amid the long grass. Mirya stood there with the dead, faded wildflowers in her hands, watching him drive away until a bend in the road hid her from his view.

  SIX

  13 Ches, the Year of the Ageless One

  Noon was approaching when Sergen Hulmaster’s chamberlain informed him that Lady Darsi’s carriage was hurrying up the long drive leading to the broad porch of his villa. Sergen arose from his bath, allowed the bath attendants he’d chosen for the morning to dry him and drape a robe over his shoulders, and dismissed them with an absent wave. As the girls hurried away, he belted his robe, stepped into slippers warmed by the fire, and donned a plush lounging coat against the cold. Then he went to see to his guest.

  Darsi Veruna waited in the house’s great room, sipping from a goblet of mulled wine already provided by Sergen’s servants. She wore a long green winter dress with a subtle trim of ermine fur at collar and cuff, with a matching fur-trimmed hat over her long, golden hair. “Ah, there you are, Sergen,” she said in a rich, melodious voice. “Have I taken you from your morning’s sport?”

  Sergen made a small gesture of dismissal. “It’s nothing, my dear. To tell the truth, I am rather bored with my attendants.” He drifted over to the smorgasbord, which his servants set each day whether he intended to eat or not, and helped himself to a goblet of the warmed wine as well. A large, well-fed fire and bearhide rugs helped to keep the early spring cold at bay, but a warm goblet of wine was just the thing to chase away the last hint of a chill. He shook out his still-damp hair and said, “Tell me, what brings you to my humble home? How may I be of service to you, my lady?”

  Darsi smiled at that and seated herself in a fine Turmishan couch by the fire. She removed her hat; her maidservant silently took it from her hand and withdrew again. Her hair was her best feature, a splendid cascade of molten gold that fell in soft waves to a handspan below the nape of her slender neck. Twenty years ago she had been a stunning beauty, a green-eyed enchantress with a heart-shaped face and perfect features. Men had killed to win the chance to woo her. She was still an exceptionally attractive woman, but the girlish softness had worn away from her features, and the barest hint of frown lines had crept into her face. “Well, my lord Hulmaster, it seems that your long-lost cousin Geran saw fit to stop my armsmen from collecting council dues from a small provisioner on Plank Street—Erstenwold’s, in fact. And I’ve just received a note from your sister requesting an explanation for my armsmen’s behavior.”

  Sergen grimaced. “I heard the same story. What will you tell my dear sister?”

  “I’ll tell her that armsmen in my employ are under strict instructions to follow all local laws, and that if in fact these three men conducted themselves as reported, then it was purely on their own initiative and for their own personal gain. Should their misconduct be proven, I will of course discharge them from my service immediately.”

  “Indeed.” Sergen allowed himself a long, low chuckle. The situation was not amusing at all, really, but the audacity of Darsi Veruna’s lies deserved some measure of approbation. Of course she’d known exactly what the three armsmen were up to, but Kara could never prove that she did. And without ironclad proof, well, the harmach and his agents simply lacked the political strength to accuse a powerful merchant company like House Veruna of unsavory conduct. Oh, Kara could lay out charges on behalf of their uncle, and in all likelihood she would be widely believed. But Darsi Veruna would simply hand over a scapegoat or three and House Veruna would carry on with its business. “I wonder what my stepsister will say to that?” he asked aloud.

  “I doubt she’ll be pleased,” Darsi replied. Though her manner was cool and calm, Sergen knew her well enough to recognize the subtle sharpness of her tone as a sign of intense annoyance. “Perhaps I should curtail my efforts to enforce council edicts. If my men are discovered in the very act of extortion—or discovered in some of our less savory activities—even your feeble old uncle will have to do something.”

  Sergen’s amusement vanished. “The council business is not that important, Darsi, but the search for the book must not be delayed. Need I remind you whom we are dealing with?”

  “A reckless gamble, in my estimation. House Veruna is deeply invested in opening this rude little backwater of a town, Sergen. We’ve done well here, but we’ve spent a fortune to get to this point. If your uncle decides to slap my wrist, it could be extremely costly for my family.”

  “When I am harmach, any such costs you suffer will be repaid, dear Darsi.” Now Sergen understood her true concern. The Verunas were nobles of Mulmaster, the powerful citystate across the Moonsea from Hulburg. Like several other important families of Mulmaster, their power was counted in the profitability of their trading ventures throughout the region. Setbacks Veruna experienced in Hulburg would reflect poorly on Darsi and damage her standing among her well-born but viciously competitive relations. It was time to remind her of the stakes of the game. “How much gold would pour into House Veruna’s coffers if your rivals were suddenly subjected to a ruinous tariff? Or if you were given the opportunity to buy out the leases on their logging and mineral rights? A great prize is worth a modest risk, my dear; fortune favors the bold. Should my ploy work, you will make House Veruna the most powerful merchant company in the Moonsea by the end of the year.”

