Larantyne

Larantyne

  Prince of the Northlands, Vol 2

  Marie Brown

  ©2013

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Horsemaster

  Chapter 2: Reapers

  Chapter 3: Greetings From the Divine

  Chapter 4: Kurill

  Chapter 5: Into Danger

  Chapter 6: Escape

  Chapter 7:Warning

  Chapter 8: Soulquest

  Chapter 9: Blackheart

  Chapter 10: Frostfall

  Chapter 11: Stalemate

  Chapter 12: Retribution

  Chapter 13: Aftermath

  Chapter 14: Revenant

  Horsemaster

  Kirel's internal alarm woke him right on schedule, at an hour he still and always considered indecent. But he'd become resigned to early rising during his life as a caravan guard, and even more so at Scholastica. Let folk like Kings and Bards sleep through the morning hours. Horse people had work to do. Even princely horse people.

  Sure. Kirel's body argued that horse people deserved sleep too, even as he forced it to obey his command to get out of bed. And weren't Princes supposed to be lazy and self-indulgent? Sylvan slept on, oblivious, snoring very, very quietly. Kirel thought about smiling, but yawned instead.

  Waking early here offered one very distinct advantage over early rising in Scholastica: servants. He'd stolen a moment last night to ask the Castellaine where to get a morning meal at a disgustingly early hour, and she'd assured him the servants would be awake and ready to bring him breakfast at his convenience.

  So he dressed and pulled the velvet rope in the common room. A servant appeared promptly and he requested a meal, then uncovered an elemental lamp and sat down with his first recommended history text.

  His breakfast arrived shortly, borne by the same servant and missing an important ingredient.

  "There's no tea," Kirel blurted as he accepted the tray.

  "We don't have any tea, my Lord."

  "What?" Kirel blinked bleary eyes at the servant, who looked quite uncomfortable and entirely too awake.

  "I said, my Lord, that we do not have any tea at all. The tea tree will not grow in this part of the world. Would my Lord care to try the morning drink we use instead?"

  "No tea? How can I survive without my tea? Don't traders bring it?" Kirel rubbed his eyes, trying to force them into sharper focus. No tea. Damn.

  "Here, my Lord, try this." The servant indicated a steaming cup of something and Kirel sat the tray down to inspect the cup.

  Clearly not tea. He sniffed it, glaring at the offending liquid. The color looked almost orange, not a proper black-brown. Smelled too spicy for him, especially first thing in the morning.

  "Damn it," he muttered, and tried a cautious sip. He made a face. "Yuck! You people actually drink this?"

  The servant started to apologize, but Kirel waved him off. "Don't worry about it. Just leave me in peace and I'll drink the stuff. I guess I'd better get used to it. No tea. What kind of civilized land doesn't have tea?"

  The servant fled, leaving Kirel to sit hunched over his morning meal and the unsatisfactory beverage in a foul temper. His head hurt. How did they expect him to wake up properly without his tea? Inns had tea. Manor houses had tea. A castle should have tea.

  He worked his way slowly through the hot grain, reading the history text, fascinated despite his distemper. The book read more like a fairy tale, with demons and battles and lots of horses. Periodically, Kirel forced himself to take a sip of the not-tea, trying to ignore the foul taste.

  By the time he emptied his grain bowl, Kirel felt more kindly disposed towards the not-tea. True, it tasted like someone had dropped a batch of dried flowers into the teaball and then stirred it with a stick of bitterwood, but he could feel some energy coursing through his system. Not nearly the wake-up jolt of a good, strong cup of tea, but perhaps it would do.

  He continued to read, sipping at the beverage, until he drank it all. He noticed as he set the cup down that his headache was gone. Perhaps the stuff wasn't so bad, after all. But how to train himself to like that awful taste?

  He checked on Sylvan before leaving. The Bard lay on his side, one hand curled around a pillow, red-gold hair gleaming faintly in the light spilling over Kirel's shoulder from the common room. Kirel smiled, then left, covering the light as he went.

  He retraced the route to the stables slowly, working out what he needed to know along the way. He already had a vague plan for training horses and riders at the same time, but he needed to know everything about the stables in general if he wanted to do a good job as Horsemaster.

  He arrived at the stable with both apprehension and excitement swirling through his midsection. He'd been here before, certainly, but not as the officially acknowledged Horsemaster. Funny how different places used different titles for the same job. Horsemaster here, Stablemaster there, stable manager around the corner. And then of course came the odd ones like "horse husbandman" and "lead wrangler."

  The big doors rose above him, tall and wide. Where did they find the wood up here in these barren highlands? The doors looked easily large enough for four riders on Great Horses to travel through abreast, here in this land where the few trees he'd seen were stunted and wind-twisted. The stable itself looked every bit as solid and uncompromising as the castle, made of the same square chunks of granite. Not much chance of this stable ever burning to the ground.

  What challenges lay inside? Only one way to find out.

  Kirel started with the dusty office. The walls, paneled in dark-stained wood, provided a warm and pleasant change from the ever-present grey stone of the entire castle complex. Tall bookshelves lined one wall. He looked over some of the titles, reassured to find that they included breeding records, alongside copies of every treatise on horsemanship and training he'd ever heard of and some unknown to him. He marked those to read in the future, some rainy day. Or more likely snowy, up here. A large, solid writing table stood empty, with a battered padded chair tucked under it. Incongruous clean patches broke through the dust where he and Sylvan had sat the day before on the leather-covered couch.

  Dark spots marred the wall where things must have hung for a long time. Portraits of favorite horses? Awards and honors won at tourneys? Or something else entirely.

  The rest of the office stood completely empty, save for mouse droppings. A wry half smile creased his face when he saw them. Mice and stables went hand in hand, after all. Or would that be paw in stall?

  So, the office held nothing but dust and records. Right. He could find servants to clean it up, no problem. He'd need to restock it, as well: paper, writing tools, a cat or two. . .

  Time to move on. The office would become very important very soon, but for now, he needed to learn the workings of the stable itself. He sought out the head groom, Turcil.

  "Morning. What can I do for you?" Turcil didn't pause in his task, just continued feeding horses and pushing the feedcart.

  "If I'm to be Horsemaster, I need to know how things are done here. I can't take over anything if I don't know who's who and what's what."

  "Understood," Turcil nodded. "At least you've sense enough to admit it, not that I'd expect any less of Mairead's son. Come on, then, and I'll show you the ropes."

  Turcil led Kirel around the stable, giving him the information he needed to do his new job properly.

