It was after dark when Talar stumbled out of the pine forest on Angwyn Keep’s plateau. It was fortuitous in more ways than he could count since he could sense the subtle changes in the weather indicating another storm was coming–although he would have been happy to have arrived days sooner. Angwyn sat before him, a dark shadow against the white and grey peaks surrounding it, with flickering diamonds of candlelight captured within. The illumination called to him, promising warmth, but no comfort.
Maybe his father wouldn’t be there. Maybe the clansmen delegation had parted ways, each member returning to his or her clan. But Talar doubted that. His luck wasn’t that good. If anything, this trip had just made that point clear.
He’d woken eight days ago in the dark cave, shivering. His fire had gone out, not even a hint of heat remained in the ashes, and when he’d stumbled out into a brilliant, clear day, there was no sign of his mare. There was also no sign of the storm on the horizon and far too much snow for only a single evening’s storm. He had no idea how long the Goddess had kept him enthralled with the vision, but he got the feeling it was a matter of days and not hours.
His only luck had been finding his pack with his food and writing supplies half buried in the snow, one day’s march up the pass. Devine intervention would have been more appreciated if She hadn’t made him walk. At least he hadn’t starved.
Now he faced another trial. His people. And, more importantly, his father. He hadn’t seen his father in years, and didn’t want to see him now.
Fire rippled over his tattoos and he bit back a curse.
Fine. For Kaelyn, he would face his father. He just didn’t have to like it.
He wadded through the snow to the keep’s main gate, pounding on the gatehouse door to gain admittance. It creaked open, pouring blinding light over Talar.
“Well met,” said Talar in his native tongue to the guard before him. His stomach churned. If his father had shared his shame they might refuse him entrance.
The guard narrowed his eyes. “Traveler.”
“Minstrel, actually.”
The man leveled an appraising stare and grunted but didn’t move or make an invitation for Talar to enter. Talar could only imagine what he saw: a half-starved, half-frozen southerner who claimed to be a minstrel but wasn’t carrying an instrument.
“I request shelter from the storm.”
The guard pursed his lips. “Storm?”
As if to punctuate Talar’s words, one fat snowflake drifted into the lantern light between their faces.
“All right then. Let’s get you sorted out.” The guard stepped back to allow Talar entrance.
The small gatehouse was warm, but as soon as the guard closed the door, he led Talar into the outer ward and across the yard. Their footsteps crunched along the packed snow of a well-trodden path.
They reached the gatehouse to the inner ward and the man turned to him. “Do you know the Ballad of Lingald?”
It was part of the Mac Theselon Clansmen Song Cycle. A pleasant arrangement of songs written by a clansman bard shortly after the war. “One of my favorites.” And it was, although now that he knew Mac Theselon, he couldn’t help but think about the accuracy of the lyrics.
“It’s my wife’s favorite. Says I can’t sing worth a damn, though.” The guard ushered Talar into the inner ward.
“So,” said Talar, “what’s the latest news?”
“With what?”
With Kaelyn, of course. But that wouldn’t get him the answers he was looking for. The man probably had no idea who she was. “The clans. All of Meriduin is a buzz with news of the peace talks.”
The man shrugged. “I wouldn’t really know.”
“I see.”
“The delegation returned and there was no mention of a treaty being signed. They did bring five Meriduinian scholars, though.” The man’s voice darkened with the word scholar.
“Maybe they know something,” said Talar. He didn’t want to continue the conversation now that he knew they were here, but he couldn’t just end it without drawing suspicion.
“I’m sure they do.” The man spat into the snow. “But they won’t be running home to their master to tell him anything.”
Talar stumbled on the uneven ground. “Excuse me?”
“We caught them spying, having secret meetings and all.”
“You what?” His heart pounded and his tattoos ached. “When?”
“Four or so days ago.”
“And you’re sure they’re spies? All of them?” What had Kaelyn gotten herself into? If it hadn’t been for that vision, if his Goddess hadn’t stalled him, he would have arrived days ago. He would have arrived in time to stop whatever had happened.
“The elders will determine that at the Goddess Seat.”
He sucked in a chilly breath. It burned into his lungs and did little to calm his racing heart. If they were going to face a trial at the Goddess Seat, he still had time. “When will they be moved to Carthway?”
The man led him around to a side entrance and they stepped into the warm, dim kitchen. The scent of wood smoke and old onions lingered in the room.
“They’re probably already there. Wait here while I get the chief.” The man pointed to a stool by the fire before leaving.
They were already in Carthway. This close to the winter solstice, the elders were already gathering in Carthway. These southern spies could be tried and beheaded in time for the celebrations.
Talar couldn’t breathe. He could get there in a few days, but the name of an outcast had no weight. The voice of Mac Theselon of Quinlay, however, could sway mountains. Mac had to know.
He rushed to the worktable, ripped off his gloves, and pulled the parchment, quill, and ink from his bag. In his tiniest writing, he scrawled: Southerners charged espionage. Trial Carthway. Then he ripped the page and shoved his supplies back into his bag.
Folding his note, he ran to the stables. It was a wild bet, but at the very least, he could probably find someone who knew where the southern pigeons brought with the clansmen from Mythnar were kept. A stable boy pointed him to the chicken coup and he rushed there. It would only be a matter of time before the guard returned to the kitchen to discover it empty.
Sleepy chickens rustled and clucked at his entrance. The pigeons’ cages sat just inside the door, everything needed to send a message–parchment, ink, quills, twine–laying beside them. Everything but enough light to write. He eased the first cage open, grateful his message was already prepared, and reached in. The bird cooed at him, but didn’t struggle as he tied the note around its leg.
The chicken coup door banged open, rousing the birds into a frenzy of clucks and cries and flapping wings.
“What are you doing?”
He spun to face a heavyset, scowling woman.
“Get that bird and get him out of there,” she said to the clansmen behind her.
Talar lunged at the entrance, shoving past her and the guard who’d let him into Angwyn. Another man grabbed his arm and he jerked free, tossing the pigeon into the air. The bird spread its wings, flapped hard, and took off. Clansmen grabbed him and he fought the urge to struggle. It didn’t matter if they held him or not now, Mac would know about Kaelyn and he’d know what to do next.
The woman grabbed his chin and peered at him. “Who are you?” Her breath, a frozen cloud, hit him in the face.
“No one important,” he said.
“I’ll be the one to determine that.” Her grip tightened, pinching his jaw and cheeks. “Who are you?”
“My son,” said a voice Talar had hoped never to hear again.
