“Imminent return?”
“The heartlands of the Treaty Realms are troubled, at least more troubled than the normal course of history would dictate. Once-loyal kinsmen vie for power, harvests are poor, reports of plague and famine are rife. It’s all fertile ground for any would-be prophet offering hope in the form of a long-dead legend. If she did ever deign to return, now would seem a very good time.” Her voice slipped into a whisper, face clouding as she added, “The beggared and the dispossessed will unite to follow another queen . . .”
She blinked and stiffened, turning away to lie down, pulling her cloak over her head. “You really should keep the sword, Shamil,” she told him in a sigh. “I think Tolveg hoped you could use it to win the honour he could never regain.”
The woman waiting to greet them at the top of the steps stood at least six feet tall, with copper-coloured hair bound in tight braids. She wore a fur cloak against the wind, which parted with the frequent gusts to reveal a leather harness covering a frame of lean muscle and, Shamil noted as he tried vainly not to let his eyes linger, more than a few scars. She gave no response to Rignar’s panted greeting as they hauled themselves up the final step, arms crossed in silent scrutiny. Her angular visage surveyed them each in turn, lingering briefly on Shamil, longer on Rignar, and longest of all on Lyvia. Her eyes narrowed in recognition as they roved the younger woman’s face, a faintly puzzled line bisecting the scar on her brow.
“The resemblance has been remarked upon many times . . .” Lyvia began in a tired voice, only for the woman to bark out a harsh command.
“Shut your mouth, fledgling!” She glared at Lyvia for a moment longer, as if daring her to speak again, then grunted and turned to Rignar. “There were four of you yesterday,” she stated.
“Our companion . . . fell,” Rignar replied.
The woman’s head tilted in slight acknowledgment before shifting to regard the steps they had climbed. “Do any others follow?”
“No.” Rignar gave an apologetic smile. “It’s just us.”
Shamil saw the woman grimace before she turned away, staring up a path of wind-worn flagstones leading to a gateway in a wall a dozen feet high. “My name is Tihla Javahn, Second Wing of the Sentinel Eyrie,” the woman said. She moved with a rapid stride their recent exertions made it hard to match, and her words held the dry and passionless tones of an oft-recited speech. “As fledgling sentinels, your training is in my hands. You will follow my instructions without question. If your disobedience doesn’t result in your death, you will depart this place and never come back. There is no negotiation here. There is no bargaining here. I care nothing for your excuses, explanations, or entreaties. Nor do I care about whatever disgrace brought you to this pass. Understand this and accept it, or leave now.”
She came to a halt beneath the gate, turning to regard them with hard intent, her hand emerging from her cloak to hold up a brass disc. It was a thin, roughly worked thing, embossed with a crude silhouette of an eagle in flight. In material terms it possessed little value, but to Shamil it was worth all the wealth he would ever own.
“This is what you came for,” Tihla Javahn told them. “The token that symbolises restored honour through service to the Sentinel Eyrie. It may take years to earn it, it may take months. Most likely you will die in pursuit of it. Stepping through this gate signifies your submission to the Eyrie, its customs, its rules, and the sacrifice required of its mission. Do not enter lightly.”
She moved aside, inclining her head at what lay beyond the gate. Shamil stepped forward without hesitation, drawing up short at the sight of the Eyrie in its entirety. It was composed of stepped tiers carved from the summit of the mountain, creating a series of rises and dips. Wooden platforms had been constructed atop each rise, linked by a complex, overlapping maze of walkways. A dozen or more canvas-sailed windmills turned continuously in the stiff wind, and other sentinels moved about carrying various burdens. Most paused to regard the newcomers for a short examination, but none felt inclined to wave or call out a greeting.
Rising above the windmills were a number of thick poles, each as tall as an aged pine, featuring broad crossbeams. Their purpose soon became obvious when a huge shape swept out of the sky and flared its wings, talons the length of sabres reaching out to grasp the perch. Shamil had thought the bird they had seen before Tolveg’s fall to be the biggest he would ever see, but this creature was at least a third again as large. Its great beak parted to emit a piercing cry as it folded its wings, the feathers betraying a flame-like shimmer. The sentinel on its back unhooked his harness from the straps about the fire wing’s neck before leaping nimbly to catch hold of one of the ropes dangling from the crossbeam. A large man, his fur cloak parted to reveal a torso of thick muscle as he descended to the ground, his fall made gentle by a counterweight that swept up as he swept down.
He released the rope a few feet shy of the ground, landing on a slanted walkway and sliding to the nearest platform. He made his way towards the gate in a series of leaps and swings, pausing briefly to exchange greetings with other sentinels, all of whom smiled or nodded with notable deference. Upon landing he strode towards the newcomers, tugging thick leather gauntlets from his hands before unfastening the teardrop-shaped bronze helm from his head.
After Tihla’s severity, Shamil was surprised to see a smiling visage as the helm came away. Based on his frame, Shamil would have guessed this man’s age at somewhere in his thirties, but the face he revealed bore the creases and weathering of a much older man. As he halted, his lips parted to reveal a wall of white, apart from a single gold tooth gleaming bright in the sun.
“Fledgling sentinels,” he said, bowing and speaking in a voice that was low but strong. “I bid you welcome to the Eyrie.” His smile dimmed a fraction as he looked at the empty ground beyond the gate. “This is all?” he enquired of Tihla.
“There were four.” She shrugged. “One fell.”
“Ah.” His face gave a short flicker of dismay before the smile returned in full measure. “No matter. All who brave the climb are welcome.” He bowed again. “Morgath Durnholm, First Wing of the Sentinel Eyrie, thanks you for your selflessness in coming here.”
Lyvia gave a visible start at the mention of the man’s name and failed to match the bow Shamil offered the leader of the Sentinels. It was awkward and clumsy, as the custom was unknown in his homeland. Rignar also offered no bow, but did step forward to clasp the first wing’s hand.
“Rignar Banlufsson,” he said. “I present my companions Shamil L’Estalt of Anverest and Lady Lyvia Gondarik of Mira-Vielle.”
“No noble titles here,” Tihla said, adding in a low mutter, “certainly no ladies.”
Morgath Durnholm spared his second-in-command a small reproachful arch of his eyebrow before turning back to Rignar. Shamil noted how his gaze barely lingered on Lyvia, as if forcing himself not to stare. “You’re the crystal mage we’ve been expecting for so long,” he said, pointing to the pendant about Rignar’s neck. “Shelka, our last practitioner of the art, went to join with the spirits of her forebears last winter. She was very old and, despite having won her disc years ago, decided to live out her days amongst those she had come to see as family. For that is what we are.” He smiled again, moving to rest a hand on each of their shoulders, his affability faltering somewhat when Lyvia took a pointed backward step, her face lowered and expression rigidly inexpressive.
Shamil found his shoulder sagging a little under the weight of the first wing’s hand, the fellow looming above him by several inches. However, any suspicion that his gesture might be an attempt to demonstrate superior strength was dispelled by the genuine warmth that glimmered in Morgath’s eyes. Shamil had been trained to spot signs of deceit or hidden malice and saw none here.