  King Melann, with his unreasoning hatred of horses, shut down the stable complex entirely once the Great Horses were gone. If a noble came to Court mounted or in a carriage, the horses were turned loose in pastureland outside the castle walls. Turcil had been forced into alternate employment as a gardener for over fifteen annums, nearly the length of Kirel's life. When King Riallen took the throne, he reopened the stables and brought the horse
s in as one of his first official acts. The main stable, capable of housing nearly two hundred horses, now held nearly seventy light horses, cobs and hunters and sturdy little Figros. They belonged to Guardsmen and nobles, and only one belonged to the King. Kirel looked over the rangy hunter Riallen rode and shook his head. The horse looked nice enough for cross country game chasing, but as a warhorse? Ai.

  The secondary stable, on the other side of the castle's entry tunnel, still stood empty and forlorn, sad victim of the late King's unreasoning fear and hatred. Turcil opened the door for Kirel after finishing his part of the morning feeding. Kirel looked over the breeding facilities, set up for a maximum of ten studs and a hundred mares, and sighed.

  "Why didn't the old King just stay away from the stables and let the Horsemaster do his job?"

  "Lad," Turcil glanced at him, then returned to his inspection of the dusty surroundings, "if you could answer that, you could solve all our land's ills in a single day. Nobody knows."

  Kirel found the outdoor facilities impressive. The sheer number of turnout paddocks, arenas, pens, and even an obstacle course belied the fact that it all fit within walls.

  Returning to the main stable, Turcil introduced Kirel to the other two stablehands, Tayre and Lelan, then got out his grooming equipment and carried on with his job.

  "The mounted fighters will be out soon," Turcil said, entering a short bay hunter's stall. "They practice daily, which is good, but they don't know what they're doing. You'll want to have a look at them, I'm sure."

  "I'd rather have a look at some cats," Kirel observed, watching a mouse's behind disappear into a hole beneath the manger.

  "Agreed. But where are you going to find them?"

  Kirel blinked. "Is there a cat shortage around here or something?"

  "Something," Turcil nodded, brushing a cloud of dust into the air. The hunter leaned into his strokes. "All of our cats vanished some annums ago. People suspect your mother did something to lure them away, and they've never come back again."

  "Huh." Kirel tugged at his ear. "Mother and cats. Well, she most certainly kept a large collection of the creatures around her at all times, but I never suspected her of charming them in any way. Well, if she did something, maybe I can fix it. Or try, anyway."

  "Be nothing but good for us if you can."

  "How long before the fighters arrive?"

  "Perhaps an hour."

  "Right, then. I'm going to look over some of the horses. The King wants me to work with the fighters, I know, but I didn't see anything with the makings of a warhorse while you were feeding. Maybe there'll be something more promising in another aisle."

  "Good luck," Turcil grunted, exchanging brush for hoofpick.

  Kirel felt a wave of near panic rising up to choke him as he walked the main stable's four aisles. Nothing, not even one, none of these beasts looked capable of bearing an armored fighter, let alone surviving a battle! Oh, certainly, with time and patience each and every horse in the King's stable could learn to fight like Dapple. But what point in training a horse without the strength and stamina necessary for survival?

  But he fought down the panic and forced himself to think as he groomed and tacked up his own horse. So none of these beasts were fit for heavy cavalry. Other options existed. Mounted archers, for example, needed fast, lightweight horses. Kirel realized as he worked that he had no solid knowledge of what kind of enemy the Old Guard fought. The demons of the history he'd read this morning seemed remote and fantastical, historical exaggeration. "The armies of Evil," while certainly descriptive, hardly gave him the kind of information a tactician needed. Did the Darklords use supply wagons? Mounted saboteurs would be effective against them. What about the demons? Could they be hunted? He'd never seen a demon, nor heard an accurate description. Presumably they existed. Maybe. He'd have to wait until he saw one for himself to work out plans on dealing with them.

  Kirel finished saddling his horse as the first of the fighters arrived. He led Dapple out of the stable, following the first fighter to the tilting arena. Wooden targets of various shapes and sizes each sported a ring tied loosely to it. The point of tilting was to catch the ring on the tip of a lance, an excellent precision training exercise for heavy cavalry.

  Kirel sat on Dapple and watched as the soldier ran the course with gusto. The first was joined by a second, then two more, then a small crowd of young mounted men and women waited for their turn by the arena gate. None of them spoke to Kirel, although he noted several curious glances.

  He indulged in a few of those as well. Women. Women rode in the cavalry. But then, remembering his mother, perhaps northern women were of a different caliber than those down south of the Worldcrest. He wouldn't want to be the one to tell a woman like his mother she couldn't ride with the cavalry. He might not survive the experience!

  The group in the arena finished their runs and trotted their horses to the gate. Kirel judged the time right for him to intervene and Dapple strode into the milling throng of young soldiers.

  "Hello," he said, and every eye snapped to him. "I'm Kirel, and I'd like to talk to all of you. Are you the entire company of mounted fighters?"

  "Yes, sir," the first arrival said proudly. "We're the First Cavalry Reformed, and I'm Captain Tenyk. The General said you're to help us train, Prince Kirel?"

  "That's right," Kirel nodded, around his jab of discomfort at the title. Prince. "And I'd like to start by hearing what your role is in the Guard. Do you serve as regular cavalry, in a unit? Or have you another purpose?"

  "Regular cavalry, sir, just like our fathers." The Captain hefted his practice lance. "We lead the charge. Or we will, when we're actually used in combat. We only formed up a lunation ago, after all."

  Kirel winced. Even worse than he'd feared. "Right. And who's your trainer?"

  "We have none," the Captain sighed. "We do the best we can on our own."

  "Right," he repeated. Perfect. "Suppose all of you come into the main arena with me. Leave the lances in here. Introduce yourselves, then show me how you all work in a unit, together."

  The tilting arena, with its permanently mounted tilting poles, was far too long and narrow for what Kirel wanted. But the main arena, connected by a gate here in this incredibly compact and efficient complex, would serve admirably. He led the way through the gate, noting with dismay the spate of quiet comments when Dapple side-passed up to the gate. He took advantage of being bent over to unlatch the gate to make a distasteful face. Great. These over-eager fools called themselves cavalry, yet sounded utterly shocked by such a basic and essential move.

  While they introduced themselves, he made special note of a few of the riders. Captain Tenyk, of course, who, despite his position of leadership, sat his horse very insecurely. Always a bit behind the point of balance, so always left behind by motion and in danger of falling off at any moment. Garret, who had already hit the dirt twice, and dropped his lance to boot. Kenton, who oozed resentment and attitude, and handled his reins with a heavy-handed grip that left his horse's mouth gaping open to avoid the pressure. Hern, whose large frame slumped in the saddle like a sack of potatoes. And Flower, a woman whose steely gaze belied the delicacy of her name.

