A flock of the messenger-birds hurtled overhead, screaming with delight, apparently in pursuit of the falcon and the crow. A hummingbird hovered at a flower cluster just beside the path, paying no attention to Darian as he walked by.
He should have been contented; there should have been nothing more he could have wanted. But underneath, he was restless and uneasy.
Perhaps it had been the dream he’d had last night, that had sent him up out of sleep with a feeling of something threatening. He couldn’t remember it though, that was the problem. All he could recall were the eyes of the Ghost Cat he had seen so long ago, and an odd sort of raven with the same kind of eyes. . . .
It’s probably just that I’ve gotten used to crisis, he told himself wryly. Once you get to the point that you watch for signs of crisis everywhere, totally innocuous events seem like grave portents. I should be glad that the worst crisis is where we’re going to put the latest batch of “pilgrims” to the “Holy Dyheli!”
That was an ongoing problem; every new group that made it down from the tribal lands of the North seemed to arrive with the potential to spread a new and different illness. Keeping them all quarantined from Ghost Cat and from each other until their ailments were identified and a cure devised required the tact of a diplomat, the organizational ability of the Kingdom Seneschal, and the tactical ability of a general. Although those qualities were not all combined in a single person, among them all, the Council members managed, though there had been a few-emergency sessions in the past.
The meeting planned for today, however, was the routinely scheduled monthly meeting. Lord Breon and his son would be there for Kelmskeep, as would the Chief and Shaman of Ghost Cat for the Northerners, representatives from Errold’s Grove, and from all the races resident at k’Valdemar Vale. Darian didn’t figure he’d hear anything more exciting than progress reports - perhaps some complaints or requests from farmers.
The vague murmur of conversation mingled with the rustle of leaves reached him before he actually saw the Council House. He stepped past the vine-covered, wicker-work screen shielding the entrance, and joined the others in a “room” that seemed very much an extension of the lush forest outside.
Of the representatives for k’Valdemar, only he and the snow-haired, aged Starfall were present at this moment; Nightwind and Snowfire and the others were presumably on their way. Lord Breon and Val had arrived last night, staying overnight in the guest lodge, and now were in their chairs chatting comfortably with Chief Vordon and Shaman Celin of Ghost Cat. Hertasi moved about the table, putting beverages and light snacks within reach of the Council members on the topmost tier of the table. No one shuffled papers on the lowest table tier today, which was a good omen for a short meeting. The table itself was in the shape of an open rose seen from above, with the layers in trimmed wood forming the petals. The original concept had been for a square table, yet someone had observed that only allowed for comfort for four parties. The way things had been going who knows how many more powers might come to stay in this area!
The Lutters were no longer the ones making the decisions for Errold’s Grove - oh, they thought they were, but the real work was done by the Village Council, and two representatives from that body were the new glass-maker, Harrod Dobbs, and Barda of the Fellowship. Harrod was always glad of an excuse to come to the Vale for a chance to use the bigger glass furnaces here and trade tips and lessons from the Vale glass-makers. There was very little overlap in what he produced and what the Vale artisans did; Harrod only rarely made anything that wasn’t utilitarian, as the demand for glass bottles and jars and common drinking vessels would always exceed his output. Still, he liked to turn out a nice set of goblets now and again, and most of what the Tayledras produced was lampwork and blown glass, so he was able to teach them molding techniques. The latest result of that was a series of small, flat medallions to hang in a window that they called “sun-catchers,” formed of colored glass, with a decorative impression molded into each. They were an adaptation of an Eastern style, very popular within the Vale; whether they would become popular outside it had yet to be determined.
The nonhuman members of the group, Kelvren, Ayshen, Tyrsell and Hashi, had not yet appeared either - but just as Darian took his own seat and exchanged greetings with the rest, the hertasi entered, followed by the king stag and the kyree.
And right after them, Snowfire and Nightwind appeared. “Sorry we’re running a bit late,” Nightwind apologized, pulling her ebon hair away from her finely honed face. “Kel will be here in a minute, too - we had to pry the baby away from him and get her put down for her nap.”
As if that had been a cue, the wicker walls shook with the thunder of enormous wings outside, and leaves blew, and Kelvren the gryphon joined the group, shouldering past the screen. He shook his dark brown feathers to settle them after his flight (and the baby Moonshadow’s sticky hands) and looked around.
Ayshen, the leader of the lizard-folk called hertasi, sat beside Nightwind on her left. The Kaled’a’in smiled a welcome and swept her trailing sleeves out of the way for him, and he put the tray of her favorite berry tartlets he had brought on the top tier of her table section. To her right sat Snowfire, and the section of Tayledras concluded with the silver-haired mage Starfall, the eldest of the group. Then came Darian, then Lord Breon’s sturdy son, Val, then the Lord himself. Between Lord Breon and the two Ghost Clan representatives sat Barda and Harrod. The dyheli stag Tyrsell stood beside Kelvren the gryphon along the back wall. Val’s arm was in a sling again; he’d probably managed to sprain it at fighting practice.
“It ssseeemsss everrryone isss herrre,” Kel said genially, and arranged himself along the wall, lying down on the turf out of the way. Hashi the kyree lay down next to him. “Good! I am sssorrry I was delayed. Who will ssstarrrt?”
“Actually, I will,” Lord-Breon said, looking uncommonly cheerful. Although his hair was threaded with gray, no one in his right mind would ever challenge Breon to a fight; he kept his well-muscled fighter’s frame in top trim. “I have some excellent news to start the Council session with - we’re getting our own, permanent, resident Herald-Mage!”
“No, really?” Snowfire exclaimed, blue eyes widening, as the others murmured their surprise. “When did you hear this?”
“Just before we left; news came by messenger.” Lord Breon was extremely pleased, and well he should be. Giving this corner of the world a resident Herald meant that Queen Selenay and her Council judged the land that held Breon’s keep to be of significant importance. That meant Breon’s status had risen from that of a minor noble to that of a key landholder here in the Northwest.
“Actually,” Breon continued, with a shamefaced glance at Starfall, “I probably ought to have told you last night, but - ”
“But there was no point in repeating the story half a dozen times, when you could tell us all at once,” Barda said bluntly, her plain, no-nonsense face showing no annoyance at all. “So, please, give us the details!”
“The Herald-Mage we’re getting is a fellow called Anda; I gather he was trained by the mages that came in with the Princess and her lot, so he’s got some experience in the war.”