She was here, finally.
Niamh stepped out of the caravan she’d taken from Bounty, crossing her arms over her chest as a rush of wintry air cut right through her cloak. They’d arrived at the northeast gates of the city right on schedule, and Niamh couldn’t wait to jump out of the swaying cart, get her feet on solid ground again.
She offered her fare with an extra tip for safe and timely driving to the driver and patted the neck of the dappled mare and shaggy, black draft horse, their breath clouding in the freezing air. Her writ of duty in hand, she approached the gatehouse.
“Welcome to Easthaven, Valiant Starsong,” the guard with the unfortunate duty of standing by the gate said with a polite smile, snowflakes resting on his eyelashes for just an instant before melting. “I assume you know where you’re going?” The man, a tall human in full armor, swiped his hand across his face to brush away more offending snow.
“I do, in theory, thank you. Is it normally so cold this time of year?” Niamh asked, shaking icy crystals from her cloak.
“Not by a long shot,” the man said, shaking his head. “With any luck, we’ll be back to spring in the next days. Until then, enjoy your time in Easthaven.”
Niamh bowed her thanks, then made her way into the bustling evening, glancing now and again at the map her contact had sent. A street vendor under a white-frosted umbrella nodded amiably as she passed, surprising her. She’d expected wary stares or hostile silence, not the bustling and cheerful scene spread out before her.
Snow dusted the spring-green vines and flowering shrubs, but the foot traffic was steady, people bundled up tight moving in orderly progression up and down the streets as far as she could see. Niamh pulled up her hood to warm her long, pointed ears and checked her map.
She glanced around, spying a low-roofed structure built from sturdy gray stone. The sign that hung above its wooden double doors bore the image of a lithe black beast with “Duskcat Inn” shining in gold Tan’shi script beneath the cat’s paws.
This was the place she’d been told to go.
A group of soldiers in Tanahr militia armor burst from the entrance in a flurry of conversation and laughter, rambling out onto the street. Niamh glimpsed dancing golden firelight through the still-open door as one Valiant lingered in the threshold, pulling a face at someone inside.
A rush of warm, savory-scented air wafted out, comforting and cozy. Niamh stepped forward, drawn to the warmth like a flower to the sun.
“Oh, sorry if I’m in your way,” the woman, who towered over Niamh, said and moved to let her pass through. “Stay warm out there,” she added, her brown eyes bright. Niamh couldn’t help but wonder if the woman might be one of the Valiants she’d be serving with as she made her way inside, grateful to be out of the cold.
Near the merrily crackling fireplace, a young Sionnach, one of the fox-kin from Niamh’s own home of Sylvania, giggled and lashed her tail toward an older, silver-haired woman sitting next to her. The human woman shook her head gently, clearly accustomed to the girl’s boisterous outbursts, though the amused twitch of her lips betrayed fondness.
People gathered around tables piled with food and drinks, sat in overstuffed chairs, and perched on stools at the bar and against the walls. At the back left of the inn, a crowd clustered around a small stage where a fiery-haired woman picked up her fiddle and struck up a rollicking jig. Another time, Niamh would have lingered to bask in the performance, but tonight she was on a timetable.
She wound through the throng back to the bar. A single unoccupied stool sat next to a stately Xereth noble studying a sheaf of parchment covered in purple ink script, one gray, sharp-nailed hand tracing a sigil. On the other side of the empty stool, a Sylvan man in well-worn forest leathers perched, gazing into the crowd with alert brown eyes. Though they were nearly opposite in demeanor, the Xereth and elf seemed to know each other, conversing quietly and with practiced ease now and again before going back to their solitary reflections. Xereth and Sylvans mingling with ease in a human city seemed a promising sign.
“What’ll it be?” A bartender appeared in front of her as she edged her way toward the empty stool. The man smiled, his cheeks rosy, a red and white checkered hand-towel thrown over his shoulder.
“That depends. What do you recommend for someone new to Tanahr?” Niamh answered the question with one of her own.
“Oh, that’s easy. Our Springtide Ale can’t be beat, and we only have it this time of year. Try it with a piece of brambleberry pie, and it’ll knock your socks off.”
“As long as I can get my socks back afterwards. It’s freezing out there,” Niamh deadpanned, digging silver coins—Tanahr crowns, since Sylvan crescents or Canrish gold drew undue attention—from her leather purse.
“This weather is something, all right. And you can put those crowns away, Sparrow,” the bartender said, fixing his gaze on Niamh. “Your food’s already been paid for.”
Niamh froze, her heart skipping at hearing her alias. She forced herself not to show alarm, masking it behind practiced calm. She thought there’d be more time before having to confront this part of her mission.
She’d not told anyoneabout the other reason she was here in Tanahr, the same reason she couldn’t even write letters to Sariel.
