For the both of them.
“I would be honored to attend you,” the horseman said. “I have another mount already saddled.”
She stepped away. “Better to keep the fires stoked here. We may need their warmth when we return.”
He nodded, offering no further argument. With Mychall’s help, they hauled the door wide enough for her to walk the horse out. They waited while she mounted.
She sank into the warm saddle and hugged her cold legs against Stoneheart’s flanks. Here was home as much as any hermitage.
At the door, the horseman’s eyes remained shadowed with worry. She knew it wasn’t just for the prized horseflesh under her. He simply nodded. No well wishes. No good-byes.
She preferred it.
Laying the reins across his neck, she turned the stallion toward the main gate through the shield wall. She found the way unmanned, cleared during the emptying of the town. Dismounting, she crossed to the small door in the main gate. Bars allowed a view of the parade grounds that lay between the town and the walls. Snow was piled knee-deep, untrammeled by footprints. The town lay shrouded in fog, more phantom than real.
Kathryn undid the thick latch and lifted yet another bar with a tremor of trepidation. Had that been the plan all along? To get her to unlock the gates and open an easy breach into the towers? She quickly squashed down that worry. Eylan had demonstrated the extent of Ulf’s might. He had breached their main gate, a door that had stood for centuries. If Ulf wanted to get inside, she doubted there was any way to stop him.
So why had the god hesitated these three long days?
It was one of the reasons she had set out alone. You could not defend what you didn’t understand.
Pulling open the door, she faced the full gale of the storm. It shoved against her and ripped her hood back. An icy hand slid down the back of her neck and cupped her buttocks, squeezing the air from her with its freezing touch. Swearing, she yanked her hood back up and hunched into the winds. She kept cursing as she walked the horse, using her anger to warm her.
Behind her, the gate door slammed a resounding bang, as if reprimanding her for her obscenities. Startled, she jumped a bit. Still, she heeded the warning and remounted without another word.
She guided Stoneheart across the frozen moat and into the stormswept fields. Here snow climbed into deeper drifts, requiring more plowing than stepping to cross the way. The stallion heaved, head low, breath blowing white.
She searched the skies, the gables of the first houses, the dark streets. She had heard the stories. The wind wraith at her balcony door was not the only one of its brethren out here. And what else might be hidden within the storm?
At last, they passed into the town and down a narrow street. The winds initially picked up, chasing them, scattering dry snow at their heels. Then deeper under eaves and overhanging dormers, the winds finally gave up their hunt and dribbled away. Snow still covered the streets, but most of the fall was piled high on roofs and sculpted by the winds into frozen waves at their edges.
She feared that even the muffled clop of Stoneheart’s walk might shake down an avalanche upon her. But worst yet, she heard the occasional creak of board and crunch of ice, reminding her that the town was shuttered and abandoned-but it was far from empty.
Still, she did not hesitate. She had committed to this parley, so she rattled her reins to keep the piebald stallion moving from shadow to shadow, turning corners and slipping down alleys.
Kathryn needed no directions. She knew the way to Blackhorse as well as any knight. The inn and tavernhouse had been a place for many a rowdy night and sour-stomached morning for most of Tashijan’s knights and a fair smattering of its masters.
But not this day.
She spotted the sign over the doorway, depicting a rearing dark stallion on a plain white board. Not exactly the most imaginative decoration for a tavernhouse named the Blackhorse, but customers weren’t attracted by the establishment’s imagination as much as by its cheap ale and cheaper rooms, where many a dalliance and ribald tale began.
Kathryn slowed Stoneheart by the inn’s neighboring stable. Its door already lay halfway open. She slipped from her saddle and walked the stallion into the barn. It was little warmer inside than without, but it would have to do. She threw the lead over a stall rail and noted a pile of oat hay within reach. She ran a hand over Stoneheart’s flank to make sure he hadn’t sweated too badly to be left standing in a cold barn.
Satisfied, she had no reason to delay. She headed back outside and over to the tavern. She crossed to the door and found the latch unlocked. Then again, it was always unlocked. The Blackhorse never closed its doors. Though its windows had been shuttered as some measure of security.
Kathryn shoved the door open and slipped inside. A counter stretched to the right. To the left opened the main hall, with scarred tables and chairs. Firelight flickered. The warm light frightened her more than the darkness. She shifted to peer inside, taking a moment to draw more shadows to her cloak.
But the room was empty to its four walls.
She entered warily, surprised at how small the room seemed without its usual crowds singing and arguing.
She moved closer to the fire. The logs looked freshly lit. But she’d barely had time to warm her hands when the outer door creaked open. A whisper of wind and an icy chill swept inside.
She turned.
Footsteps approached. She was prepared for one of the wraiths or some other emissary from Lord Ulf. With the god landlocked in his realm, he had to work from afar-like sending forth his wrath wrapped in storm winds and burying a flock of wraiths at its heart.
Finally, the figure rounded the corner and stepped into the room, glittering in the firelight.
It was no wraith.
“Lord Ulf!” Kathryn gasped.
The god entered-or rather a perfect sculpture of the god in ice. The detail was exquisite, from every fold of his fine cloak to every wrinkle of his aged face. Even here, Lord Ulf did not feign vanity with a youthful demeanor, preferring the craggy to smooth, like his mountain home.
As he approached, his form melted to allow movement of limb and cloak, then crystallized again. The sculpture reflected the flames but also shone with an internal radiance.
Pure Grace.
He spoke, his features as dynamic as flesh, though with a slight swimming melt. “Castellan Vail, thank you for coming. We have much to discuss.”
Kathryn took a moment to find her voice.
Lord Ulf filled the void. “To set matters straight. I know you helped Tylar ser Noche escape. And while I might not agree with your decision, it was yours to make. Understandably so. You were once his betrothed.”
Kathryn struggled. She had expected horror and raving, not this calm and calculating figure in brilliant ice. She finally freed her tongue. “For what purpose have you summoned me here, then?”
A hand rose, melting and freezing, asking for her indulgence.
“Let it also be known that I still consider the regent an Abomination. Such Grace was never meant to wear human flesh. And to place him in the center of the First Land, in Chrismferry, a land already cursed, can only lead to even more ruinous ends. This I will both portend and attempt to thwart. But with Tylar gone, I have a new matter that requires both our attentions, and I come to ask for your cooperation.”
Before she could think to stop herself, Kathryn blurted out, “Why should I cooperate with a god so plainly cursed?”
“Cursed? How so, castellan?”
Kathryn stammered, ticking off her answers. “You threaten Tashijan to ruin, you ploy seersong to trap and twist an ally to her death, you carry ilked wraiths in your storm, and…and you borrow Dark Grace from enslaved rogues, gods snared and sapped by the Cabal itself.”