Cara woke peacefully in her own bed. Sunlight fanned out like a loving hand through her window, running through her red curls and washing over her legs and feet. Gislaine was still sound asleep, tossing fitfully and muttering in her dreams. Did I dream? Cara wondered. She had no memory of anything after laying down on her bed and revelling in the softness of goose down. She had tussled about with her sister, holding the little girl down with the weight of her body while tickling her feet. Gislain yelped and screamed like she’d been caught on fire, and Keelie smiled and Kylie snorted. Keelie had brushed Cara’s hair and asked timidly if she missed Ror. Gislain asked why she had no handmaids when Cara had two, to which Kylie responded that Cara needed extra help. “Beggin’ yer pardon ‘ighness,” she said with a curtsey. “You’ll get one when you’re older,” Cara said after flashing Kylie a mock scowl.
It felt good to be home. Thrond was a marvelous realm, an alien world hidden away under the grandest of mountains with terrible, secret powers locked away deep in the dark below, but that was a thing to glance at, not a place to stay in. High Alden was where Cara belonged. She felt a compelling desire to sneak through her bedchamber, past Keelie and Kylie, and run straight to the top of the Pillar of Autumn and look about her ocean of misty green hills. I could have done well in Thrond, she regarded sardonically. There was an ease of convention in Thrond that she did enjoy. Perhaps when Ror and I are wed we can make some changes. Her thoughts went to Ror’s words to her the night before they departed. He spoke of changing a tradition that was as old as his kingdom. Surely he’d grant his queen a few harmless liberties. Queen? She laughed at her own impetuousness, but then laughed again. There’s no possible way Grar would name Halfur his heir. Yes. I am to be Ror’s Queen. And I shall rise from our chamber in the citadel whenever I choose, and shall parade about the mountain in my sleeping gown with unkempt hair.
She rose begrudgingly, being torn between the softness of her bed and the gorgeous vista that awaited her atop the tower. Keelie readied her clothes while Kylie drew her bath, and when she was washed and dressed she broke her fast on pheasant eggs, cheese curds and cold leek soup. Her parents were speaking in her father’s solar, a cramped place compared to Grar’s. She popped in and gave them both kisses, bid them good morn and went to the curtain wall. The air was cool, still clinging to dawn’s chill. The sky was an ocean of brilliant sapphire blue, with the golden sun radiant and proud. She smiled gleefully her whole way to the Pillar of Autumn. The wind was in her hair, and the sounds of Dennel shouting commands to soldiers drilling in the yard mingled with the clucking of hens and bleating of sheep. She ascended the tower as quickly as she could, being careful not to trip. The Titan’s Torch greeted her at the top. She leaned forward over a crenel next to the great ash wood crane used to haul ammo and timbers up for the trebuchets mounted atop the tower and looked at the heavenly visitor. It was beautiful to her. Red and blue, bright and strong, a harbinger of tomorrow’s hope. Fitting it should be birthed in the spring. Cara wondered idly if all infant stars glowed during the day. It made a simple sort of sense to her. When people were young they were boisterous and full of life, eager to prove themselves to their peers. Old age brought wisdom and calm, and all colors of hair turned to silver or grey.
She'd missed her tower. From it she could see everything. She ducked her head under the mouth piece of the great tower horn, blown only in times of extreme peril, and looked to the northern hills to see Ser Walsh leading a group of soldiers and lords’ sons on a fox hunt. Their horses whinnied eagerly as they sailed like so many small, swift ships over the sea of grassy hills. Hale was in the yard sparring with a dwarf she assumed to be Halfur. Other dwarves were gathered nearby watching, along with a dozen or so of her own people. It seemed all Hale could do to stay on his feet as the dwarf pressed him back.
She looked past the castle to the city. It was as alive and vibrant as she’d ever seen. Smoke rose from chimneys like breath coming from a horse’s nostrils on a cold day. People flowed through the many wending streets and alleys like blood pumping through veins, and the city sang with the tolling of bells, the blowing of horns, and the baying of hounds. And beyond even that she could see the growing expanse of the Coldwood, growing deep and dark to the south, its eaves marching outward in all directions like ranks of soldiers bent on conquest. North of the forest, due east of her own realm, the Ladder to the Moon spread like a curtain wall between west and east, its tremendous peaks towering high and dark above all things, and in its center was Obrus, highest and darkest of them all. It looked like a beast, alright, but a protective one. The Brow appeared noble, crowned with the hundred golden eyes of Magni watching over earth and sky. The beast’s wide neck and shoulders spread outward like a pyramid, and from that lofty pose the World Dragon stood vigil over its domain. Somewhere deep within that mountain, or perhaps standing on the summit and looking back at her, was her crownless king.