  "Okay," Kirel said. "Everybody, out to the rail. I want you to make a circle. Use half the arena. Start at a walk. When I want a change in gait, I'll tell you. Now move."

  The riders, all twenty-five of them, rode with great enthusiasm. Kirel hid his winces, grimaces, and desire to shout "No!" behind a stoic mask and watched the twenty-five riders clearly demonstrate their lack of skill. Garret and Tenyk both fell off at the trot. Finally he waved them to a halt and trotted Dapple to the center of the arena.

  "Thank you all for showing me your skills," he said, proud to keep his tone neutral. "Have any of you had formal riding instruction?"

  Heads shook and voices murmured denials.

  "Then let's begin, right now. We're going to forget all about those lances and learn basic horsemanship in a unit. Ready?"
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br />   Kirel didn't give the cavalry a chance to respond, just started snapping out commands. He formed the group into rows and columns, spaced with proper military precision, then began correcting posture, leg position, and rein handling with a vengeance. And just to make damn certain every one of these folk learned the proper way, he ordered all stirrups hung over the horses' necks, keeping all feet right out of their support. He'd have the stablehands strip them off the saddles later, tuck them away somewhere these silly fools wouldn't find them.

  The pale winter sun climbed slowly into the sky as Kirel drilled his new charges in basic horsemanship. He silently thanked his father's memory for insisting that young Kirel learn the ins and outs of cavalry. Perhaps Lord Daro suspected the future held more for his son than simply ruling a small manor in the canyonlands. Why else have him trained practically from birth to do this very job?

  Kirel called a halt to the lesson when horses began showing signs of fatigue. He sent them back to the center of the arena, still in formation, and signalled Dapple to Balance. The Great Horse lifted into a controlled rear, sunk low on his haunches and balanced perfectly. Kirel surveyed the looks of shock, surprise, awe, and even a little fear with satisfaction as the horse held the pose without moving for many long seconds, then let Dapple return his front hooves to the ground.

  "I've heard your complaints about your soreness," he said, seeking out the eyes of the loudest complainers. Hern. Kenton. Abigail, who despite her complaints, had a natural seat and flawless balance. "But you're going to be a lot more sore before your thighs can keep you in place on a properly trained warhorse. So be aware, there will be pain. It is not easy to ride in the cavalry. But if you stick it out, if you work hard and learn well, you lot will provide the core of Larantyne's mighty new cavalry. Got that? Good. Now go walk your horses until the spot between their front legs is cool to the touch. I'll speak with the General to set up a formal training schedule. Dismissed!"

  Kirel watched the riders scatter at a walk, satisfied that he'd made a good beginning. He still felt a touch intimidated by the sheer size of the task King Riallen had laid on him, but now it seemed possible, given a clear idea where matters stood. Even the bottom of the barrel was a real location, with a clear path out.

  He turned Dapple and started the Great Horse towards the gate. A slight figure stood there, leaning against the arena railing.

  "Bravo," his cousin called. "You've got them looking better already."

  "Thanks, my lord King," Kirel said, although the title felt nearly as awkward as addressing the King informally felt the night before. How long would it take to get used to having a King for a cousin? The term "cousin" applied to someone like Jackon, an idiot, not a King. The canyonlands of his birth stood alone, far removed from nonsense like royalty. "There's a lot of work ahead of us all."

  Dapple reached the gate and Kirel dismounted to walk beside Riallen towards the stables. "I've been thinking about that," the King said. "I've been in touch with some of the folks who bought horses when my father disbanded the stables, but so far, none of them want to sell. It seems they've all encountered great difficulty getting the Great Horses to breed, or indeed to survive at all, and there just aren't any available for sale. The few that are left are all spoken for."

  Kirel frowned. "That makes no sense. The Great Horses did just fine down in the canyonlands, why should they fail to thrive somewhere else?"

  "I have no idea," Riallen shrugged. "None at all. I sent an emissary to Tanivar Estate at the same time as the others, though, and have not heard back yet. It's a long way there and back again, as I'm sure you're well aware."

  Kirel nodded. "I can't see Jackon refusing to sell," he said, considering. "Especially if you're offering enough money. He's no horseman. Any chance you knew what specific lines to request?"

  "Some," the King admitted, glancing at Kirel sidelong. "Banner of Glory is a name well-remembered. Also Callis. And Turcil spoke fondly of Sheane. But we've lost access to the stud books. I don't suppose you've got the key, do you? Or even know where to get it?"

  Kirel's mouth twitched upward in a skewed smile. "I do seem to be in possession of an unusually large number of family treasures," he said, touching his father's signet. "I may be able to help you. Mother taught me how to open our own stud books when I was eight, although there was no physical key. Maybe it's the same?"

  "Will you try for me?" Riallen asked eagerly, with a hint of desperation. And no wonder, because the stud books were vital to the success of any breeding program he might embark upon. More than just a listing of names and relationships, the records included detailed information about colors, physical characteristics, even personalities and temperaments of all the Great Horses bred by his family since the Founding.

  "That I will," Kirel said, nodding. "Although I make no promises. Let's go, then. No sense wondering endlessly."

  He increased his pace and reached the stable quickly, where he left Dapple with Tayre and entered his office.

  The stud books sat right where he'd left them, breeding records stretching back roughly three thousand annums. If his mother had the story right, the earliest volume began with four foundation sires born of the direct efforts of the First King and the Four-Faced Goddess. Supposedly the goddess first forged the Guardians from the race of Tershin nomads, then worked with the First King to make a specifically designed warhorse to suit the Tershin's new role as warriors. Kirel still found the story a bit farfetched, but maybe one of these books would tell one way or the other.

  He selected one of them, the most recent, and blew the dust off. Gold inlay gleamed against dusty leather.

  "Don't laugh," Kirel said, glancing at his audience. Then he sang the three-note musical key, while touching a specific spot on the binding and holding an image in his mind of the book opening before him. Obediently, the book unfolded in his hands.

  Riallen gasped. "A musical key! I never guessed!"

  Kirel nodded, choosing for the moment to keep the rest of the secret for himself. Then he flipped through the pages and smiled.

  "Banner of Glory, Dapple's great-grandsire. How wonderful. Mother never did have the full pedigree. And here it sits, in all its dignified splendor. Amazing. And all the others, as well. Cousin Riallen," he said, looking up from the pages with a smile, "It looks like you've got yourself a firm knowledge base to build yourself a breeding program upon. With the stud books unlocked you know who's who and what you want, right back to the first recorded Great Horse."

  "Thank you, cousin." Riallen smiled. "Now I only need to find the horses themselves. Well, perhaps Tanivar will have some for sale." His smile faded, and a worried look crept into his grey eyes. "I saw a good bit of your first session with the men today. Will you be able to bring at least some of them up to speed for the spring campaigns? None of them have more than the most basic of skills. And I just know the Darklords are up to something. They broke off fighting in late summer, and all's been silent and still over the borderline, even that thrice-damned new fortress."

