“The Red Sails,” Darsi murmured. “Yes, I know them. Go on.”
“Geran’s father, Bernov Hulmaster, was killed in a skirmish about eight and a half years ago. Geran came home for the funeral but stayed only a few days before returning to Tantras. His mother retired to an Ilmateran convent near Thentia soon after that. Then Geran simply vanished for several years, leaving the Red Sail Coster in the hands of his partners. No one knew where he’d gone, but a year ago last Uktar he resurfaced in Tantras. I learned that he’d been in Myth Drannor, where he’d won the favor of the coronal. There were rumors that he was suddenly exiled. I heard stories of a feud with a rival, a duel fought for the favor of an elf princess, even whispers of some black curse hanging over him that forced the coronal to send him away.” Sergen smiled darkly. “I still don’t have the whole tale, but it seems clear that Geran left Myth Drannor under a cloud. You should have seen his face when I asked him about it.”
“My armsmen told me that he used magic when he confronted them in Erstenwold’s shop,” Darsi said, gazing thoughtfully down at her goblet. “They said he carried a blade of elven steel. And I’ve heard that he used the same sort of swordmagic against the Crimson Chains he and his little halfling friend cut apart in the Tailings. Is that something he learned in Myth Drannor?”
Sergen shrugged. “I suspect the reports are exaggerated, since I’ve never known him to demonstrate any such ability. I doubt that Geran would have the aptitude or discipline to learn magic, but I suppose he might have found an enchanted sword during his travels.”
“So what does his return signify for you?” Darsi asked.
“Most likely nothing. I expect that Geran will tire of Hulburg and go back to Tantras, Myth Drannor, or anywhere else but here soon enough. There is little to hold him here. He’ll be gone within a tenday.”
“Most likely,” Darsi agreed in a pleasant voice. “But what if he decides to stay? What happens if you find yourself sharing your family responsibilities with another capable Hulmaster who’s not a spellscarred bitch? Is there any chance that Grigor might decide that Geran would make a better regent for his grandson, Kirr, than you? Or, for that matter, a better harmach?” Her eyes glittered cruelly as she delivered the barb.
“Unthinkable!” Sergen snapped. “I’ve stayed in this miserable, sodden dungheap of a town for years, looking after all the business Grigor was too stupid or inattentive to look after for himself. Without me the family would be penniless and Hulburg would still be a wretched little backwater.”
“Geran is of the Hulmaster blood, and you are not.”
“You need not remind me.” Sergen paced away from the fire, glaring at the row of bright windows that faced out over the town. He’d come to Hulburg as a boy of twelve, when his father, Kamoth-a merchant and adventurer from Hillsfar-married the harmach’s widowed sister, Terena. The marriage had not gone well. Kamoth was caught plotting against the harmach and fled Hulburg to escape death or imprisonment. Sergen had been left among his stepfamily, an unwanted interloper in Griffonwatch. No one had ever accused him openly of disloyalty, but he’d heard the whispers and felt the suspicious stares throughout his adolescence. He’d resolved years ago to succeed where Kamoth had failed, but to do that he’d had to embrace the name of the family that had ruined his father. He was long since ready to shed those pretenses and take what was rightfully his.
“Would it be useful if Geran met with some misfortune?” Darsi asked.
Sergen shook his head. “Too obvious,” he said. “Everyone remembers all too well how Isolmar Hulmaster met his end, and now that Jarad Erstenwold has been removed… how would it look if someone else close to the harmach died under mysterious circumstances? Even if I had nothing to do with it, suspicion would naturally fall on my shoulders.”
Darsi rose from the couch and drifted over to where Sergen stood, resting a hand on his shoulder. “It may become unavoidable, if Geran continues to stumble into affairs that are none of his business.”
Sergen glanced over his shoulder at her. “Perhaps we should set a spy on him to watch his movements.”
“Hmmm, I believe I have just the spy.” Darsi slipped her hands around Sergen’s chest and pressed herself close behind him. “I will summon Umbryl and set her on your cousin’s trail. And, should Geran prove troublesome, he will never see her claws before she strikes.”
“Make certain that your pet knows that she is not to kill Geran unless you order her to,” Sergen answered. He turned to face Darsi and slid his hands around her waist. He leaned forward and nuzzled her neck, kissing the base of her throat. “Mmmm. Are you certain that you came here to talk about my cousin? Or did you have some other purpose in mind?”
Darsi let her hands slide inside his robes and caressed him. “I interrupted your bath. The least I can do is to help you finish it.”
SEVEN
13 Ches, the Year of the Ageless One
Since it was still early when Geran, Kara, and Hamil returned to Griffonwatch, they sent to the kitchens for a small sack of food to take with them. They returned the buggy to its house and the horse team to the livery, since no roads led up into the Highfells, and the few tracks that did wind up into the hills and moors were far too difficult for a wagon or carriage. Instead they chose horses from the Shieldsworn stables and saddled their mounts. Kara kept a horse of her own in Griffonwatch, a big roan mare named Dancer that she’d trained for years. Geran chose a strong bay gelding, and for Hamil they found a small, sure-footed mare. Halflings generally found ponies better suited to them than horses, but Hamil had spent enough time around the larger animals to handle them easily enough despite his small stature.
An hour before noon they set off again. This time, instead of turning at the Burned Bridge, they followed the Vale Road north from Hulburg, keeping on the right bank of the Winterspear. The river was shallow and swift, rushing over a stony bed in a broad, braided stream that narrowed quickly as they headed inland. Farms clustered close by the southern end of the valley amid stands of birch and ash, but as they continued northward the farms grew fewer and farther between.
About three miles from Griffonwatch, the road passed through an old ditch-and-berm of earth, now grassy and overgrown. “Lendon’s Dike,” Geran told Hamil. “My grandfather raised it more than fifty years ago, back when orc raids in the Winterspear Vale were common.” He pointed toward the far side of the vale. “Lake Hul lies under the western hills there, so the earthworks run less than two miles.”
Hamil studied the old fortifications. “Seem to have had little use of late.”
Geran nodded. “Orcs haven’t come into the Winterspear Vale in numbers since my father was a young man. The Highfells make for good walls.”
A short distance beyond the old dike, Kara turned eastward along a cart track that ran past the long fieldstone cowsheds and hay cribs of an old dairy farm. The track petered out into a footpath and began to climb steeply up the side of the valley. Trees and brush thinned out quickly as they gained height, and soon they were picking their way through the steep meadows and mossy rock outcroppings of the hilltop. From their vantage they could see the broad path of the Winterspear all the way to Hulburg’s distant rooftops. Then they crossed over the crest, and they were in the Highfells proper. To the north a long line of low gray downs stretched off until they simply melted into the distance; eastward the rolling downs marched for miles until they began to climb up to meet the wooded ramparts of the Galena Mountains, perhaps twenty miles distant.
Raw, blustery wind whistled through the grass and heather, pushing the brush first one way and then the other. The sky was blue and cloudless, marked only by a distant earthmote drifting aimlessly against the wind. Hamil surveyed the view. “This is the so-called Great Gray Land of Thar? There doesn’t seem to be much to see.”