The men were still sparring when she descended from the tower. Dennel was fighting with Halfur now, and Hale was sitting off to the de while Karlyn, one of their older men-at-arms, was wrapping a strip of cloth around his head. Hale’s dented helm was on the ground next to him, along with his splintered shield and bent sword.
Halfur wore a green coif over his hair and beard, boiled leather bracers and a shirt of bronze colored rings woven so finely together the looked as if they might be one piece of fabric. He wielded a strange sword; shaped like a falchion but with a broad and thick blade, and long enough to be wielded with both hands. Dennel held him at bay with his bardiche, swiping away the dwarf’s lighter strikes and deftly dodging his measured charges. It occurred to Cara that as young as Halfur looked, he’d been training in use of arms for over forty years. “Don’t feel bad,” she said as she sat on the grass by her brother, “he’s more than twice your age.”
“And more than thrice as strong, though half as tall.”
Karlyn laughed. “I’d like to see Ser Walsh have a go at him.”
“He’d pulverize the poor old man,” Hale said, aghast.
Karlyn laughed again. “It would do him good. He might go back to training and trim down a bit.”
“Come now, Karlyn,” said Cara, “Ser Walsh is Provosi. He can’t help his girth.”
“He helps himself to kitchens well enough.” The old soldier cinched the cloth around Hale’s skull and gave it a sturdy pat. Cara winced, but Hale bore it well, laughing and hurling a clod of dirt at Karlyn . Cara’s giggled, then turned her head to the center of the yard when she heard a sudden clang. Dennel had deflected a lunge, sending Halfur’s sword upwards and into the brim of his kettle helm. He almost fell, but quickly regained his footing and backed away in time to dodge another lunge. Halfur resumed his guard and tried to pace around to Dennel’s flank. Dennel shifted his stance and sent a flurry of thrusts towards the dwarf, who blocked each blow with absolute precision.
The two danced until the sun was directly above the yard. Halfur fought tirelessly, reserving his strength as he reserved his words. Dennel was indomitable, though, and in the end he won the match with a quick and powerful thrust over Halfur’s guard that would have gone straight through his throat, were they fighting in earnest.
“Your one of the best spearmen I’ve seen,” Halfur told Dennel. The old knight bowed graciously. Halfur then caught her looking at his sword and handed the hilt to her. She took hold and pulled, but the sword would not budge. “Forgive me,” Halfur said. He thumb against the scabbard and his forefinger against the sword hilt, then slid the blade out of its sheath.
“How… I don’t understand…”. It was unlike any scabbard Cara had seen. Halfur showed her how the sheath had been formed exactly to the shape of the blade and hilt so that no strap was needed to hold it in. He resheathed the sword and held it upside down, shaking it hard to show the blade would not drop onto the ground. Cara was amazed. She couldn’t even hear the blade rattling as he shook it. Once she figured out the trick to freeing the hilt, she found it incredibly easy to draw the sword. Holding it was another matter. It was perfectly balanced, but its weight was quite heavier than any of the blades her father’s army used, and the most finely crafted sparring sword she’d ever seen. “It’s a replica of Yallah,” he explained, “the sword I most prefer.”
“Do you name all your weapons?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Only Yallah. She’s the one sword I’ve drawn blood with.”
After Hale and Halfur had washed, they met with Cara, Yemi and the two little ones for luncheon on the northern slope of Cavanal. They found a flat stretch big enough to hold a dance on, and the castle servants laid out a fine spread of food. There was roasted partridge stuffed with cornmeal and raisins, poached quail’s eggs, hard bread and bowls of fresh greens. Istan and Gislain had a spyglass and were showing Yemi the towers of High Alden’s northern keeps while Halfur gave Hale advice on swordplay. “If your opponent has longer reach, push through his guard. If you have longer reach, strike from further back.” Hale nodded intently, now and then rubbing the swollen bruise on his brow. When they’d finished eating Kylie arrived with a basket full of balls and rackets, a pipehorn, more spyglasses and a box made of red, blue and purple jade. An old servant came behind her with one of Hale’s citterns.
