“I know you do,” replied the elf, “but if you can relax for just a bit, we’ll soon be inside.” He indicated the line, which had moved considerably closer to the gatehouse.
They reached the gatehouse a few candlespans later, only to be challenged by a guardsman in plate armor. The soldier flicked a bored gaze over the two men. “State your name and business in the city of Rel Mord,” the guardsman intoned in a flat voice.
“Gerwythaeniaen Larkspur and Kaerion Whitehart, lately from Woodwych,” the elf responded. He would have continued, but the bored guard had already moved on to the next person in line, waving the two travelers in with an impatient shake of his halberd.
“They must take their duties very seriously,” the elf said with a smile as they passed through the stone gateway.
Kaerion simply scowled at his friend. Disgust with the soldier’s obvious laziness warred with his own painful memories. There was a time when he would have called the gods’ own thunder down upon anyone serving under him who shirked his duties so blatantly, before—
He shook his head to deny that memory. It was another life. No one served under him now. He was master of nothing. Let the city commander worry about the discipline of his own troops. Kaerion certainly wasn’t about to start caring. And when, he thought as he loosened his cloak, did it get so blasted warm? There were still several weeks left until Readying and the early spring thaw.
“Where are we supposed to meet this contact of yours?” he asked Gerwyth, who had stopped to converse with a blue-cloaked elf maiden. “I’ve a powerful need to wash the dust of the road from my throat.”
The two elves continued to speak for a moment more, the mellifluous tones of the Elvish tongue flowing between them like quicksilver, before the ranger nodded and touched hand to heart in the elven gesture of farewell. He turned to Kaerion slowly, with a familiar grin on his face.
“Has anyone ever told you, Kaer, that you are a prime example of your race?”
Knowing that he wasn’t about to get a quick answer to his question, the fighter sighed. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he replied sardonically.
“Hmm, yes. You would.” The elf’s grin widened after a moment. “Fear not, my friend. I have just been informed of the location of our meeting place.” He sketched a courtly bow and spoke in his best high-class accent, “If you’ll just follow me, my lord,” and turned into the crowd.
Kaerion threw up his hands and followed.
Despite its fortress-like appearance, the City of Rel Mord was abuzz with domestic life. Traders and merchants of all races and nationalities drove wagons teeming with bolts of brightly-colored cloth, silks, and woven fabrics toward the market, while a seemingly endless train of livestock and other animals plodded their way through the wide streets. Soldiers patrolled the lanes and avenues, some as bored as the gate guard, others careful to watch the collection of street urchins, beggars, and musicians that wove in and out of the passing crowd.
Drawing close to the market, Kaerion could hear the strident call of booth merchants and the hum of commerce taking place in a variety of languages and dialects. Common, Baklunish, and Flan mixed with the tongues of elves, dwarves, and even a few gnomes to form a multi-layered wave of sound that washed over the two companions.
Despite the outward signs of life, Kaerion clearly felt the same sense of quiet desperation that had greeted both he and Gerwyth on their journey south toward the city. The music and laughter and tenor of the entire city seemed just a bit too loud and forced, the faces of its citizens a bit too wary, or worse, apathetic. Walking through its streets, Kaerion could see a film of dirt covering the magnificence of its stone temples and buildings. Even the royal palace, which had quickened the beat of his heart with its martial splendor, now seemed hollow and empty, like an ancient tomb, as the two adventurers drew closer. Nyrond had been a kingdom divided, sapped of strength by war and betrayal, and it was clear to Kaerion that the wounds had still not healed.
As they moved deeper into the city, the press of the crowd eased somewhat. Streets narrowed, wood and stone buildings drew closer together, and the anxious stamp of merchant feet was replaced by the soft-soled tread of robed priests, royal messengers, and court functionaries, who carried on their business with an air of self-conscious dignity. Kaerion’s heart lurched for a moment as he caught sight of several mailed priests of Heironeous heading right toward them.
He must have stopped in his tracks, for Gerwyth spoke in a gentle voice at his side, “Peace, Kaer. Let us be about our business.”
The comforting tones settled him somewhat. He nodded and continued on his way past the group of approaching clerics. “Traitor,” he expected them to yell. “Betrayer! Coward!” He was all of those things—and more. How could the Beloved of the Arch-Paladin not see his shame? It was clearly written on his soul.
But the priests walked right by, intent on their own private conversation. No one had even spared a glance his way. Kaerion wiped the cold sweat from his brow and followed his friend down another street.
Most of the buildings in this area were made of stone, with an impressive amount of gilt marble facades. A few of the decorously crafted houses even had small yards surrounded by iron gates or stone walls. The few folk who were walking about the cobblestone streets were richly appointed, wearing fine tailored velvets, thick cloaks, and an array of gold jewelry around throat and hands.
“Where are you taking us?” Kaerion asked his friend in a tight voice.
“To our destiny,” Gerwyth replied in a voice so heavy with melodrama that the fighter wondered how his friend could still stand.
He shot the elf a barbed look and crossed his meaty arms in front of him. “No more joking,” Kaerion said tersely. “I’m tired and hungry, and I don’t have any patience for your damned elven wit!”
Gerwyth sighed, the ever-present smile falling from his angular face. “Fine. If you must know, we’re going right there.” The elf pointed a slim finger at a two-storey wooden building just past the bend in the street.
Kaerion eyed their destination carefully. Despite not being made of stone, the elegantly carved lines of the structure blended perfectly with the surrounding architecture. A high-peaked roof lent the building a sense of dignity, matched by the elaborately framed windows and exquisitely worked door. A masterfully painted sign hung above the lintel, proclaiming the name of the establishment.
“The Platinum Shield?” he asked. “Who in the hells are we meeting here, Ger? The Nyrondese Royal Family?”
When the elf failed to reply, Kaerion stared at him in disbelief.
“No,” he said after a few moments, “you didn’t. Phaulkon’s feathered ass, what have you gotten us into this time?”
Gerwyth just shook his head and pulled his friend toward the inn. “Come on, Kaer, just relax. At the very worst you’ll have the chance to get drunk in the best taproom in the city of Rel Mord.”
Against his better judgment, Kaerion followed his friend into the Platinum Shield.
“They’re late,” Bredeth snapped in an arrogant tone as he slammed the door to the sumptuously decorated suite.
Majandra Damar gave a breathy sigh at the intrusion and stopped running graceful fingers across the strings of her harp, upon which she had been composing the final themes for a new work. It didn’t matter anymore, however, as the man’s interruption had already driven the melodic line from her mind.
The yew harp cast out its final, plaintive note and the room descended into silence. Majandra regarded her guest thoughtfully. The noble’s perfectly sculpted face held a slight red tinge that was deepening even as she watched, and his gold-flecked eyes flashed dangerously in the dim light of the room. Even his normally immaculate close-cropped blond hair lay askew, tousled by wildly gesticulating hands.