  “But first you must become harmach.” Darsi Veruna folded her hands in her lap and regarded him with her catlike eyes for a long time, weighing his chances. Sergen met her gaze without flinching. Finally she inclined her head subtly, acknowledging his point. Veruna was the strongest coster in Hulburg, but it was only one of many in Mulmaster. It might cost her a small fortune to put Sergen on the throne, but it would give her a tremendous advantage over her rivals if she succeeded. “Speaking of which … tell me about your cousin Geran.”

  “A thickheaded fool who never had to work for anything in his life,” Sergen said. He had no use for any of the so-called “true” Hulmasters, even though he’d claimed the Hulmaster name from the time he’d been twelve. “Don’t worry about Geran. He left Hulburg ten years ago; he’ll soon enough be on his
way.”

  “Where has he been for all this time?” Darsi asked. “What’s he been doing?”

  “Supposedly, soon after he left to see the world, he fell in with a band of adventurers who called themselves the Company of the Dragon Shield. He won himself a small fortune by plundering some dismal dungeon in the Vast.” Sergen swirled his wine in the goblet, stirring up the spices. He’d made inquiries over the last few years to find out more about where his so-called cousin had vanished to. “Seven years ago he bought an owner’s share in the Red Sail Coster of Tantras and enjoyed some small success as a merchant speculating in various cargoes on the Sea of Fallen Stars.”

  “The Red Sails,” Darsi murmured. “Yes, I know them. Go on.”

  “Geran’s father, Bernov Hulmaster, was killed in a skirmish about eight and a half years ago. Geran came home for the funeral but stayed only a few days before returning to Tantras. His mother retired to an Ilmateran convent near Thentia soon after that. Then Geran simply vanished for several years, leaving the Red Sail Coster in the hands of his partners. No one knew where he’d gone, but a year ago last Uktar he resurfaced in Tantras. I learned that he’d been in Myth Drannor, where he’d won the favor of the coronal. There were rumors that he was suddenly exiled. I heard stories of a feud with a rival, a duel fought for the favor of an elf princess, even whispers of some black curse hanging over him that forced the coronal to send him away.” Sergen smiled darkly. “I still don’t have the whole tale, but it seems clear that Geran left Myth Drannor under a cloud. You should have seen his face when I asked him about it.”

  “My armsmen told me that he used magic when he confronted them in Erstenwold’s shop,” Darsi said, gazing thoughtfully down at her goblet. “They said he carried a blade of elven steel. And I’ve heard that he used the same sort of swordmagic against the Crimson Chains he and his little halfling friend cut apart in the Tailings. Is that something he learned in Myth Drannor?”

  Sergen shrugged. “I suspect the reports are exaggerated, since I’ve never known him to demonstrate any such ability. I doubt that Geran would have the aptitude or discipline to learn magic, but I suppose he might have found an enchanted sword during his travels.”

  “So what does his return signify for you?” Darsi asked.

  “Most likely nothing. I expect that Geran will tire of Hulburg and go back to Tantras, Myth Drannor, or anywhere else but here soon enough. There is little to hold him here. He’ll be gone within a tenday.”

  “Most likely,” Darsi agreed in a pleasant voice. “But what if he decides to stay? What happens if you find yourself sharing your family responsibilities with another capable Hulmaster who’s not a spellscarred bitch? Is there any chance that Grigor might decide that Geran would make a better regent for his grandson, Kirr, than you? Or, for that matter, a better harmach?” Her eyes glittered cruelly as she delivered the barb.

  “Unthinkable!” Sergen snapped. “I’ve stayed in this miserable, sodden dungheap of a town for years, looking after all the business Grigor was too stupid or inattentive to look after for himself. Without me the family would be penniless and Hulburg would still be a wretched little backwater.”

  “Geran is of the Hulmaster blood, and you are not.”

  “You need not remind me.” Sergen paced away from the fire, glaring at the row of bright windows that faced out over the town. He’d come to Hulburg as a boy of twelve, when his father, Kamoth—a merchant and adventurer from Hillsfar—married the harmach’s widowed sister, Terena. The marriage had not gone well. Kamoth was caught plotting against the harmach and fled Hulburg to escape death or imprisonment. Sergen had been left among his stepfamily, an unwanted interloper in Griffonwatch. No one had ever accused him openly of disloyalty, but he’d heard the whispers and felt the suspicious stares throughout his adolescence. He’d resolved years ago to succeed where Kamoth had failed, but to do that he’d had to embrace the name of the family that had ruined his father. He was long since ready to shed those pretenses and take what was rightfully his.

  “Would it be useful if Geran met with some misfortune?” Darsi asked.

  Sergen shook his head. “Too obvious,” he said. “Everyone remembers all too well how Isolmar Hulmaster met his end, and now that Jarad Erstenwold has been removed … how would it look if someone else close to the harmach died under mysterious circumstances? Even if I had nothing to do with it, suspicion would naturally fall on my shoulders.”