  "I'll get back to work immediately," Kirel promised. "The horses can be worked without riders. I need more information, though. How will they be used? What kind of enemy are we up against? I know so little of this land."

  "I'll introduce you to my Generals. You'll be working closely with them anyway, might as well get the introductions out of the way. You're going to have to hold some kind of military rank, too. But there's no need to take care of that at this moment." Riallen smiled. "The other reason I came looking for you was that Bard Sylvan promised to play for the noon meal. Will you come?"

  "Certainly," Kirel nodded. "Even after lunations on the road, I still haven't tired of listening to him perform. There's just something magical about what he does with the music."

  "Indeed. I'm inclined to agree with you. Now let's be off."

  Later that evening, after dinner with the somewhat sparsely-populated Court, Kirel relaxed on the couch, watching Sylvan restringing his dulcilute. He'd had a
string break as he played before the meal. Not much of a problem for an experienced Bard, of course, but stringing and tuning a dulcilute required a lot of effort.

  "So what's on your mind?" Sylvan asked, after he successfully threaded the new string through the appropriate tuning peg. "Don't say nothing. You've been quiet all evening."

  Kirel started to dodge the question, then changed his mind. If he couldn't talk to Sylvan, well. . . "What do you think of Princes? And Kings? And, well, royalty in general?"

  "They are the blood of life to a Bard." Sylvan started turning the peg, tightening the string slowly. "All of us musical folk daydream about a chance to attract the attention of a King, or some other royal."

  "Yes, I'm sure you do. We all know how Bards love the good life." Sylvan chuckled. "But really, what do you think? I know you have an opinion."

  "In that case, I think Princes are the ones who get to have all the fun. Kings and Queens are always busy ruling. Queens have the added challenge of making sure the heirs to the kingdom are brought up properly. Princesses have the responsibility of setting the fashion trends for an entire kingdom." Kirel snickered. "But Princes, now, Princes get to ride out and hunt, and attend parties, and generally have a good time."

  "But. . ." Kirel frowned a bit, struggling for the words to express the uneasiness inside. "But what makes them so special? Royalty. Always squeezing the life out of their people and their lands."

  "You don't really believe that, now do you? You can't. I know you're no idiot. Take a look around you. See any signs of King Riallen squeezing everything out of his people?"

  Kirel's cheeks stung a bit. "Well, no, but his father and grandfather certainly did."

  "Okay, I'll grant you that. But not every king is like that. Especially not north of the Worldcrest, where rulers are warlords first, anything else second."

  "Look at the Seven Kingdoms."

  Kirel felt pretty secure bringing that point up. The Land of the Seven Kings had disintigrated into yet another civil war a few annums ago. They'd made a wide detour on the way from Scholastica to Larantyne to avoid it, in fact. Everybody knew that the peasants in Alcarron had revolted against their usurious King, leaving him open to attack from the neighboring country Banalor, which brought all the others into the fray as well. The Seven Kingdoms seemed to thrive on conflict.

  "Only one of the Kings is a miserable lowlife bastard," Sylvan said, testing the new string. He frowned at it, made an adjustment. "All the others have populations that are productive and content. When, that is, their fields aren't getting trampled to death by war."

  "My parents always told me to remain independent. My father's grandfather built the manor from the ground up with his own hands, as a freehold. They said to leave Kings and royalty for others to fawn over, and keep Tanivar free."

  Sylvan looked up from his dulcilute. "And you really think that matters now? Look, Kirel, your parents were about as welcome here as you currently are in the canyonlands. Of course they'd be bitter and angry about royalty in light of what happened. But the fact remains, not all royalty stinks. Look at your mother. She was a Princess, and from what I know, a really decent person."

  Kirel sighed. "Yes, she was. I guess. . . I just don't know how to react to suddenly being one of the people I'm supposed to avoid, you know? And being here, serving a King, is just. . . weird."

  "You'll get used to it," Sylvan predicted, setting his dulcilute aside. "I know you will. After all, there's far worse things to deal with than being a Prince."

  With that, the conversation moved on to other, far more enjoyable territory, and led straight into the bedroom.

  Reapers

  Kirel quickly established a new routine, although his mornings left much to be desired with the complete lack of tea. Mornings weren't his strong suit to begin with, although if pressed he would admit he enjoyed the beauty of a good sunrise, but he always felt grumpy and out of sorts. Not like some people, who bounded out of bed and greeted each day with a smile and joyous enthusiasm.

  Ugh.

  Despite the lack of tea, Kirel got himself to the stables well before the late-rising sun cleared the horizon. He worked with the King to send out messengers to each of the outlying settlements, seeking horses and volunteers for the First Cavalry Reformed. They had to move quickly, because the snow loomed overhead, still in its clouds but threatening to fall any day.

  Afternoons he gave over to his new tutors, who taught him what it meant to be a Prince of Larantyne. He paid attention, and he learned everything from the command structure of the Home and Old Guards to the major holidays celebrated in Castle Larantyne, but always his mind worked on the problem of training men and horses by the springtime.

  He even learned enough about the land of Larantyne itself to clear up one of the great ambiguities about it. Down in the Southlands, people called this entire region Larantyne, and spoke of the Old Guard as a single entity. But up here, in the country itself, things grew more complicated, for the name Larantyne referred to a specific castle, one of five, that made up the Northern Alliance, seen as a single country known as Larantyne by outsiders. A King or Queen ruled each castle, protected by an independent branch of the Old Guard and its brother force the Home Guard, who of course were the fighters engaged directly in the eternal struggle against the Dark One. The alliance between castles still stood, although just barely. The previous two Kings in Larantyne had done their best to destroy it. Fortunately, not even Melann fully succeeded in doing so, and King Riallen had immediately sent out emissaries to each castle after his coronation, looking to re-establish the damaged friendships. Although he didn't go looking for Great Horses from the allied rulers. Bad enough sending emissaries pleading for forgiveness of his father's misdeeds, he didn't want everyone in the other castles crowing over the beggar King without the horses needed to carry the fight to the enemy.

  New horses and riders began trickling in from the settlements, answering their King's call. Many women volunteered, which shouldn't have surprised Kirel, but still did. Of course, he already had four women riding in the cavalry and doing a damn fine job of it. But they'd been something of an anomaly, and when he'd asked Tenyk why he'd let women join his little group, the man just looked at him like he'd gone insane and replied, "Why wouldn't I?" True, it made perfect sense that followers of the goddess's Warrior face would take up arms, but this influx of would-be warrior women went right against the general culture of protecting women that seemed prevalent here in Castle Larantyne. So he shrugged it off and readjusted his worldview. Protect the helpless, and if warrior women wanted to join in the efforts to do so, welcome them with open arms. Any other response just might infuriate his mother's goddess, something Kirel never wished to do.

