“Saedrin’s stones, man, why didn’t you tell us this earlier?” exclaimed Usara angrily. “Why’ve we been wasting our time here?”

“Because we were always coming to the Forest first anyway.” I took a pace forward and forced the wizard back a step. “You don’t head into the hills that early into the season and we needed to take the long route anyway to avoid trouble in the Gap.”

Usara retreated prudently. “Then let’s get back to the high road and get on our way.” He caught up the mule’s halter and set off determinedly. His scrying had at least given him his bearings.

I tried to catch Sorgrad’s eye as we followed but he avoided my gaze. I held my peace; he’d tell me what this was all about in his own good time. Then I’d tear strips off him for not telling me sooner, as soon as I could do it out of earshot of the wizard.

Five

When the Emperor granted my husband Gidestan estates in recognition of his service in the west, I first met the Men of the Mountains and learned their grave sagas. This piece, much sung at Solstice, reminds us that life in the heights can be as harsh as the climate and we should perhaps be more understanding of their brusqueness in dealings with those bred in gentler lands.

Lidrasoke,

32nd of Aft-Spring

Jeirran tied his hard-ridden pony to a ring carved in a block of marble and poured water from the skin at his saddlebow into a dry hollow in the stone. He turned his back on the grasslands of the valley where new growth was vibrant with flowers turning faces to the warmth of spring. Red, yellow, blue and white, all strove to take what they could from the sun before the snows blanketed them once more. Jeirran stood motionless for a long moment before the forbidding arc of gray wall.

The stronghold rose up from a solid hillock of earth piled up to level an existing rise, claiming immediate advantage of height over any that might approach. The massive wall rose like an outcrop of living rock and the windows of the rekin within were paired like watchful eyes. The stone-crowned fess dominated the wind-scoured valley as the land swelled toward the encroaching mountains.

But this place was an empty boast. The great doors to the compound stood wedged open with rubble, the bar to defy all comers leaning impotently in the angle of the thick wall. The triangular space in the stones above the lintel, where the mighty emblem of the house had once been raised, was as empty as a blind socket. Jeirran kicked the pebbles away from the iron-banded base of the gate and hauled on it, pins in the sockets of the solid stone threshold grating on windblown dust. With a wordless exclamation, he sent the heavy barrier slamming into the carved stop of the jamb. The sharp crack echoed back from the gray cliffs rearing up to the north of the compound, stark in their snow-capped beauty.

Walking into the compound, Jeirran made a slow circuit, pausing to peer into every doorway and window of the stone-slated buildings that clung to the interior of the wall. All were empty, swept clean and tidy, every possession gone, hearths cold. The bitter scowl marking Jeirran’s face faded, gradually replaced by a sadness that mercilessly stripped away the years, betraying a wretched youth.

He looked up at the rekin. The black hollows of the windows defied the searching sun, secretive, baleful. Jeirran entered, ignored the dismantled hearth, and crossed to the stairs. Walking at first, then moving faster, soon running through the dark shadows, he finally emerged onto the flat roof. The hardness returned to his eyes as he bent to take a sight along a groove in one of the stones of the parapet. It pointed to the distant cliff face, to a fissure whose regular sides and angular edges spoke eloquently of hammer and mallet. Jeirran’s expression settled into its habitual frown. The steady breeze, ever present, lifted a stray lock hair from his forehead and dust swirled around his feet with a noise like a curious whisper.

“Are you going to ask me to go in there for the Solstice? To see what the bones of our soke say when Misaen sends the sun to illuminate the sanctuary of our blood? What questions do you want me to ask?”

Only a sharp intake of breath informed against him. Jeirran stood upright and turned slowly. “You speak of my family.” He stressed the penultimate word lightly. “What interest have you in the blood that once dwelt here?”

“For a man who wants to claim a favor on the strength of past kinship, you go about things in a very odd fashion, Jeirran,” the newcomer said critically from her seat on the wall that ran around the edge of the roof.

Jeirran dropped his eyes for a moment, scuffing at the solid slabs with the toe of his boot. “Hello, Aritane.” He smiled at her with a charm that did not reach his eyes. “You’re looking well.”

“Marriage hasn’t changed you,” she commented with an enigmatic edge to her tone. “How is Eirys?”

Jeirran waved a hand dismissively. “Well enough.”

“It’s a shame she’s not breeding yet.” Aritane smoothed her dusky gray gown over her lap, drawing softly shod feet together in an elegant gesture. The color complemented the twilight blue of her eyes, deep set and dominating a narrow face with a long nose unflattered by the way her corn-colored hair was cropped short, combed back from a high forehead. Her lips showed a full sensuality, the clearest stamp of common blood with Jeirran. “I would like to see you secure your posterity in a child, preferably a bevy of them.”

“No child of Eirys’ blood would give me a claim here,” Jeirran sighed.

“No,” agreed Aritane softly, regret naked in her eyes.