“What’s in that pretty box?” Gislain asked as she leapt up and down, trying to peer into the basket.
“It’s a puzzle, Your Highness,” Kylie said with a bow. “A gift from the merchant man from Casimir. He says it’s from Canthor.”
Kylie set the basket down and removed the box, then handed it to Cara. Everyone gathered around as he removed the lid. Inside were what seemed to be a thousand small thin flakes of scrimshawed bone, each one shaped as if it had been broken from a larger piece.
“What do you do with it?” asked Yemi.
Cara lifted a piece and examined it. It was paper thin and no wider than her thumb. The scrimshaw lines made no recognizable shape, but when they all had examined a number of pieces each she noticed that the lines on some of them matched. She dug for a piece to match the one in her hand when she saw the picture on the bottom of the box. “Look,” she said. The others peered into the box. “Someone find something to hold the pieces in.".
They all looked about the picnic area. Istan and Gislain darted every which way, lifting anything they could get their hands on and bring it to Cara. Hale ventured away from where they’d sat, searching the ple of trays and boards the servants were packing up. Halfur removed one of the leather pouches from his belt. To Cara’s surprise it unfolded into a wide square. It was too small, though, albeit a clever device. They were about to give up when Hale came back with one of the bowls they’d eaten their greens out of. He’d wiped it clean with a his sleeve and they poured the pieces inside. Halfur determined that the puzzle would be the size of the lid when assembled, so they used it to set the pieces on.
Gislaine and Istan were rifling through the pieces, putting them together without even looking to see if they’d fit, then tossing them back into the bowl. Hale tried to help Cara and the little ones, but eventually gave up and instead played his cittern and sang. Halfur was leaning over the box and looking at the picture so intently it seemed he might fall in. Yemi proved to be the most helpful. She found a wide platter from the stack of tableware and snatched before the servants took them all away, then put the pieces on it with the scrimshaw side up. “Clever thinking, Yemi,” Cara told her.
“I tell you a tale of a man on the road,” Hale sang, “swept off his feet and caught in a storm…”
“I wish they came in order,” Cara said as she scanned the vast array of jumbled clues.
“What fun would that be?” Yemi replied. The dwarf girl plucked three pieces off the tray and quickly arranged them with her clever dwarven hands. The pieces formed a few lines. Creases in a sleeve, or laugh lines on face. “Halfur,” Yemi said, “the point is to put the pieces together, then look at the picture.”
He lifted his face and scowled at her. “It’s a complex scene. I want it clear in my mind before I start putting the pieces together.”
“He may seem a brave man forging ahead, but in truth he misses his bed…”
Cara was fascinated by the idea of the puzzle, but it was difficult to find how the pieces fit, especially with the distraction of Hale’s singing and the frantic clamoring of the children. Except for Yemi. She kept focused on the pieces, only glancing into the box now and then. Soon the indeterminate lines had become a hand; an old hand by the look of it.
“Titan’s brains,” Yemi cursed.
“What’s the matter?” Cara sked.
“I’ve got two pieces that look exactly the same. How am I supposed to know which is what?”
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“Maybe they put an extra one in, by mistake?”
“Doubtful,” said Halfur. “This puzzle is a detailed bit of work. An artisan this deliberate wouldn’t be so careless.”
“You don’t know that,” Yemi argued. “It could have been a novice puzzle maker, and he took his time and did his best but still made some mistakes.”
“Well,” Cara said, “why don’t we set those two aside for the end? Then, when they’re the only pieces left it will be plain where they fit.”
“From a land far away does our hero hail, from a country ancient and strong. When a lad was he a great wyrm attacked, but his people they fought back…”
“I see why Ror likes you,” Yemi blurted. Istan and Gislain laughed and made mock kissing faces.
Cara tried not to blush. “Whatever can you mean?”
