Cadayle rubbed her face.
“He is in Vanguard, of course,” Dawson said. Both women sucked in their breath, and Bransen turned sharply toward him-so much so that he nearly tumbled out of his seat.
“Aye, across the Gulf of Corona to the north,” said Dawson. “Serving Dame Gwydre’s flock.”
“Then he is alive,” Cadayle breathed, words she hadn’t meant to utter aloud.
“Last I heard, indeed,” said Dawson. “Would you go there, then? To Vanguard to find him?”
Neither woman had an answer to that, as was obvious from their respective, and equally overwhelmed, expressions.
“You cannot walk to Vanguard, of course,” Dawson offered. “A month and more by land and through wild lands. The only way to Vanguard is by boat across the dark waters.”
“And they sail from where? Palmaristown?” asked Cadayle.
“And the price of passage?” Callen added.
Dawson offered a warm smile. “Sometimes they do, yes, and I know not that there is ever a set price. No passenger boats make the crossing, you see. Trade ships, one and all, like my own Lady Dreamer.“
“What price then?” asked Cadayle.
“For the three of you? Why, if I’ve room I’ll gladly have you aboard. The price will be fine company and stories of the South. I can see by the looks of you that you’ve many interesting tales to tell.”
“If you have room,” Callen said.
“And I will, though the brothers have bade me to carry many of the war-weary prisoners,” said Dawson. “Oh, they are not dangerous,” he added, seeing a bit of alarm on Cadayle’s sweet face. “Just poor souls fighting for one laird or another who got hurt or caught and by agreement of honor and convenience were put out of the war for its duration. The brothers take them in, both sides treated equally, but the ferocity of the battle has given them more than they can handle. Still, I expect I’ll have room for three extras on Lady Dreamer.“
Cadayle looked to Bransen and Callen for an answer, and Callen had one. “You are too kind,” she said. “And we will surely consider your most generous offer. When do you plan to sail?”
“Tomorrow,” said Dawson. “And I will hold three open seats. You will find Vanguard most accommodating. We’ve wood aplenty, and thus, Dame Gwydre has built entire towns in anticipation of emigration from the war-ravaged mainland. Most welcomed, I assure you, particularly with two so beautiful ladies among your trio.”
He stood up then and motioned to the barmaid again, flashing a piece of silver and setting it on the table for her.
“I must see to my other arrangements,” he said to the three. “A strong wind to fill your canvas, and moving seas to you.”
He bowed and took his leave. Cadayle and Callen sat there, stunned, for many moments, each trying to digest all that had just happened.
“Can it be?” Bransen mouthed quietly to both of them, closing his hand on his soul stone once more. “Alive?” Even with the magical aid, the young man seemed to have a hard time sitting still and sitting straight.
You confirmed my tale to them, of course?” Dawson McKeege asked Brother Pinower the next day, soon after he had noted Cadayle, Callen, and the man known as the Highwayman moving through the courtyard of Chapel Abelle and into the tunnels leading down to the dock where Lady Dreamer waited.
“As Father Artolivan demanded of me, yes,” the monk confirmed.
Dawson grinned as he turned to regard him. “You disapprove?”
“I pride myself on telling the truth.”
Dawson looked back out over the wall to the dark waters of the gulf. “In this instance the tale was better for all. Would this Highwayman be better off if he did not sail with me? Or would Father Artolivan be compelled to arrest him, surely to be hanged by the neck? You may have saved a life, good Brother. Isn’t that worth a lie?”
“If the man is a criminal then it is not my province to deny justice.”
“Criminal. Justice,” Dawson echoed. “Strange words in this time, when men slaughter their own kin to further the aspirations of greedy lairds. Would you not agree?”
Brother Pinower sighed and looked out to sea.
“This is an easier course for Father Artolivan and for all of you. Perhaps you saved more lives than the Highwayman’s, if it had come to blows. His reputation is impressive. If he is half the warrior Father Artolivan believes, he will serve Dame Gwydre well.”
Now Pinower did look directly at the sea-worn man. “He goes to Vanguard under false pretenses. His anger will rise when he learns of the deception. You do not know that he will serve Dame Gwydre at all.”
“Oh, he will,” said a smiling Dawson. “For he goes not alone, and they, all three, will find themselves alone and vulnerable in a land they do not understand. Consider it his sentence for the crimes of which he has been accused. We will be your gaolers-it seems the way of things.”
“If you say,” said Pinower, staring out at the dark waters.
Dawson similarly turned. “Oh, he will,” the man mumbled.
TWELVE
Cold Seat of Power
Tinnikkikkik recognized the sense of dread emanating from his hundred glacial troll forces, and indeed felt it himself, for this place was surely unnerving. It was more than the cold air. This temperature hardly bothered the trolls, who swam in the icy waters of melting glaciers and ran about naked on Alpinadoran ice and snow even in the nights of deep winter. The warm waters of the lake below this glacier made them more uncomfortable than the cold, even this high up on the river of ice.
It wasn’t the almost preternatural cold, it was the aura of the place. Tinnikkikkik had been in many houses sculpted of ice in his five decades but certainly never before in anything remotely like this one. Great crystalline corridors wound about each other in confusing twists and turns, some climbing higher, some lower, and ice or not, this was easily the largest man-made structure Tinnikkikkik or any of his tribe had ever seen, let alone entered. And it looked all the larger for its sweeping stairs, winding up to side towers that seemed grand indeed though they might only contain a couple of rather smallish rooms.
In addition to the size and grandeur of the palace, the simple truth of its construction only added to its imposing aura. For no picks and flat-blades had built Devongel, as it was called, and no strong arms, human, giant, or otherwise, had lifted the blocks into place to form the thick walls. Devongel had been pulled from the glacier upon which it stood through magic.
And no torches lit it, though it was not dark inside. It wasn’t bright, but neither was it as dark as it should have been, even on a clear and sunny day, which this was not. A deep blue light glowed from the structure’s ice, only enhancing the cold and empty feel of the palace.
Ancient magic had built this place and lit this place, earth magic, the power of the Samhaists. A different manifestation of the same magic that had compelled Tinnikkikkik to lead his people here, he knew deep in his heart, and though he might recoil at being so magically manipulated, even that realization had not stopped him from coming. He tried to tell himself that he followed the call despite his reservations because he was the bravest of his people-and indeed he had shown that to be the truth through many, many battles. His rank as boss confirmed that, for it was not an inherited title among his tribe, or any of the troll tribes.
Mumbling and shifting all around Tinnikkikkik, particularly the shuffling feet, warned him that the nervousness was threatening to overwhelm his forces. He stood straight-at over five feet, he was taller than most glacial trolls-and let his scrutinizing, roving gaze sweep in the entirety of the band, holding them with its intensity, though they surely wanted to flee.