He met his god’s eyes, knowing what the god hoped.
Brant nodded slowly.
“I gave ’em some goat’s milk ’bout a bell ago,” Malthumalbaen grumbled. “Just about took my thumb off.”
The giant held out a ponderous digit, wounded with an arc of needled bites.
Shadowed by the giant, Brant stood at the cage door. The cubbies were half-buried in his old coat, forming a den beneath it, glowering. A low growl greeted him.
Brant flipped the latch and pulled the gate.
“Take care, Master Brant. Or at least count your fingers. Make sure you leave with the same number.”
The giant’s twin returned from down at the end of a row, where he had finished relieving himself into a pail. Dralmarfillneer snugged the laces on his trousers as he joined his brother. A few of the kennel’s hounds regaled his passage.
“Them’s some feisty bits of fur,” he said with a grin upon reaching their side. “Probably taste a mite nice, too. After being fattened up first.”
Malthumalbaen clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Take no offense, Master Brant. Dral’s always wondering what things taste like.”
Brant slid into the cage.
“We must get back to our posts,” the giant said.
Brant nodded to them. “Thank you again for coming out and pulling me out of the teeth of that storm.”
“No thanks necessary.”
“Just a few hares now and then-that’d be nice.” Dral elbowed his brother for his agreement.
Malthumalbaen sighed. “Is that all you think about? Your belly?” He shoved his brother toward the far door. “Don’t you know anything about honor, ’bout doing what’s right for rightness’s sake?”
“Still, a few hares…If you’d rather not have yours, I’ll be happy to-”
“Ock, that’s not the point. Mother surely dropped you on your head.”
Their argument faded into grumbled snatches as they left the kennels.
Alone, Brant pulled the door closed behind him and sank to a crouch. The cubbies stared at him. Two pairs of eyes reflected the torchlight beyond. Brant noted a pile of spoor in one corner. It was runny and loose.
“Goat’s milk is not your mamma’s, is it?” Brant whispered.
A growl answered him. He caught a ripple of teeth.
Ignoring the threat, Brant sidled closer, then sank cross-legged into the hay. He would wait them out. Let his scent push through the pall of shite and hound piss.
After a long moment, a snarling nose peeked out of the coat, curious but wary.
“Do you recognize my smell?”
The small cubbie lowered its muzzle to the ground, ears flattened. It was the little she-wolf, braver than her brother. She edged out a whisker at a time in his direction. Her brother shadowed her. Brant saw how the male, more cautious, studied him, first from one side of his sister, then the other. Though he lacked his sister’s bravado, he made up with wits and cunning.
Brant had rested a hand in the hay. The little she-wolf, bristling with black fur, stretched her neck to sniff at a nail. Satisfied, she crept farther, circling out a bit, still wary.
Then she lunged and snapped into the meat of his thumb. She stayed latched, growling. Brant could guess she was the one who had wounded Malthumalbaen. Brant simply waited her out.
Finally she let go and pulled back.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I probably deserve it.”
Her hackles slowly lowered. She sank to her belly and wiggled forward again. A small pink tongue licked at the droplets of blood raised by her milk teeth. A whine escaped her, apologetic.
The male slipped from the den and joined his sister, licking at Brant’s thumb. Once his finger was clean, the pair were soon sniffing him all around, exploring his nooks and corners.
He watched them, his heart heavy.
After a few moments more, they grew bored with his presence. The male returned to the coat, grabbing it by a sleeve and tugging on it. Such housekeeping plainly angered his sister. She grabbed the other sleeve, fighting with determined growls.
Brant sighed. Maybe he should have left them to the storm. Had it been any true kindness rescuing them? Into what sort of life were they headed? Still, it was life. As long as their hearts beat, the future was never set in stone.
Not theirs, not his.
He pondered the strange storm again. Even he had begun to wonder if he had not merely caught the contagious panic of the animals. Maybe it was just the extra cold spooking the beasts. Still, he remembered the ice in the air, the cold flesh of that hare, dropped in midleap.
No.
Something unnatural had been cloaked in the storm.
But what? And more importantly, why?
The storm had blown itself out of Oldenbrook and now rolled south toward the distant sea. In another day or two it would be gone from these lands. Perhaps it would always remain a mystery. He thought he had sidestepped it, but maybe that had been a delusion. Maybe it still held him in its grip.
Maybe it always had.
Brant clutched the stone at his throat, rolled to him by the dying breath of a rogue god.
How much freedom did any of them have?
SECOND
CASTLE IN A STORM
Blood to open the way
Seed or menses to bless
Sweat to imbue
Tears to swell
Saliva to ebb
Phlegm to manifest
Yellow bile to gift
And black to take it all away
A GATHERING OF RAVENS
Kathryn knocked on the door, concerned. she had not heard from Gerrod Rothkild for over a full day. The last she had spoken to him was when Rogger had appeared at her own door, bearing the strange talisman of a rogue god’s skull.
Then nothing.
Not word, nor note.
Such silence was unlike Gerrod. Especially now. In the past day, Tashijan had swelled to bursting as retinues from all the god-realms of the First Land had arrived. But more importantly, Tylar ser Noche was due here before evening bells. With such an event pending, Kathryn had spent the morning pacing her hermitage. It had been a year since she had last seen Tylar. Certainly they’d shared messages by raven and scroll, but their duties after the Battle of Myrrwood kept them both too busy for a casual visit.
And casual was certainly beyond either of them.
Even now.
Her hands wrung at her belly. They had once been betrothed, certain to marry, sharing a bed already, first as a dalliance between knights, finally with a deeper stirring of the heart. Then Tylar had been accused of murder and broken vows. Kathryn’s own testimony before the adjudicators had gone a long way toward damning him to the slave ships of Trik and the bloody circuses that followed, where he was broken in limb and spirit. But his guilt had been fabricated from the start. He had been a blind piece in a greater game, used to weaken Tashijan and its former warden, Ser Henri.
And the cost had not fallen solely upon Tylar.
Kathryn still remembered the blood in her bed, the lost child, limbs as small as birds’ wings, expelled from her body by grief and heartache. It was this final loss that had driven her down here at that time, into self-exile, away from the staring eyes and whispers, betrothed to a murderer.
But Tylar’s only crime had been some gray dealings, traffic below the table with some sordid characters from his past, done at first to raise coin for the city’s orphanages, where both she and he had been raised. But after a time, a few silver yokes had ended up in Tylar’s own pocket. It was a familiar slide. Still, the murder of the cobbler’s family was not Tylar’s doing, despite the blood on his own sword. It took the death of two gods-Meeryn, who blessed Tylar as she lay dying, and the naethryn-possessed Chrism, whom Tylar had slain-to finally clear his name.