It was hopeless. A torrent of japes flowed from the children’s mouths. Even Yemi had some choice comments to make. Hale switched to some bawdy tavern song which got Halfur to snicker amidst his brooding over the portrait. When they’d all settled down the children quit helping with the puzzle, either out of boredom or confusion. Istan took to piling stones into towers by Halfur, and Gislain sat nearby and tried giving him instructions. “It’s my tower,” Istan kept telling her, to no avail.
“Is that supposed to be the Spear, or Dawn’s End?” Gislain asked Istan.
“It’s the Pillar of Autumn.”
Three things then happened at once. A swarm of stingwraiths flew by and stung both Halfur and Gislain. Halfur slapped at the insect and knocked down Istan’s tower. “Now it’s the August Ruin,” Hale said, and Gislain started to cry. Istan hovered over her, trying to get her to take her hand off her neck. “Let me get the stinger out,” he told her gently, “and it will stop hurting.”
Gislain kept wailing and shaking her head. Cara tried to help as well but the poor girl was in too much pain to listen. Stingwraiths were wretched creatures, and their sting was terribly painful. Even Halfur was agitated. He rubbed at his neck furiously. “Are they poisonous?” Yemi asked. Hale finally set aside his cittern and came to Gislain. He put his hands over hers and sang softly. It worked. She stopped her sobbing and let go of her neck.
“You big baby,” Hale said, “I’ve never seen such a tiny stinger. You’re fretting over nothing.”
The stinger was huge, but Cara kept quiet. Gislain whimpered as he pulled it out, then cried hard for a moment before settling down. Hale put his arm around her and held her close. When Gislain was calm and over her pain they all resumed the puzzle. Hale played a happy song about two orphans who lost each other in a forest and found each other again. Cara wondered if the song was helping, as the puzzle was now coming together quickly, whereas before he sang a song of a man wandering lost on a road and they struggled to get the pieces to fit. Halfur was helping now, and it turned out his long brooding over the picture had paid off. He searched through the pieces quickly, setting some down on the box’s lid without others next to them, only to connect them later. Even Gislain helped. She had a trickle of blood dripping down her neck, and would start to sob now and then, but each time Istan would pat her on the back until she felt better and they would work together to find a piece that fit.
The sun was fading over the hills when they were finished. Somehow it was even more beautiful to Cara when pieced together then painted on the inside of the box. The scorched wasteland behind the old man seemed more desolate, and the river hed stood beside looked wider and deeper. The kingdom on the other side had more vivid detail in scrimshaw than in paint. The walls had more of the stonework drawn, more of the houses had windows, and she could see the shapes of people walking through its branching streets. The old man who stood by the river was more alive as well. She could see the war of sadness and hope on his face. She had thought it to be a daytime scene when viewing it within the dark confines of the box, but here on the carved bone she saw that what looked like the sun was in fact the moon.
This puzzle must have taken years to make, she thought. The sheer amount of lines etched onto the pieces was immense, let alone the delicate detail of even the smallest pieces. The sky was dark except for where the moon light poured like a silver fountain over the river, and there was a halo around the torch the old man held aloft. Even the man’s reflection in the water looked alive; just like the old man save dark and twisted by the ripples in the water, and the torch and its flame were stretched into a shape like a sword. Cara noticed that there was even a pair small snakes, one black and one white, peeking out of the grass between the old man’s feet, leaning over the bank to drink from the river. She then saw the name of the puzzle, written in faint and flowing script in the grass at the old man’s feet. The Refugee, it said.
They spent the remainder of the evening touring the dwarves through Cavanal proper. “We don’t have anything so beautiful as the dancing stars,” Cara said, recalling fondly the peace and wonder of that place. The dwarves were thrilled with the city, to Cara’s surprise. Halfur studied the design of almost every building, asking questions about the types of lumber used, how the materials were transported, how they were protected from the weather. He spent a great deal of time at the main gate in particular. Yemi was absolutely beside herself every time they passed by any sort of animal. She’d run up to horses and asses, cattle and sheep, and once managed to catch a big, fat hen and held it in her arms the way a mother holds her babe. “We don’t see animals often in Thrond,” she said after she put the hen down. The bird squawked wildly as it hurried away. Halfur then asked Istan about the tunnel at the base of the hill. Istan’s eyes lit like a night fire and he excitedly lead the way through the gate and down the steep slope.
