She scrambled through the long, straight length of tunnel that paralleled the east wall of the great room. Rounding the last left turn, she could see the grate ahead, aware that the air grew hotter with each step. This particular tunnel abutted the enormous fireplace that provided heat for the hall. The walls of carved stone block were too hot to touch, and she was careful to keep from bumping them.
Still, Kirah was sweating like a blacksmith when she made it to the final grate. She squinted through the narrow slits. Set before the fire, Quinn's ornate bier dominated her limited view. Placing the dead near a fire was a local custom-a superstition, really-meant to keep the beloved's soul warm on the long journey to the afterlife. It had never seemed a wise custom to the young girl. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. The hot, still air was heavy with the smell of death that no amount of fragrant herbs could disguise. In vain, she tried to push the scent from her nostrils.
Squinting into the brighter light of the torches, she at last spotted Guerrand in the crowd. He stood on the far right side of Quinn. His back was to her, his shoulders slumped with fatigue. Her heart leaped in her chest. He was still there. He was alone.
"Guerrand!" she hissed through the bars. No response. "Guerrand!" she called more loudly. Still no sign that he'd heard her over the roar of the fire or the clamor of his own thoughts. She decided to risk it all.
"Rand!" she hollered aloud, as if calling to him at the distant stables. She saw him jump. His head snapped around, looking for the familiar face that went with that voice. She bellowed again. Guerrand's gaze closed on the sound, eyes searching the shadows to the right of the fireplace.
"Kirah?" He easily recognized her voice, though he still couldn't locate her. "Where are you?"
"Down here!" she cried. "Behind the grate, next to the fireplace!"
His eyes finally located the outline of the grate. "What are you doing in there? I've been worried about you. Why don't you just come out? You should, you know, for Quinn-"
"Forget all that!" she hissed. "Right now, you've got to get out of that room! Cormac is coming, and he's going to tell you-"
"Master Guerrand?"
Kirah's heart missed two beats at the sound of the servant's voice. "Don't listen to him, Rand! There's still time! Get into the tunnel with me!"
But Guerrand didn't know he had reason to fear the servant. Frowning down at his sister's hysterical voice, he turned about. "What is it, Pytr?"
"Lord DiThon requests your immediate presence in his study."
Guerrand looked puzzled. "Now? During the viewing?" He shook his dark head. "Please tell my brother I'll join him shortly, when the viewing is over and the feasting has begun."
To Guerrand's surprise, Cormac's servant placed a firm hand on his arm. "My instructions were to bring you to him directly." The grip tightened.
"Let go of me, Pytr," said Guerrand, his voice as tight as the fingers on his arm. He tried to shake them off, but to no avail.
"I told you, Rand!" hissed Kirah, mindless of the servant's ears. "Now, come on!"
Confused, Guerrand was not of a temperament to simply break free and dash into the tunnel as the impetuous Kirah would have him do. Besides, he didn't want to leave Quinn's side. "Not now, Kirah," he said sharply, dashing his sister's last hope.
Guerrand's anger, however, was directed at the impudent servant. "I'm warning you, Pytr," he said, his voice low and threatening, "release my arm. Even Cormac cannot wish to cause a scene just to ensure my obedience to his commands."
"I have my orders, sir."
Guerrand's eyes narrowed with fury. Angry enough to throw a punch, he made to tear his arm away. Then he caught sight of two more burly servants, eyes on him as they moved through the crowd to reinforce Pytr. Guerrand could not imagine what would cause Cormac to take such measures, but he held himself still against Pytr's grip, turning his eyes to Quinn's closed ones. Do I do you more dishonor by leaving you reluctantly or brawling before your bier? It did not take Guerrand long to decide that the solemnity of the occasion could not be shattered. He silently promised Quinn's still form that he would return as soon as possible.
"I'll go now, Pytr, but you'll regret your tactics." Guerrand would not be escorted like a damned prisoner. He gave one last vicious shake of his arm. Pytr's hand flew free. Guerrand settled his shoulders and set off for the door ahead of the unrepentant servant.
Behind the grate, Kirah gave a silent cry of anguish as she sank her face into her filthy hands. She had failed Guerrand. The young girl who had already given over so many to death knew in her bones that she was witnessing the loss of her second brother in three days.
Chapter Three
Seated in a merlon, his back against a crenel, Guerrand stared blankly at the book propped against his bent knees. "So, what do you think I should do, Zagarus?" he asked his companion on the southern ramparts of Castle DiThon. The view, looking out over the strait of Ergoth, was breathtaking, but today Guerrand scarcely saw the sea.
You're asking me? I'm a sea gull, remember?
The bird's squawk echoed directly inside Guerrand's head. He looked up from the book. "Who else can I ask? Kirah has told me what she thinks." He sighed. He'd had one conversation with his sister since the viewing. They'd disagreed about running away, and Kirah hadn't spoken to him since. "Besides, Zagarus, you're not an ordinary sea gull."
You don't have to tell me that! snapped the gull. I'm a hooded, black-backed Ergothian sea gull, the largest, most strikingly beautiful of all seabirds.
Guerrand's lids drooped slowly at the gull's modest assessment. Zagarus was impressive to look at. His head was brown-black in a diagonal from the base of his small skull to his throat. His entire underside, save for his yellow legs, was snow-white. Edged with a mere sliver of white, his wings and back were the purest black. "I meant that you're my familiar."
Zagarus screeched aloud, a harsh, deep "kyeow." In the silent language of familiars, he said, How well I know my servitude.
"You know," said Guerrand slyly, "I don't believe familiars are supposed to be so ill-humored. If it were up to me, I might have chosen a sweet-tempered toad-"
Now there'sa useful creature, snorted the bird, his flat beak bobbing. Easily eaten by predators, they do nothing but croak and p-
"Or," interrupted Guerrand with a chuckle, "some usefully vicious predator, like a hawk."
Trustworthy, to be sure, Zagarus said with a roll of his beady eyes.
"Or a cat."
Too sneaky. Zagarus jumped from a high, flat merlon down to the lower level. Face it, Guerrand, we're stuck with each other, 'till death do us part,' as they say in magic circles.
Guerrand laughed again. He'd never tell Zagarus the truth-that he wouldn't have it any other way. If the crotchety sea gull had been a dog, Guerrand would have said his bark was worse than his bite. Zagarus had been Guerrand's companion for some years, since the young would-be wizard had first stumbled upon the incantation for summoning a familiar in one of his father's books. That casting had been his first successful attempt to wield magic.
If I could have chosen my master, said the sea gull, pausing to nibble at an itch beneath one wing, believe me, it would have been someone who took less than ten years to become a cavalier.