Above it all, perched atop a low hill, watched a sturdy keep of old stone, surrounded by a palisade of sharpened stakes. From its towers flapped the peculiar ensign of Braetlyn, the crimson fish on a field of blue too dark to accurately portray the sea it was intended to evoke.
The polite thing to do-the safe thing to do-would be for the riders to wait, perhaps after announcing themselves with a trumpet blast, for knights of Braetlyn to come and escort them the rest of the way. Instead, after their moment of examination had passed, the soldiers of the Blacksmiths' Guild resumed their march, wending their way into Braetlyn proper.
Citizens poured from their homes, unaccustomed to visitors making so grand, so ostentatious-and indeed, so militant-an entrance. Faces roughened by life in the sun and by the salty spray of the sea stared at the armored forms and the carriage they escorted. On the fishermen, the craftsmen, the carpenters, and the bakers, those faces twisted into expressions of distrust, and occasionally even fear. The local men-at-arms, however, showed little expression at all, despite the caravan's failure to await a proper escort. Some even looked happy to see the new arrivals, and none wore the crimson-and-blue tabard of their supposed home.
Ignoring them completely, the columns followed the road up the final hillside, halting before the drawbridge and the gates-the lowered drawbridge, and the wide-open gates-of Castle Braetlyn.
Here, and only here, a quartet of armored guards wore Braetlyn's ichthyic ensign. Three sets of gauntlets clenched tightly on three gleaming halberds, while the fourth knight approached the newcomers. His salt-and-pepper beard was clearly visible, for he carried his red-plumed helm beneath one arm.
"None may enter Castle Braetlyn under arms," he announced, his voice calm but loud enough to carry over the constant song of the sea.
"Out of the way!" one of the armored horsemen snapped. "We're here to see-"
"I know who you're here to see," the knight replied, offering the mounted soldier a withering glance before returning his attention to the carriage. "There's only one person here to see. You still shall not enter under arms."
"You've no right to stop us, you-!"
"Sergeant!" The carriage door drifted open, allowing a sharp, commanding voice to emerge from within. "We are guests here, and we will behave as such."
The horseman grumbled something under his breath, seeming determined to bowl the knight over with the force of his glower alone, but nodded curtly.
The woman who stepped from the carriage was as broad of shoulder as many of the guards ostensibly sent to protect her, and her bare arms were corded with muscle. Her dark hair, wearing just a few streaks of grey, was pulled tightly back in an unflattering bun, and she was clad, not in formal gown or finery, but in a sleeveless tunic of emerald green and leggings of heavy wool. She carried under one arm a small wooden box, latched with an ungainly padlock, and from her thick neck hung an iron pendant: a hammer-and-anvil that did not quite form the ensign of the Blacksmiths' Guild nor quite the holy icon of Verelian the Smith, but something in between.
"Lady Mavere," the knight of Braetlyn greeted her, and if there was any resentment in the clench of his jaw, he managed to banish it from his voice. "You are, of course, always welcome."
"You are too kind, sir knight." With a gesture, she waved the driver down from atop the carriage. "You needn't fear for your lord's safety," she assured the soldier. "My assistant and I will see him alone. My men will remain outside."
"With the rest of your mercenaries," one of the other gate guards muttered, just loud enough to be overheard. The elder knight, and the emissary of the Blacksmiths' Guild, both pretended not to notice.
"Is my lord Jassion expecting you?" the knight asked instead.
"I'm sure he is, since one of you surely informed him of our presence as soon as we crested the hill."
A scowl was all the response he offered. "Very well. Follow me, please."
"Isn't it astounding," the driver whispered to Lady Mavere as he fell into step behind her, "just how much 'please' sounds like 'bugger right off'?"
In the presence of the elder knight, she was too much the diplomat to grin.
Scattered around the edges of the courtyard, and framing every doorway, stood marble nudes that were either exquisite replicas of Imphallion's classical style, or just perhaps actually dated back to lost antiquity. Impossibly beautiful women reached with beckoning hands, overly muscled men clasped leaf-bladed swords, and all watched the newcomers with empty stone eyes. A few of the statues were not standing at all but lounged supine, draped across the edges of the stairs, leaving just enough room between them to approach the inner keep's doors. Mavere, impressed despite herself, could only wonder just how deep the baron's fascination with Imphallion's lineage and antiquity might run.
Yet the rest of Castle Braetlyn was not so well kept as were those magnificent sculptures. The structure flaunted its infirmity, an aging warrior who knew his best days were long behind him but dared anyone else to tell him to his face. Flaking mortar had been hastily patched, entire bricks replaced, and the brass chandeliers within the entry hall were polished well enough to shine, but not to remove the verdigris and tarnish that had long since set in. It was not the wear of true neglect so much as signs of a slapdash effort by servants who knew that they were hideously outnumbered in their battle against the castle's many years.
Servants in crimson-and-blue livery stepped aside for the knight and his two charges to pass, bobbing their heads in quick respect to the former but glaring from beneath heavy eyelids at the latter. The Lady Mavere, though she'd expected no warm welcome from the people of Braetlyn, felt her fingers curling into fists despite her best efforts.
Their guide shoved open a hefty wooden portal, and they were there. Before them stretched a sizable room, its stone floor draped in sea-green carpet scuffed paper-thin by years of tromping feet. An enormous fireplace-empty, during these warmer months-occupied most of the far wall, with a marble bust of a warrior's torso mounted above. Tapestries of seascapes and legendary heroics hung from the other walls, as did wooden plaques bearing weapons in modern steel and ancient bronze.
And standing before that fireplace, looking up from an open book in a bored stance quite clearly premeditated to show his guests who was in charge, their host himself: Jassion, Baron of Braetlyn. Not yet thirty years old, his narrow face bore the lines of a man twice his age. Save for a gleaming green ring, he was clad in unrelenting black. Hair the color of newly tilled soil was matched by equally dark eyes-eyes just a touch too wide, as if the man behind them could not tear them from some horror that others could not see.
"Your guests, m'lord," the knight announced, waiting for only the slightest nod before he vanished from the chamber. The door shut behind him with surprising softness, as though afraid to startle anyone remaining within.
"So," Jassion said, shutting the book with a much louder snap and tossing it carelessly into a nearby chair. "Salia Mavere, in my very own home. I'm honored." He apparently couldn't be bothered to even try to make it sound genuine.
"Thank you for receiving us, my lord," she replied with a shallow curtsy. He acknowledged with a nod barely more perceptible than that he'd given his knight.