Brant stepped forward and grabbed the latch.
“Ho!” a call rose from the stairs.
All eyes turned. A group of cloaked figures pushed past the lone guard and entered the hall. Warily, Brant backed a step, especially when the lead figure shed his cloak’s hood. It was the regent again, Tylar ser Noche.
What now? Had something happened to Dart?
The regent’s eyes settled on Brant. “I would have a private word with Master Brant,” Tylar said, turning and acknowledging Sten, noting the crossed raven’s feathers at his collar, marking the captain’s station.
Sten also recognized the triple-striped countenance of the regent. “Certainly, your lordship.”
“Very good.”
Brant swallowed to find his voice. It seemed this long night was far from over. “Please use my chambers…” He waved to the door.
The regent nodded.
Brant undid the latch and pushed. He stood aside for them to enter. He recognized one of the regent’s companions, the thin and bearded figure from before. Rogger was his name, as he recalled. He gave Brant a reassuring pat as he passed inside.
The next figure stood a head taller than all of them, buried in his cloak. Brant did not know him. Behind the stranger, the last figure stopped at the threshold. It was a woman under the gray cloak, though her face was hidden behind ash.
Brant frowned. What was a member of the Black Flaggers doing here with the regent?
The tall man nodded to her. “Keep any ears from our door,” he instructed her.
She turned her back, standing before the doorway, fists coming to rest on her hips. She glanced over to Sten. The captain backed a full two steps before seeming to collect himself.
Brant instantly warmed to her and closed the door.
Behind him, a voice boomed a bit. “Who are you lot?”
Brant turned and hurried after the three men into the greeting hall of his chambers. The giant rose up from where he had been sitting cross-legged by the fire. He stood in his wool stockings, worn through at the toes, and had shed his greatcoat. He had a greasy turkey leg in one hand.
At his feet, a black nose retreated into one of his boots, dragging a worn snippet of bone. It seemed the whelpings had found a den for the night. A thready snarl flowed out of the boot, as wary of the intrusion as Malthumalbaen.
“It’s all right, Mal,” Brant said. “If you wouldn’t mind taking the whelpings into the next room and shutting the door. Where’s your brother?”
The large man pointed his turkey leg toward the back. “Had to use the privy, if that were all right?”
“Of course.”
“You say that now,” Mal answered jovially. “But wait ’til you go in there.”
“I must have a word with the regent,” Brant said, nodding to Tylar, who had bent a knee to peer inside the boot, drawn by the curiosity.
Mal shifted straighter, eyes widening again. “Ach, then I should be joining Dral.” He stepped toward his occupied boot. “If you’ll excuse me, ser.”
So much for Oldenbrook’s surprise.
“Cubbies,” Brant acknowledged and stepped forward. “To be presented to you and the warden after the knighting ceremony.”
“Fell wolves, are they not?” Tylar asked, sitting back, a measure of surprise in his voice. “Handsome creatures. How did you come by them?”
“I rescued them from the same storm that besets us this night.”
“Might near killed himself doing it,” Malthumalbaen added.
Brant felt his cheeks heat up.
The regent shared a glance with his bearded friend and stood.
Brant motioned to Malthumalbaen, who bent down and scooped up his large boot, earning a few sharper growls. The giant carried them toward the back room. “If you need me, Master Brant…”
Brant took some solace in the giant’s support. Once they were alone and the door shut, he faced the others. “How may I be of help?”
Tylar’s brow remained furrowed, crinkling the topmost stripe tattooed at the corner of his eyes. “First, tell us more about your rescue of these cubbies.”
“And the storm,” Rogger added.
Brant stared around the room. The tall stranger stood with one hand resting on the stone mantel of the hearth, the other on the hilt of his sword. It bore a distinct serpent’s head carved from silver, not the black diamond of a shadowknight’s sword. Still, there was something vaguely familiar about the blade.
Avoiding this one’s eyes, Brant cleared his throat and briefly told the story of his search for the abandoned cubbies, of the strange nature of the storm, and of its deadly cold.
“So the storm was gathering force as it swept south,” Rogger said. “Sucking the life’s breath out of the land.”
“I warned Lord Jessup, but once the storm had passed, there was little to discover, swept under a blanket of snow.”
Tylar nodded and mumbled as he paced one length of the room. “It seems this storm has swept all of us here for various reasons.” The regent turned on a heel and again faced Brant. “But what I need to know more is what swept you here.”
“Ser?”
Tylar asked the question that Brant was loath to ever answer. “How did you come to be exiled, Master Brant? What swept you up on our shores?”
Stunned by the strange turn of the inquiry, Brant stumbled for words. “I don’t see how-?”
“You’d best answer the question,” Rogger said from the other side, balancing the tip of a dagger on a finger. Brant had failed to note the man slip it from any sheath.
“And what do you know about a skull?” the ominous stranger asked by the hearth. “The skull of a rogue god.”
Brant fell back a step as the world shifted under his heels. “What…?” The back of his legs struck a chair. He sank down into it. A hand rose to the scar on his neck, a warding gesture.
Three pairs of eyes bore down upon him.
A keening wail filled his head, threatening to drown him away.
“Tell us,” Tylar demanded.
Brant shook his head-not refusing, but attempting to stop his slide into the past. He failed.
It had been a wet spring in Saysh Mal, when the jungle wept and moss grew thick on anything that risked stopping in one place for too long. Such did not describe the three boys that day as they lit out down the soggy forest path, enjoying the warming day that held the promise of a long summer to come in the streaks of bright sunlight cutting through the canopy.
Flitters buzzed the ear and nattered the skin, requiring the occasional slap to neck or arm. A pair of squabbling long-tailed tickmonks caterwauled from the trees, stopping only long enough to pass on a scolding howl at the boys running below before continuing their argument.
“Brant, wait for me!” shouted Harp. He limped after the faster boys, encumbered by a weak leg, a birthing kink that could not be cured with any manner of Grace.
Brant slowed their pace, though Marron ran another few paces before stopping, swinging around with a wide smile. “If we’re any later, we’ll miss seeing the match!”
They had been released early from Master Hoarin’s class on mushrooms and molds to attend a marksman contest to be held at the midday bell. But to make it in time, they still had to hurry.
Marron’s uncle had won the third match yesterday and this was the last spar. Half the villages had emptied out for the yearly culmination of hunting skills, to be held at the Grove. Wreathed crowns had already been handed out for skill with spear, dagger, and snare, for the most fleet of foot, for the most silent of step. This day ended with the crowning Hunter of the Way, the man or woman who had shown the most skill over the course of the four-day challenge. The Huntress herself usually granted this crown, but she had missed many such appearances over the past several moons, falling more and more into solitude and gloomy silences.
All hoped to see her again in her usual shining manner.
If only for the one day.
Perhaps this reason more than any had drawn a larger crowd than usual. If the boys wanted a good view of the final event-a display of marksmanship of bow and arrow-they’d need to hurry.