Oliver unbuckled the pouch and reached in. When he withdrew a single letter, all of the soldiers tensed, prepared to fall upon him. At first only the face of the letter showed, but quickly he turned it over to show them the wax seal.
They visibly relaxed. The officer shook his head and gestured to the bowmen to withdraw. From below, Oliver could hear the strange twang of bowstrings slowly being released, arrows being returned to their quivers.
“You understand, courier, that these are strange times. Rumors are rampant of rebellion and some of the legendary conduct a crusade against their own kind. Nothing is to be taken for granted these days.”
Oliver let out a long breath. He nodded, reassured by the knowledge that the king and his soldiers had far more to worry about than a single Intruder.
“I do understand. Had I any other choice than to ride here without my uniform, trust that I would not have done so, if only to avoid such suspicion.”
The officer gestured to the others and they stood aside to allow Oliver to ride through the open gates and the arched passageway of the gatehouse. Two remained outside on guard, but the officer and one other, a stout, broad-chested fellow whose nose was flattened and scarred, walked alongside the horse, escorting him onto the grounds of the castle of Otranto.
A stable boy appeared, running to stand beside them, dutifully waiting for the horse to be turned over.
Oliver climbed down from his mount, then reached up and slid the saddlebags from the horse. He slung them over his shoulder and patted the horse on the side before handing the reins over to the stable boy.
“Take good care of the animal,” the officer told the lad. “It’s a long ride back to Perinthia.”
Within the outer curtain walls of the castle, several young men worked at swordplay, parrying and dodging with a grace hard to achieve amongst those actually trying to kill one another. An old woman sat on a stone stoop outside a heavy wooden door off to one side, peeling potatoes and rattling off profanity at a cluster of pigeons who paraded nearby, pretending to be aloof while obviously expecting her to provide them with some kind of treat.
The guards led him across the grounds toward a tall, arched doorway that showed a surprising hint of Moorish influence. The wall all around the door was covered with tiny tiles that created a mural image of a one-eyed warrior standing on the body of a fallen giant, and out of the giant’s flesh grew fruit trees. A naked, winged woman had plucked a yellow fruit from one of the trees and bit into it.
Oliver stared at it, trying to decipher its meaning or connect it to a specific legend, but it seemed a strange melange of mythical elements.
The scar-nosed guard went to the door and grasped an iron ring. He hauled the heavy door open, hinges shrieking. The officer nodded to Oliver to indicate that he should enter. Oliver glanced back across the grounds and saw that most of the archers on the battlements had vanished, though several still remained. Two stood talking to one another, but the others were watching him curiously.
“Thank you,” he said.
An old man dressed in midnight blue, with the seal of the king upon his breast, appeared suddenly in the doorway to block their entry. His face was so thin he looked inhuman, and adorned with a wisp of white beard.
“What is it?” the old man said, brows knitted in consternation, lips pursed in disapproval.
“Courier, Master Hy’Bor, with letters for the king.”
The old man arched an eyebrow. “Really?”
A tremor of dread passed through Oliver. The old man, some advisor to the king or court, had a stare that felt as if he could see right through him.
“Indeed,” Oliver said, inclining his head respectfully.
The old man pointed a long finger at Oliver’s side. “That’s a fascinating sword, courier. An antique, if I am not mistaken. Indeed, I’d venture to say it is one of a kind.”
Oliver held his breath, searching the man’s gaze. His eyes were the same midnight blue as his robes, but there was a luminescence there that was anything but human. What was he, if not a man?
“What are you talking about, Atlantean?” the officer said, his voice not quite a sneer. Soldiers never liked interference from politicians, and that was clearly the case here.
But… Atlantean?
They were advisors to the kings-sorcerers and scholars-and they were supposed to be neutral. In another age they had brokered the peace between the Two Kingdoms, a third, objective party. But the Falconer had told Frost that Ty’Lis, an Atlantean, had sent the Myth Hunters after the Borderkind. So he had to wonder about Master Hy’Bor’s true loyalties.
Later. If he lived.
“It is unique. You’re right about that,” Oliver replied. “A gift to me from an old man. A gift he received a long time ago from King Hunyadi himself.”
The Atlantean glanced at the officer. “You’ve made a dangerous mistake, Sergeant.”
Oliver saw the moment of confusion and hesitation in the captain and he used it. Cursing under his breath, he turned and fled, drawing his sword on the run. Shouts came from behind him.
“Intruder! Kill him, you fools!” the sergeant roared, boots pounding the earth in pursuit. “Kill the Intruder! He comes to assassinate the king!”
The words made Oliver wince. As if things hadn’t been bad enough already.
The third and last Keen Keeng froze in the midst of Lycaon’s Kitchen. It began to back away from them, moving out into the restaurant’s central courtyard…into the rain.
Cheval Bayard shifted back into the lovely facade she usually wore and advanced upon him.
Chorti licked blood from his metal claws and came at the bat-man from another angle.
Across the restaurant the Mazikeen stood and threw back their hoods, moving to surround the Keen Keeng.
The waiter, Grin, stripped off the long, black uniform jacket Lycaon made his staff wear and joined Cheval.
Blue Jay nodded in approval and moved in as well.
The rain began to swirl in a dark tornado, turning to ice, and then snow. The humans in the restaurant had scattered, retreating to safety as best they could. Now the tone of their mutterings changed as they watched Frost sculpt himself a body of jagged ice from the moisture in the air. There was awe there, and a different sort of alarm.
Even in the Latin Quarter, word had come of the conspiracy against the Borderkind and the rebellion against those killers. But only now, as they saw Frost, did these people realize that they were in the midst of that rebellion. Blue Jay heard some of them talking about Frost as the leader of the Borderkind, and he wondered how news traveled so quickly. How secrets were so easily revealed.
Not that it mattered. It was true enough.
“How many others are there?” Frost demanded, moving toward the Keen Keeng. Blue Jay and the others did likewise, closing in around him. “You are no Hunter, so I want to know which Hunters are here in Perinthia. How close? And what other foot soldiers have they conscripted?”
The Keen Keeng spat at Frost.
With a gesture, the winter man froze the yellow spittle in the air and it fell to the marble floor to shatter into brittle shards.
“If they are here,” a voice said, “there will be other spies. You know this without being told.”
The words came from the little man with the flaming eyes. He strode now toward the circle they had made around the Keen Keeng. Pursing his lips, he whistled, and from the kitchen there came a roar. Everyone within the walls of the restaurant flinched and let out a gasp of surprise as a huge orange-and-black tiger bounded out from the back. It stalked across the restaurant, even the harpies scrambling out of its way, and brushed against the little man.