  Darsi rose from the couch and drifted over to where Sergen stood, resting a hand on his shoulder. “It may become unavoidable, if Geran continues to stumble into affairs that are none of his business.”

  Sergen glanced over his shoulder at her. “Perhaps we should set a spy on him to watch his movements.”

  “Hmmm, I believe I have just the spy.” Darsi slipped her hands around Sergen’s chest and pressed herself close behind him. “I will summon Umbryl and set her on your cousin’s trail. And, should Geran prove troublesome, he will never see her claws before she strikes.”

  “Make certain that your pet knows that she is not to kill Geran unless you order her to,” Sergen answered. He turned to face Darsi and slid his hands around her waist. He leaned forward and nuzzled her neck, kissing the base of her throat. “Mmmm. Are you certain that you came here to talk about my cousin? Or did you have some other purpose in mind?”

  Darsi let her hands slide inside his robes and caressed him. “I interrupted your bath. The least I can do is to help you finish it.”

  SEVEN

  13 Ches, the Year of the Ageless One

  Since it was still early when Geran, Kara, and Hamil returned to Griffonwatch, they sent to the kitchens for a small sack of food to take with them. They returned the buggy to its house and the horse team to the livery, since no roads led up into the Highfells, and the few tracks that did wind up into the hills and moors were far too difficult for a wagon or carriage. Instead they chose horses from the Shieldsworn stables and saddled their mounts. Kara kept a horse of her own in Griffonwatch, a big roan mare named Dancer that she’d trained for years. Geran chose a strong bay gelding, and for Hamil they found a small, sure-footed mare. Halflings generally found ponies better suited to them than horses, but Hamil had spent enough time around the larger animals to handle them easily enough despite his small stature.

  An hour before noon they set off again. This time, instead of turning at the Burned Bridge, they followed the Vale Road north from Hulburg, keeping on the right bank of the Winterspear. The river was shallow and swift, rushing over a stony bed in a broad, braided stream that narrowed quickly as they headed inland. Farms clustered close by the southern end of the valley amid stands of birch and ash, but as they continued northward the farms grew fewer and farther between.

  About three miles from Griffonwatch, the road passed through an old ditch-and-berm of earth, now grassy and overgrown. “Lendon’s Dike,” Geran told Hamil. “My grandfather raised it more than fifty years ago, back when orc raids in the Winterspear Vale were common.” He pointed toward the far side of the vale. “Lake Hul lies under the western hills there, so the earthworks run less than two miles.”

  Hamil studied the old fortifications. “Seem to have had little use of late.”

  Geran nodded. “Orcs haven’t come into the Winterspear Vale in numbers since my father was a young man. The Highfells make for good walls.”

  A short distance beyond the old dike, Kara turned eastward along a cart track that ran past the long fieldstone cowsheds and hay cribs of an old dairy farm. The track petered out into a footpath and began to climb steeply up the side of the valley. Trees and brush thinned out quickly as they gained height, and soon they were picking their way through the steep meadows and mossy rock outcroppings of the hilltop. From their vantage they could see the broad path of the Winterspear all the way to Hulburg’s distant rooftops. Then they crossed over the crest, and they were in the Highfells proper. To the north a long line of low gray downs stretched off until they simply melted into th
e distance; eastward the rolling downs marched for miles until they began to climb up to meet the wooded ramparts of the Galena Mountains, perhaps twenty miles distant.

  Raw, blustery wind whistled through the grass and heather, pushing the brush first one way and then the other. The sky was blue and cloudless, marked only by a distant earthmote drifting aimlessly against the wind. Hamil surveyed the view. “This is the so-called Great Gray Land of Thar? There doesn’t seem to be much to see.”

  “Here, near the Moonsea, the moorlands break up into the steep glens and valleys that we call the Highfells,” Kara answered him. The wind blew her hair into her face, but she shook it off, paying no attention to the raw cold. “But if you ride a few more miles north or west of here, yes, you’d be in Thar.”

  “How far does it run?” the halfling asked.

  “From here west to the Dragonspine Mountains and the Ride beyond, close to two hundred miles.” Kara turned and pointed off to their right, where the mountains fenced the horizon. “To the mountains, not more than another twenty miles or so. Vaasa’s about seventy miles east of us, on the other side of the Galenas.”

  Hamil waved his hand at the downs ahead. “And to the north?”

  “For the most part, more of the same until you reach Glister, a hundred and fifty miles away,” Geran said. “There’s a shifting stretch of dangerous Spellplague-riddled changeland in the middle of the moor, and a couple of days’ ride past Glister there is a much wider stretch of changeland that runs for hundreds and hundreds of miles. All sorts of plaguechanged monsters roam those lands, and sometimes they come down into Thar. No one I know of has ever found out what might be north of that, but sooner or later I imagine you would run into the Great Glacier and snows that never melt.”