  Especially not in light of all the dreams, bothering him on a nightly basis. Every night, the same thing: the door to the goddess chapel swung open in his dreams, inviting him to enter. But did he really want to face a potentially angry deity, one who he'd clearly failed on the field of battle?

  Maybe next restday he'd do it.

  But at the moment, more important things demanded his attention. Such as working out a proper patrol schedule, with a man who firmly believed the cavalry should be fully functional by now.

  "So what you're saying is, you've got a bunch of mounted couriers."

  General Trise, the youngest of the Old Guard's three General Officers, leaned back in his chair and gave Kirel an annoyed look. Kirel didn't sigh.

  "Yes, General," he said, keeping his tone neutral. Young or not, the General in front of him now still held direct command over much of the Old Guard, and deserved respect. "They've all got basic horsemanship skills now, which will certainly allow for riding relays and such. But as far as combat goes, these cavalrymen just don't have the ability to fight yet. It takes more than a lunation to learn mounted combat."

  "Why? I know some of the newcomers aren't up to snuff, but many of your riders served on the lines before they decided to form a mounted unit. Wh
y can't their skills transfer? A sword's a sword."

  "Controlling both a weapon, be it sword, bow, or lance, and a large, moving animal at the same time is a very different task than simply riding or fighting afoot. Mounted combat requires a whole new skill set. No reins, General. No control over the horse except through your seat and legs, because how else can you manage a weapon from horseback? You should come watch a training session some time. Perhaps if you see what's required you'll have a better understanding—"

  The door to the General's office slammed open, and a young trainee burst in.

  "General! Demons on the perimeter!"

  "Damn!" Trise leapt to his feet, about to run out of the office, then paused and jabbed a finger at Kirel. "You. Get your men ready now. If they can't fight, they can at least carry double and get my soldiers where they need to be in a hurry. Be ready within a quarter hour."

  Kirel felt his entire body freeze up as the General bolted from the room, questioning the messenger as he went. Oh no, not a fight, I can't do this, no!

  Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and got control over himself. Stop being a damn coward, you fool. You're going to have to get over it and do your job. Got that, Commander?

  They'd hung that title on him just last week, Commander of Horse. Now it reached up to strangle him, making his throat clench with the sheer responsibility of commanding the cavalry, a position granted by birth alone. Well, birth, and the fact that no one here knew how to ride a horse. But he forced himself up, out of his uncomfortable wooden chair, into motion. Once moving, he felt a little better. A bell started tolling as Kirel picked up his pace through the administrative segment of the army's quarters.

  Activity swirled all around as he burst out into the training ground. Off-duty soldiers poured out of the barracks, units in training already stood assmebled. Kirel ran for the stables as fast as he could.

  Need to make this process faster, need a messenger or something. . .

  There, inside the door to the main stable. The bellpull he'd never had reason to use outside of drills. He yanked the rope, and a different tone of bell pealed, calling the cavalry to action. His riders, wearing expressions ranging from shock to pure excitement, came boiling out of their quarters.

  "There's a demon attack," Kirel told them, as they assembled in the stableyard. He felt a bit silly saying that, but what else could he do? The kid who'd brought the message specifically said demons. "The regulars need us to get them there in a hurry. Everybody get your horses saddled and be ready to move out now. And grab your bows!"

  He wanted to kick himself for not realizing his folk could serve some purpose out there earlier, with the General. Archers certainly didn't need to be in motion to be effective.

  The cavalrymen, and women, bolted for their horses, smoothly and without panic. Kirel ran for Dapple, trying to keep his own desire to panic locked away where it couldn't hurt him. Or anyone under his command, for that matter.

  They weren't quite ready within the specified quarter hour, but they came close. Kirel decided to find time somewhere for more speed drills. True, putting tack on horses and armor on humans required a certain amount of time no matter what, but some of his riders all but tripped over their own feet in their haste. They needed practice.

  For once, the whiny voice inside Kirel's head made a valid point: they'd only done this drill twice before,with scarcely a lunation in training. Some folk had even less training, such as the young fellow who'd just arrived on a Figro three days ago. On the good side, everyone had at least a mail shirt and helm, because damn near everyone in the Northlands not busy making babies seemed ready to ride out to war at the drop of a hat.

  General Trise fretted and stewed while the last stragglers came jogging up, leading wild-eyed, snorting horses to the open area where it was safe to mount.

  "Come on, men. Division six, on the horses, now. Second and fifth, proceed on foot. All others on standby. Keep the people safe!"

  Trise watched as his men all moved towards the waiting cavalry, then stepped over to Kirel on Dapple, where he paused, frowning. He looked at the side of the tall horse, clearly trying to find a way up.

  "Over here, General," Kirel said, pleased that no sign of his internal amusement colored his voice. He might not be fully in control of his emotions, but he felt he did a decent job of keeping that fact out of sight to others. He guided Dapple over to the mounting block and the General managed to get up behind him. He felt a bit surprised that someone with the rank of General Officer, highest in the Old Guard, would bother riding out on such a minor incident, but he'd already noticed that none of the Old Guard officers stood much on ceremony. They were fighters, first and foremost.

  "Not the most comfortable of perches," Trise said, shifting awkwardly on the pad behind the saddle.

  "Not really, no," Kirel agreed. He watched the mess around them with a sinking feeling, seeing more drills on the near horizon. Horses danced and sidled, foot soldiers hopped around awkwardly, only three managing to mount easily on the first try. The single mounting block saw a lot of use as the fifty soldiers tried to mount the fifty horses all at once. "I think we need to work on this process, get both men and horses used to riding double."

  "As soon as possible. We can't afford to waste this much time. Come on, men!" he shouted at the milling chaos. "The demons aren't messing around like this! Move!"

  Finally, the last cursing soldier sat behind a cavalryman, and Kirel led the way out of the courtyard at a jog.

  "Where exactly are we going, General? You'll have to provide guidance, I certainly don't know the area well."

  "Fingorran Three, northwest. Go that way."

  The General pointed, and the cavalry moved out, leaving the chaos behind as they settled into their formation.

  "How far away is this place?"

  "Four hours on foot. How quick can your horses get us there?"

  "Carrying double? Probably two hours."

  Trise grunted. "Thought horses were supposed to be fast."

  "Great Horses are," Kirel said, patting Dapple's neck. "A bunch of Figros and hunters? Not near so fast. Too much speed, carrying double, with armor, and you get dead horses."

  "Still, two hours are better than four."

