rooms, its stone walls daubed with mortar to keep out the wind. Like many mountain dwellings, it was situated to make use of the light and to present a solid face to the prevailing wind. After accepting offerings of food, hot drink, and the best place by the fire, Regis asked that riding animals and a guide for the journey to High Windward be provided, and also accommodations in the village for the pilot.
They passed an uneventful night. The headman insisted that the Hastur Lord must sleep in his best bed and would not be persuaded otherwise. As a youth, Regis had slept on the ground while working the fire-lines, and the bunks in the cadet barracks had not been much softer. He would have been just as happy curled up in a blanket before the hearth.
The next morning, as daybreak seeped across the cragged eastern horizon and shadows lay thick across the frozen fields, Regis and Danilo took their leave. The headman’s grown son brought out two mountain ponies, clearly the best that could be had, one antlered chervine laden with supplies and blankets, and another saddled for riding. The villagers clustered around them, women bundled in layers of woolen shawls, children like round-bellied puppies in their thick jackets, and men with windburned faces and bright eyes.
Regis swung up on his pony. At his height, his feet dangled, and he was already anticipating sore muscles. The beast was unprepossessing in appearance, its rust-black coat so thick and ragged that it looked like a badly shorn sheep. Its long tail brushed the ground, and little could be seen of its eyes through the tangle of its forelock. Danilo’s mount could have been its twin, except for a crescent of white on its off-side rump.
They set off, the headman’s son in the lead. The bridle rings and the bells on the harnesses of the chervines chimed brightly. Regis reined his pony beside Danilo’s. To his surprise, the animal had easy gaits and a pleasant, willing manner. Truly, it was the best the village had to offer.
Late in the day, they reached the steep trail leading to the gates of High Windward. Set among chasms and crags, the castle had been originally constructed as a fortress. It was said to date back to the Ages of Chaos, and legend had it that the walls had been raised by laran in a single day. Centuries had weathered the stone, leaving the castle like an old toothless dragon, melting back into the rock from which it had sprung. Only the great Sunrise Tower, a soaring structure of translucent stone, seemed untouched by time.
Since Regis could remember, the Storns had been peaceful country lords without any pretense of great power, living amicably with their neighbors and content to trade their fine hawks as well as precious metals from the mountain forges.
They were spotted long before they reached the gates, and a welcoming party emerged. The gates stood open, but they looked in excellent repair. The men who came out to greet them wore swords and looked competent in their use. Regis recognized one of them as having served in the City Guards. A murmur spread through the welcome party.
Regis clamped down his laran barriers, but not before he caught the edge of the guards’ thoughts. Hastur . . . The Heir himself . . .
Would he never be free of it, free to be simply Regis?
After making sure their guide and animals would be properly cared for, fed and given warm shelter, Regis allowed himself to be conducted inside. Danilo followed him like a shadow.
The ancient custom of hospitality still ran strong in the mountains, where life itself depended on the goodwill of strangers against the common enemies of cold and avalanche, wolf and banshee and worse.
The coridom welcomed them in true mountain style, refraining from inquiring about their business until their physical needs had been attended to. He escorted them through the vaulted hall, very old by its design, and into a suite of rooms in a more modern section. Panels of wood as golden as sunlight
They passed an uneventful night. The headman insisted that the Hastur Lord must sleep in his best bed and would not be persuaded otherwise. As a youth, Regis had slept on the ground while working the fire-lines, and the bunks in the cadet barracks had not been much softer. He would have been just as happy curled up in a blanket before the hearth.
The next morning, as daybreak seeped across the cragged eastern horizon and shadows lay thick across the frozen fields, Regis and Danilo took their leave. The headman’s grown son brought out two mountain ponies, clearly the best that could be had, one antlered chervine laden with supplies and blankets, and another saddled for riding. The villagers clustered around them, women bundled in layers of woolen shawls, children like round-bellied puppies in their thick jackets, and men with windburned faces and bright eyes.
Regis swung up on his pony. At his height, his feet dangled, and he was already anticipating sore muscles. The beast was unprepossessing in appearance, its rust-black coat so thick and ragged that it looked like a badly shorn sheep. Its long tail brushed the ground, and little could be seen of its eyes through the tangle of its forelock. Danilo’s mount could have been its twin, except for a crescent of white on its off-side rump.
They set off, the headman’s son in the lead. The bridle rings and the bells on the harnesses of the chervines chimed brightly. Regis reined his pony beside Danilo’s. To his surprise, the animal had easy gaits and a pleasant, willing manner. Truly, it was the best the village had to offer.
Late in the day, they reached the steep trail leading to the gates of High Windward. Set among chasms and crags, the castle had been originally constructed as a fortress. It was said to date back to the Ages of Chaos, and legend had it that the walls had been raised by laran in a single day. Centuries had weathered the stone, leaving the castle like an old toothless dragon, melting back into the rock from which it had sprung. Only the great Sunrise Tower, a soaring structure of translucent stone, seemed untouched by time.
Since Regis could remember, the Storns had been peaceful country lords without any pretense of great power, living amicably with their neighbors and content to trade their fine hawks as well as precious metals from the mountain forges.
They were spotted long before they reached the gates, and a welcoming party emerged. The gates stood open, but they looked in excellent repair. The men who came out to greet them wore swords and looked competent in their use. Regis recognized one of them as having served in the City Guards. A murmur spread through the welcome party.
Regis clamped down his laran barriers, but not before he caught the edge of the guards’ thoughts. Hastur . . . The Heir himself . . .
Would he never be free of it, free to be simply Regis?
After making sure their guide and animals would be properly cared for, fed and given warm shelter, Regis allowed himself to be conducted inside. Danilo followed him like a shadow.
The ancient custom of hospitality still ran strong in the mountains, where life itself depended on the goodwill of strangers against the common enemies of cold and avalanche, wolf and banshee and worse.
The coridom welcomed them in true mountain style, refraining from inquiring about their business until their physical needs had been attended to. He escorted them through the vaulted hall, very old by its design, and into a suite of rooms in a more modern section. Panels of wood as golden as sunlight
Similar Books
