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carving and curled parchment, and cast crawling shadows across walls lined
with books. No method attended their shelving; Cliffhaven castle held
priceless treasure, plundered and gathered as tribute from ships which hailed
from the farthest corners of Keithland. But the owner cared nothing for
neatness. A pearl and lacquer side table supported a box of rusty horseshoes,
and a smiling marble cherub danced with the Kielmark's buckler and great sword
slung across its wings.
A man muscled to match that weapon rose from behind the charts. Candles
flickered in the draft from the door, spattering light over eyes pale and
restless as a wolf's. Beneath wavy black hair, the Sovereign Ruler of
Cliffhaven wore an expression ominous as thunderheads. "You're late," he
opened sharply. "The watch reported twenty minutes ago." Rubies sparkled in
the torque at his throat as he moved around the table.
Corley offered no excuse, but turned and gently latched the door. Long years
in the Kielmark's service had taught him when to keep silent. Left facing
Jaric, the Lord of Cliffhaven treated the boy to a glance of rapacious
intensity. Then he crossed the chamber in three fluid strides.
"Young fool." The Kielmark caught Jaric's shoulder, spun him deftly into a
chair, and bellowed for a servant to bring mulled wine. Then he gestured for
Taen and Corley to be seated.
"Don't mind the wet clothes," he barked as Taen hesitated.
"There are plenty more pretty chairs in the warehouses by the dockside."
Taen sat, wincing with the abused brocade. As the candle flames steadied and
brightened, she noticed that the Kiel-mark's leather tunic was creased and
soiled with ship's tar; his nails were rimmed with dirt, and his hair lay in
soggy curls against his neck. No doubt he had come directly from the wharf,
where his men shortened docklines against the rising wind.
Page 31
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Restless as live coals, the Kielmark paced before the hearth. Although his
face lay in shadow, his displeasure could be felt the breadth of the room. He
stopped without warning and spoke. "Kor's Fires, boy, the Dreamweaver told us
you wouldn't raise Anskiere. Did you have to stay out sulking all night?"
Jaric stiffened, and Taen stifled a cry behind her knuckles.
Before she could speak, the Kielmark rounded on her, eyes slitted with keen
speculation. "Ah, so you didn't tell him."
Taen shook her head, annoyed to see her efforts wasted. As Jaric turned
resentful eyes toward her, she tried desperately to mend the damage caused by
the Kielmark's thoughtlessness. "You wouldn't have listened, Jaric. No matter
what anyone said, you would have gone to the ice cliffs to see for yourself."
Yet Jaric misinterpreted. His grip tightened on the arms of his chair until
the fingers stood white against the wood. Fair, wind-tangled hair dripped
water down the line of a jaw just starting to show a beard. Barely eighteen,
he was ill prepared to contend with the fate Ivain Firelord had bequeathed
him. Caught by a moment of pity, Taen reached out with her powers, and brushed
lightly through the surface of his mind in an instinctive desire to reassure.
Jaric felt her touch and flinched. Cut by his mistrust, and unpleasantly aware
of how closely the Kielmark followed the exchange, Taen tried again. Her tone
turned sharper than she intended. "Jaric, I needed no
Vaerish sorceries to see your desire to be released from Anskiere's geas."
That moment the latch clicked. The Kielmark spun on light feet as the door
opened and a grizzled servant entered with a tray. Wary of his master's mood,
the man moved with maximum speed and no noise. He rested his burden by the box
of horseshoes. The scent of spices and hot spirits filled the room as he began
to pour from a cut-crystal carafe.
The Kielmark caught up the first tankard the instant it was full and
personally handed the steaming drink to Jaric. "You're numbed witless from the
cold, boy. A girl-child could knock you down with a rag doll."
Jaric lifted the tankard to his lips. He managed a shaky swallow, and a thin
flush of color suffused his cheeks. The Kielmark folded his arms; as if
softened by a woman's touch, his stance relaxed, and Taen sensed the tension
leave him. Corley released a pent-up breath, pulled a knife from his boot, and
with soft, rhythmic strokes scraped the blade across the whetstone in his
other hand. As if the habit signaled safety, the servant resumed his duties.
"Now," said the Kielmark. Parchment crackled as he braced his weight against
the chart table and swept a glance around the chamber. "Here is what I
propose."
But his tone of voice suggested outright command. As Taen accepted mulled wine
from the servant, she understood no debate would be tolerated. Corley knew
also. His steel sang crisply under the pressure of his hands, and his deep,
cinnamon eyes stayed shadowed under his lashes.
"My brigantine
Moonless is provisioned and a full crew stands anchor watch." The Kielmark
hooked his thumbs in his belt. "When the tide turns, she'll sail and take you
both to the Isle of the Vaere under my flag."
Jaric perched his tankard between his knees. His cheeks flushed red in the
firelight as he looked up. "No."
Corley's whetstone bit into steel with a clear and savage ring, and the
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