  "Yes. Tell me, how did word of the attack reach here? Was it a runner? Is it already over?"

  "Might be, that's why we need to hurry. Not a runner. Have you seen the signal towers?"

  "Seen them? Of course. Know how they work? Not at all."

  The General gave him a quick lesson on communication in the Northlands as they jogged steadily through the gloomy day. Evidently that sort of thing had once been handled by magic, but for some reason all the Magicmen vanished in a single night. They never returned, leaving the Old Guard without any way to communicate between outposts, except by messenger. Without the Great Horses, that meant no effective communication at all, because each outpost stood spaced an hour's travel by Great Horse apart. By ordinary horse the time doubled. On foot, well, that just wasn't an effective option. So annums ago a group of people came up with the notion of using fires, reflections, and sometimes even flags to communicate across the entire Kingdom of Larantyne within moments. Not nearly as amazing as magic, but still effective, and worlds faster than running messages afoot. Of course, the rest of the Alliance still had their Great Horses, but they'd seen the innovation and copied it as well.

  "Can't these horses move any faster?" Trise demanded, finished with his explanation.

  "Probably," Kirel said, casting an appraising look at the horses all around them. They all moved well, none sweated heavily, and all looked up for a bit more work despite their intense morning training session. "Hold on to something, my belt or the saddle, and hang on tight with your legs. Mind your knuckles on the mail. And remember, you asked for it."

  Kirel signalled the cavalry to canter as soon as he felt a hand take hold of his belt, and allowed Dapple to move into a working trot. The Great Horse snorted as he st
epped out, shaking his head. Kirel patted him on the neck, letting a hint of a mischievous grin onto his face, because of course Trise was getting a royal jouncing back on his uneasy perch. Pretty near impossible to move with the horse from that position, even for an experienced rider. Dapple trotted, the others cantered, and Trise held on tight.

  "Why is your horse moving different from the others?" Trise rattled out the words in between bumps, sounding strained.

  "He's too fast," Kirel replied. "If I let him canter, we'd outdistance the others in no time."

  Did he hear a bit of muffled profanity back there? Poor Trise. Kirel took another look at the condition of the horses. Still fine.

  He kept the group cantering until he saw sweat spots emerging on the necks closest to him, then brought everyone down to a walk.

  "Why'd you do that?"

  "General, these horses have already had a strenuous workout this morning. If they don't rest up a bit, they'll be at risk of injury or foundering."

  Trise sighed, then let go of Kirel's belt to rub at his aching back. "Fine. You know best, Horsemaster."

  Then, while incredulity still filled Kirel, the General went on.

  "I begin to see what you meant about the difficulty in fighting from horseback. It is all I can do to stay on top of the beast at that speed. I can't imagine handling a sword at the same time. Someone would wind up dead, and it wouldn't be the enemy."

  Kirel made certain his tone would remain acceptable before he replied. No gloating! "Indeed. We do of course need to avoid injury to ourselves and the horses. Now. What's the plan for fighting these. . . demons?"

  "You needn't sound so dubious. The plan will depend on what type of demons are attacking, and if they've been fought off or, Warrior forfend, already won. In that case we're in for a rough time."

  "Where do the demons come from?"

  "Nobody really knows. But the Dark One has an absolutely endless supply of the things, in a huge variety of types. The only good part about them is that most of them are pretty stupid. They are only good for fighting, killing, and eating. If the damned things were intelligent, we'd all be long gone."

  Dumb demons. Great. Well, maybe fighting demons would be easier than fighting men. Still, Kirel could feel a hint of panicky terror clutching at his insides. By the time they reached their destination, he felt so tense and worked up inside he wondered that Trise hadn't noticed and said something.

  The outpost, with its improbable name of Fingorran Three, looked like a small fortified settlement straight out of a history book. Kirel wondered where in all hells they'd found genuine logs to build the stockade, here in the Northlands where nothing much bigger than a blackberry bush ever grew. They must maintain some kind of logging operation in the mountains, a settlement or another outpost keep. Or perhaps building the outposts and all the wooden things in the castle simply stripped the entire countryside bare of wood.

  "This looks bad," Trise said, as they jogged towards the silent outpost. "Stop here, let us off."

  "Halt," Kirel called out, holding up a hand as he stopped Dapple. His people halted their horses, still in formation. He nodded to himself, satisfied with that part of the day, if none other. Holding formation over the course of a two hour journey showed proper discipline. Good. Meant the drills were sticking.

  The soldiers dismounted, many of them staggering on landing. Kirel noted more than a few grins among his riders and gave them a stern look that belied his own amusement.

  "Form up, men. Occupied territory drill. If you hurt, work it out. Can't fight if you're all in a cramped knot."

  Now how, Kirel wondered, did the General know the outpost was occupied? No matter. He scanned the territory quickly, looking for the best place for his riders. Not much choice, here. No cover, no real hills, nothing but the vast, gently rolling plain that made up the whole of the Northlands.

  "There's no good place," he said to his riders, "so we'll just have to adapt. Stay here for now, ready your bows. And when something starts happening, well, I'll figure something out then."

  "I say we should move in closer," Kenton, the constant thorn in Kirel's side, spoke up. Larger and heavier than Kirel, not to mention a good ten annums older, Kenton had yet to properly defer to Kirel's authority. "Get up behind the regulars, be ready to support them when the demons come out the gate."

  "What, and negate our bows? No. We're staying back here, where we can provide plenty of support." Kirel ostentatiously unslung his short horse-bow and patted his quiver. "Now. Open formation, and anyone tries going off on their own is out. No questions, just plain out of the cavalry. We work as a unit."

  Kenton looked sour, but nodded. Bows came out all around, arrows readied, and every human eye stayed locked on the regular soldiers, who didn't even get the chance to sort themselves into proper formation. They were still stretching out the cramps and aches brought by two hours of uncomfortable riding when the outpost gates burst open and the giant bugs boiled out.

  "Reapers!"

  What's a Reaper?

  Even as the thought formed in his mind, Kirel and the other bowmen fired off a volley of arrows. General Trise thought for approximately two seconds before he started snapping out orders and the fight began.

  The Reapers looked like giant grasshoppers from Hell. Each one stretched a good three or four feet in length, with enormous sharpened mouthparts and equally large forelegs that were just plain unnatural. Where a regular grasshopper had functional arms useful for eating, the Reapers had oversized serrated blades they used to slice their opponents into bits. They jumped incredible distances, they made hideous whirring noises that made horses spook, and they advanced without any indication of fear, or indeed any emotion at all.