The tunnel did indeed lead all the way to the undercroft of the castle, twisting and turning for what felt like miles. There were countless other tunnels connected to it that Cara had never before seen. “Father said they lead to places the whole city can hide in if we’re every attacked,” Istan said. “Did he say who he expects an invasion from?” asked Hale. Istan shook his head. It seemed odd to Cara as well. She’d known of the work for a long time, but hated the undercroft and had never gone down to see what was being done. Being here and seeing the vast warren her father was building worried her some how. Hale’s question echoed in her mind, for who indeed should they fear? The Arcadian conquest stopped after their failed attempt to invade the march lands. Since the Marches had united into the kingdom of Ronehelm there had been peace between all realms of her own kind, though there were tales of Ronehelm warring against the dwarves of Nirmo, and of course the tragic violence between the orcs and Eruhal’s fringe dwellers. If her father had just cause to fear an invasion, then indeed, from whom? If not, then Cara feared for his wits. Halfur made a comment that put her at ease, though. “Caution is never a mistake,” said the dwarf.
Supper was already under way when they returned. The Lords Primary had gathered to feast their King in the Great Hall in celebration of the wedding. Balvor was widely loved, and as an emissary incurred much favour towards Thrond among High Alden’s lords. As if Thrond needs our favour, Cara thought, or even wants it.
Lord Atheon Ebonfield sat by the head of the table as he was oft to do, though now he was one seat further from her father, as Halfur sat directly to his right. Her father knew of their foray into the warrens. Cara expected him to be bothered, but instead he seemed glad, and asked Halfur if he had any suggestions for improving the passageways. Halfur did offer a few recommendations for making some areas more spacious without risking a cave in.
Lord Atheon assaulted Halfur with a storm of questions about life in Thrond. While other lords were quick to mention smithcraft, or ask questions of engineering or air filtration under a mountain, Lord Atheon instead spoke of loftier matters of thought. Cara smiled at his wife, the dark and lovely Lady Pahanin of Casimir, feigned interest for a time, then turned to Cara and asked her if her father had proposed a marriage to Thrond’s other young prince. Cara blushed, wondering how long it took for her mother to mention their friendship. It was a difficult conversation to have, as nothing had been expressed between her or Ror, and truth be told she had a nagging feeling that she may have misinterpreted his friendliness towards her.
What made speaking with the noble lady worse was Gislain was explaining to Yemi how Lady Pahanin was the true master of House Ebonfield, handling all the governance of their lands while Lord Atheon pondered over the Book of Tides and other mysteries. Gislain had learned Yemi’s habit of whispering as loudly as most people shouted, and Lady Pahanin snickered at her comments while Cara tried to politely ignore them. Lord Atheon was fortunately engrossed in his discussion with Halfur. They were speaking of an old book she often saw her father reading. Time’s Confluence, it was called, by Siandus Dreamtreader, the Mad Elf. Cara heard snippets of the conversation, and only paid any heed when she heard Lord Atheon mention the Black Garden. “Where minds are flayed…” he was saying. Halfur didn’t seem interested in that topic, however, and they moved on to others. Atheon boasted of the Glass Keep, his famous green house where he’d learned to grow nearly every type of plant or tree in all Konistra, even the rare and luminous silmari palms from Far Araad in the south. Her father asked Lord Atheon of the rumors that he’d gotten an igdrus sapling to sprout, and Lord Atheon denied the rumor. “If only, Your Grace,” he said, “those fantastic trees grow where they will. And not even the Glass Keep could contain a tree so tall.”. Lord Atheon then went on for some time about the timeless wisdom stored in trees. Halfur listened enduringly, though he chanced an eye roll once when he met Cara’s gaze. It made her laugh. She was liking Halfur more and more. Ror cast a large shadow, which Halfur had seemed content to hide behind while in Thrond. Now he was forced to step out of the shadow, and to her surprise his star shone brightly on its own.