  The battle was short, if not sweet. The foot soldiers knew what to do, crouching together with shields interlocked above them like a giant turtle shell while the bugs bounced futilely off the shields, then breaking formation to strike at the Reapers briefly before forming their dome again. Meanwhile, cavalrymen fired their short but powerful recurve bows at the Reapers, occasionally scoring a lucky hit that pierced a vulnerable soft spot, and trying to control their terrified horses. More than one rider broke formation as their mount panicked and tried to bolt away from the whirring, clicking insect demons, but they all came back. Even Dapple broke and ran the first time one of the big bugs jumped at him.

  Kirel found that his fear grew less as he fought against the nasty demon-bugs, although it never went away.

  The Reapers did a lot of damage, but in the end, the humans won. Barely. And only because there weren't all that many bugs.

  "What was that?" General Trise asked, as his fighters started sorting themselves out and dealing with the wounded.

  "What was what?" Kirel asked warily, breaking away from his examination of a deep scratch on Dapple's neck where one of the bugs came a bit too close. He'd dismounted to inspect his horse, as had all his riders, but now he wished he hadn't. Dapple's height could have lent him a bit of advantage, rather than having to look up at the taller General like a kid.

  "That. The disaster that should have been a cavalry. Granted, you lot used your bows to decent effect, but what was with the panicking?"

  Kirel turned completely to face the General, drawing himself up to his full, although not that impressive, height. Dapple shook his head and neck vigorously. A spark of irritation lit within Kirel, and he took advantage of his new rank to defend his men. "General Trise. These men, women, and horses are all but completely untrained. You can not demand perfection from raw recruits. What you saw was inexperienced riders dealing with beasts that have never seen demons before and yet still managing to provide fire support for your own men. If you have a problem with our performance, well, that's just too bad. I am quite proud of my cavalry. At this stage in their training, simple survival is to be commended, not criticized."

  The General blinked, took a breath to say something, then shook his head. "Very well."

  Then he nodded
sharply and returned to his men, helping with the wounded.

  Kirel turned back to Dapple, prickly with annoyance. Really. So what if the cavalry hadn't performed to perfection? He'd be willing to bet that the General himself couldn't have fought better a bare lunation after picking up his first sword.

  The wound on Dapple's neck wasn't serious, and nothing more than minor scrapes and scratches marred the rest of the Great Horse's hide. So Kirel rubbed a bit of ointment, part of every rider's standard equipment, into the wounds and made the rounds of his riders, checking the condition of both humans and horses, before seeking out the General again.

  "Yes?"

  "If you need us to take back the wounded," Kirel began, only to be interrupted.

  "Yes. And myself, as well. My first scouting party brought back news I need to get to the King right away. Are your horses up to the journey?"

  "They are," Kirel said, confidently. "Not as fast as we came, perhaps, but they're good for another trip."

  "Good. Then let's get moving. We've got some men pretty sliced up."

  They got all the wounded soldiers on the horses. The able-bodied folk stayed to reclaim the outpost, defend it against any further attack. . . and deal with the remains of their fallen comrades.

  On the return trip, they crossed paths with the relief force, moving along at the best pace of unmounted humans. General Trise gave the commander a brief rundown of the situation, then both forces resumed travel to their seperate destinations.

  By the time they reached Castle Larantyne, the sun hovered a bare handspan above the horizon. The temperature dropped as the sun's angle changed, to the point where body warmth no longer counteracted the chill of wearing armor. People wore good, thick cloaks, but even the thickest cloak can't warm up cold metal completely.

  Finally, they reached the castle. People rushed out into the courtyard to help with the wounded, and Kirel and Trise headed for the King, leaving Dapple in the able hands of Turcil.

  They found Riallen in the War Room, looking at the map of the Northlands and muttering to himself.

  "We have returned, my King," Trise announced as they entered the War Room.

  Riallen turned to face them, a hint of welcome coloring his serious expression. "Good. Tell me you have good news."

  "I can't do that, Ri." Trise shook his head. "I know how you feel about liars."

  The King sighed. "Fine, then. Just give it to me straight."

  "We lost every mother's son from Fingorran Three," General Trise said bluntly. The King's face fell. "And the demons had already started to reproduce, from the looks of what we found inside."

  "Reproduce? You can't be serious."

  Trise nodded grimly. "That's the only possible explanation for what they did inside that outpost. Mountains of eggs, Ri. Mountains."

  Riallen closed his eyes and rubbed wearily at his forehead. "Demons reproducing. Just what we needed." Then he looked up at Trise. "We need to figure out some response to this new threat, before we're overrun in baby demons with big appetites."

  Kirel shuddered. What a horrible thought! The grown-ups were bad enough, he didn't even want to think how much a baby Reaper would eat to reach adult size. Did demon-bugs metamorphose like real bugs?

  "I do bear some good news for you, old friend," Trise said, as improbably cute baby Reapers hopped around in Kirel's head. "The new cavalry is coming along nicely."

  Kirel's attention focused abruptly on Trise at the word "cavalry".

  "They were quite helpful in getting my men there about twice as fast as we could have done on our own," the General continued. "When they are fully trained, they'll be a huge asset."

  The King grinned at Kirel. "Good job, cousin!"

  "Thanks." Kirel wondered at the abrupt change, from dissatisfaction to praise. "We need a lot more work, though. Particularly with the horses, because a good half of them were terrified by the giant bugs and didn't have enough trust in their riders."

  "I wish I could promise you more time, but I can't. No telling when the Dark One will launch another attack and we'll call on you again." Riallen made an abrupt change of his own, from grinning to somber. "I just hope you can get them all ready before the Dark One makes his move."

  "So do I," Kirel replied fervently.

  Then Riallen looked at Trise. "And what of the other matter? Can I assume you have a favorable report for me?"

  Trise glanced uneasily at Kirel. "Are you sure this is the right time?"

  "Yes. Out with it. Good or bad, let's get this out in the open."

  "Very well, then." The General took a deep breath and turned to Kirel. "Young man, I have to be honest with you. I don't ordinarily ride out on rescue missions like a common trooper. I have other duties, after all. But the King asked me to observe you and let him know what I think of. . . well, of your courage."

  Kirel winced, but nodded, shooting a wary glance at his cousin. Riallen watched, but let nothing of his thoughts show. "That doesn't really surprise me. After all, I was honest enough about my fighting experience."

  "Ri, you can quit worrying. And Kirel, I think you've been laboring under a misapprehension."

  "I've been what?" Kirel said blankly.

  "Look here. You were sickened by killing a man, is that right?"

  Kirel's cheeks stung. He knew his cousin had a good reason for discussing him with the General, but still, how embarrassing! He nodded.

  "And you didn't like the thought of doing it again, right? Plus, the notion of deliberately riding into a situation where you could easily get killed didn't appeal to you."

  Kirel nodded again. "So? What of it? Fighting sickens me."