Supper had been cleared and the servants were setting sweet cakes and custard on the table when she heard her brother’s voice rising in song. He’d been sitting at the far end of since the first course had been served. Cara had spied him sitting by Howl and his father, Lord Luhman. The Bray’s were one of the more genial noble houses, to be sure, and it made Cara happy to see Hale and Howl rekindling their boyhood friendship. Hale sang happy songs at first. All the men sang along to If I Had Maggie in the Wood, and all the room sang along to The Battle of Autumn. It was a fitting song to sing, as it told of the old friendship between Alden Gace and Narvi the Blooded, the bold men that founded High Alden and Thrond. Her father stood for the last stanza, and all, even Halfur, stood with him and sang loudly the final verse.
Our bannermen rode from out the gate, with starfire spears alight
Our stone brothers rose from 'neath the walls, their hammers ready to swing
Like thunder we rolled down on our foes, war hounds spoiling for the fight
The tallest hill and the highest mountain, together our weapons ring
Mugs were drained and fists pounded on the table when the song had done. A brief silence followed, during which Hale played a song Cara had never heard. “King Verrold asked me to sing this song to him,” Hale said, “every morning, until he died. I’d honor him now, as he was kind to me. It’s called No More Rain.”
He plucked the strings lightly, sending a sweet, yet hauntingly sad air through the Great Hall. “Along the furrows and rows of corn, where shadows weep in the morn, a lonely maid plants seeds from afar, where whispers and gravestones are...” the song began. It told of a village named Eva, in a kingdom called Tara Malah. For years Tara Malah had been at war with a dark land named Kala Arune. The day many feared had come, and the men of Eva had been ordered to join the war. Off they rode, every man strong enough to thrust a spear, no matter his age.
There was a woman named Athari. Her husband was a charming young man with a kind heart, and she loved him very much. He was a skilled bowman, so she held onto the hope that he would be put in the rear guard, away from the thickest fighting, and might just survive the war and come home to her. The other women were less fortunate, as their husbands and sons had no great skill with the bow, and would most likely be put in the vanguard. To keep herself and the other women distracted, she began to gather the most beautiful flowers from the fields outside the village, and brought them back to plant in a garden at the center of the town.
One day, the village elder, the only man old enough to be left behind, came to the garden with the horse of the miller. The miller’s wife wept as she took the horse back to their stable. The next day another horse came back, and then another, both riderless. So it went, until all the men's horses had returned, save that of Athari's husband. The elder looked to the sky, and told them the rains would not come that year, so the women gathered around the garden and watered it with their tears.
The elder stood watch by the gates all throughout the night. At dawn’s end he gave a joyful shout, then rang the bell to wake the village. Athari's husband had returned, galloping hard, with the armies of Kala Arune hard on his heels. Many of the women fled in panic, but Athari remained, and with her the elder's wife. She gathered the children of the village together and took them to a cellar under one of the houses, though some of them fled from her to search for their mothers.
The elder then looked to Athari and bid her to wait in the center of the garden. He told her he had seen their last hope in her husband's desperate charge, so she did as he asked, and stood still as stone while the old man guarded the village gate. She knew not what mad hope the elder spoke of, or what her husband could possibly do to stay the swelling tide behind him, so she closed her eyes and whispered her love for him while her final tears fell onto the garden.
“There’s another verse,” Hale said after he finished playing, “but King Verrold always fell asleep before I could sing it to him.”
All were silent for a while after the song, except for Yemi who cried softly. “That was so lovely,” she said. Istan teased her, but Gislain ordered him to stop, then made fake sobs along with Yemi. When they had all supped her mother went to bed and her father retired to his solar to speak with Dennel and Ser Walsh. She and Hale, along with the little ones and the dwarves, then retired to the Great Hall and sat about one of the hearths exchanging stories and japes till the moon crowned the sky.
Cara felt happy when she made her way to her father’s solar to bid him goodnight. She hadn’t heard from the Voice all day, and was starting to believe it may have just been some strange reaction to the mountain. Perhaps it was the ohr? She mused. She then thought of the other goblin, Ridzak, and how he seemed to know of the Voice. He was such a strange creature. He could be mad for all I know. Noxi’s never mentioned the Soulmind, and he’s travelled the whole world. When she approached the room she stopped dead in her tracks. The door was closed tight, but a chip in the frame allowed some sound to creep through. She heard a single word that stayed her heart and twisted her stomach into a knot. “Dyer,” her father said.