  "If it didn't, you wouldn't be human," the General said. He fixed a fierce stare on Kirel. "Every last one of my men got sick after their first battle. And not a one of 'em goes into battle without any fear. Look, it's normal to feel that way. Only twisted folk truly seek out opportunities to kill, and anyone with no fear of death just doesn't have much to live for. If you were truly the coward you've named yourself, you wouldn't be able to do any number of the things I saw you do today, starting with your immediate response to the alarm. A coward would have run away. A coward would never have rung that bell. And most of all, a coward wouldn't have held his men together under difficult circumstances and fought an enemy that he'd never even dreamed of. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  "Did you just say, basically, everybody is afraid of battle?"

  The General nodded.

  "I know I've always got my share of fears out on the lines," the King said.

  "You fight on the lines? But you're a King!"

  Riallen laughed. "Now, yes. It wasn't too long ago I served as a common soldier under the command of Trise, here."

  Kirel shook his head slowly. "That's hard to imagine. Perhaps someday you'll tell me the story of how such a thing happened. But now. . ." He looked at the General. The man wasn't all that old, maybe a decade or so older than the King, but he'd been around long enough to know the ins and outs of life. And now, his dark eyes held steady, unflinching, with no hint of dishonesty. "I think I need to think about what you said for a bit, okay? Maybe you're right. Maybe I've been holding myself to a standard set way too high."

  "If Trise says so, then you have. Get out of here, go do your thinking. Just believe what the General says, understood? I trust his opinion in all things. So should you."

  Kirel left the War Room, thoroughly wrung out. Even without feeling like his soul had been butterflied and laid out for examination back there, exhaustion dragged at him from the day's ordeal. Demons! Back in the warm and sunny Southlands, he'd thought demons had no more substance than a minstrel's tale. What an unpleasant subject to be wrong about.

  "Horsemaster!"

  Startled, Kirel looked up. One of his female riders, Sharice, pulled something out of a shoulder bag and waved it at him.

  "What's that?"

  "Kurill tonight in the Little Hall," she grinned, and handed him a piece of black
cloth. "Consider yourself invited."

  Kirel gave the thing in his hand a bemused look. A plain black mask looked back at him through empty eyeholes. Kurill? What in all hells could that be? Clearly some kind of masquerade.

  Kirel shrugged and tucked the mask into a pocket. He felt no desire to attend any kind of party. He simply wasn't in the mood. Plus he suspected that the moment immediately after he stopped moving he'd fall asleep.

  He made it all the way to the Peacock Suite without any further incident, then realized his mistake and rang for a servant. He'd utterly forgotten to pick up some food from the kitchens, and despite the uncomfortable thoughts swirling around his head, he felt ravenous.

  The suite sat empty, with no sign of Sylvan. Kirel sighed, then performed a sketchy sort of wash while he waited for his meal. He could have used a healthy dose of Sylvan's supportive and loving presence. Somehow the Bard always knew what to do or say to ease away any troubles.

  The contrast between the clean parts and the rest of his body sent Kirel into the bathtub for a quick bath. Too bad the old castle didn't boast any showers. He'd settle for plumbing and a hot bath, though. Better than hauling water any day!

  Of course, his dinner awaited him by the time he finished washing. It sat snugly under a dome, perhaps not terribly cold. Kirel looked at the empty chair opposite his own as he sat, lifting the dome, wishing Sylvan were here. But he wasn't, so Kirel ate his solitary meal and felt worlds better for being clean and full.

  Perhaps it was a good thing the Bard was nowhere to be found. He rarely got quiet time to himself, and the food had given him a bit more energy. Kirel put the empty tray out in the hallway for the servants to take away, glancing around to make sure no one could see anything. He laughed at himself as he ducked back into the suite, closing the door firmly. As if anyone cared what their Horsemaster did behind closed doors! And of course, if Sylvan walked in and caught him, it wouldn't be the first time.

  Kirel moved to his preferred indoor spot for this sort of thing, a bare patch of stone in a corner. The rug didn't extend this far, and no wall hanging covered the blocky grey stone wall here. He settled to the floor, legs crossed and back against the naked stone, with a sigh. Something pinched at his hip and he frowned, then remembered the mask. He fished it out and tossed it on the table. Pinch eased, he rested his hands on the cool, ancient stone, and relaxed.

  The roiling thoughts inside his mind calmed and quieted, replaced by awareness of the stone. Before he'd met the temporus Shem, he'd never much paid attention to rocks. Now that he knew the stone had an awareness about it, the world would never be the same.

  Kirel took his questions with him as he merged his awareness with that of the stone, about fear and the nature of courage.

  Something went wrong almost immediately. Before he could reach that place inside himself where he could hear the consciousness of the stones around him, an image intruded most emphatically in his mind: the goddess's chapel. With the door swinging open.

  No matter what he did, he couldn't get around that blasted chapel to reach the stone.

  "All right," he said, after several fruitless attempts. "You win already."

  Thoroughly annoyed, Kirel rose to his feet and started for the place in Larantyne he least wanted to be.

  Greetings From the Divine

  The door opened smoothly, silently, just like in the dreams. Kirel slipped through with a sense of awe combined with fear, coupling with his weariness to make life seem more than a bit unreal. What would he find inside? A kind, forgiving goddess, or a vengeful, angry deity, ready to tear him up for the annums of distance between them?

  Or perhaps neither. He stepped into a quiet, drowsing world, filled with an atmosphere of comfort. The five walls of the chapel embraced him. The wall with the doorway consisted of plain, undecorated stone. The other four. . .

  One hosted a mural of lightly wooded hills in springtime, filled with flowers and running deer. An altar stood in front of it, with a basket of fresh flowers and a white beeswax candle burning slowly down to a nub.

  The second wall depicted young animals of all sorts gathered around the feet of a voluptuous, smiling woman, who stroked their heads with a loving smile. This altar held a basket of bread and fruit, with a green candle. It tugged at him with a subtle, yet undeniable attraction.

  The third wall depicted a battle, with a large, richly detailed raven screaming in the air above the field. Kirel shivered a little. This altar held a stone knife, pulsing with power even to his untrained senses, and a red candle, red as blood. He turned away, feeling a knot in his middle.

  The final wall depicted the same forested hills as the first, only this time in winter. A great snowy owl perched in a tree in the foreground. The altar held a thick scroll, beside a silvery candle.

  Kirel took a deep breath. He hadn't known what to expect here in the house of his mother's goddess, but he knew what to do.

  He turned to the third wall. Iona, the Goddess of Battle, awaited him. He swallowed hard and knelt before the altar.

  Goddess, my mother served you long and well. She taught me your name when I was just a small child. I fear I have failed you, and—