“Please, be at ease. I was told to expect you, and that Keleth sends you all the best,” the bartender said with a casual air. “For now, your new Valiant Captain is waiting to welcome and debrief you upstairs.”
Niamh nodded, keeping her expression neutral. This was unexpected.
Keleth—named after an astringent herb that grew on mountaintops, used in spells to imbue weapons with magic—had been Sparrow’s contact for two years now. They knew the Tanahr political scene inside-out and sideways. Keleth had shown in their messages that they had a unique understanding of Ahra’s largest militia order, the Tanahr Valiant Corps, in a practical and thorough way. Even though she’d never met her contact in person, they’d been the one to recommend that Niamh and the Easthaven Valiant Captain Brennan Hawke should work together.
If this bartender worked with Keleth, Niamh knew she had to trust him. As if reading her thoughts, the man leaned close, his friendly barkeep grin still in place.
“Those of the Order are in good company here at the Duskcat,” he whispered. Then louder, “I’ve sent some refreshments to your private room, compliments of the house. Just up the stairs, first door on the left.”
“Thank you.” Niamh nodded, holding the bartender’s gaze for an instant. Either the jolly atmosphere of the inn was infectious, or she really could trust this man. Her instincts whispered it was the latter.
Niamh would take any friendliness she could get. She didn’t really want to think about why she was here in the first place, both for the Valiants and the Order.
“Something’s coming, and none of us are ready,” Archmage Miir had written in her last letter to Niamh.
She shivered away the misgiving those words teased out, paying attention to the Duskcat’s other occupants as she climbed the short, wide staircase.
Care was warranted, especially if Miir, the most gifted specialist in protecting leylines, said so. She’d told Niamh that whispers of corruption crept through these veins of power that were the source of all magic in Ahra—something that hadn’t happened in lifetimes. Temple leymages and their Guardians had sent word to the Mageguilds, and of course, the Order was aware of the dangers.
Not a happy thought.
Niamh shoved away her unease and peered around her. This was the room the barkeeper had told her about. She paused outside the door, a tiny smile forming on her lips. “Room One” was carved into the lintel above the partially open door in rounded common script. Hidden within the “o” of “one” was a smaller etching–the simple Ivory Order symbol used to signal that she’d find allies here.
Maybe things aren’t as bad as everyone thinks. Maybe I’ll be home by Solstice after all, she thought, and stepped through the door, a reluctant hope, like the waiting spring beneath the snow, blooming in her heart.
—
Jeron Wright fidgeted, nearly spilling his drink. He never did like officious to-do’s with strangers, and he’d much rather be enjoying the Duskcat Inn’s tasty food and drink with friends.
Yet here I am, about to meet the stranger I’ll be stuck with for the next forever of my life, he thought, stabbing his fork a little too viciously into his pie.
“Are you sure I need to be here?” Jeron asked, trying his best not to sound impatient. “The new Valiant could just as easily meet me somewhere tomorrow for the tour.”
“We planned for you to be here, so you are here. Besides, Loremaster Olangah herself recommended you for the job. Sylvania’s a long way away, and our new Northgate colleague could really use a goodwill ambassador. A job I’m sure you are more than capable of handling.” Captain Brennan Hawke, the man who was in charge of this introduction, held his gaze until a knock on the door sounded, quieting any further objections Jeron had planned to make.
“Come in,” Captain Hawke said lightly.
A small person in a heavy, travel-stained cloak stepped into the room, footfalls so soft Jeron thought they might be floating above the floorboards. Their hooded head turned from Hawke to him, and the stranger stood unnaturally still.
“Niamh Starsong?” Hawke rose from his place at the table and waited, something tense in his silence.
“That’s right, sir.” The woman’s light, silky voice edged into the silence, a hint of Sylvan accent rounding her vowels.
“I’m Captain Hawke, as you’ll have guessed. Welcome to Easthaven. I’ve brought along with me the goodwill ambassador I spoke of in our letters, Sage Jeron Wright.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Jeron said, pleased his voice came out firm and even. “We’ll be exploring Easthaven for the next couple of days, but first, you should have some of these delicious treats that Melwyn brought for you.” Because of course food made everything better.
The woman drew back her cloak. Shining gold-brown hair shook loose, revealing tall, pointed ears. Her hand rested for a moment on the sheathed blade at her side as she glanced around the room, taking things in before joining them at the table. Jeron shivered–something about her assessing expression, the sharpness of her gaze shocked through him. She seemed dangerous–at least, dangerous like a loaded crossbow or sharp dagger.
“My thanks and well-wishes to Melwyn,” Niamh said. “I’m pleased to sample some Tanahran cuisine. But please tell me it doesn’t always snow this time of year.”
Jeron noticed shining drops of moisture starring her hair and soaking into her cloak.
“We’re as confused by all this as you are,” Jeron replied, handing her a napkin. Niamh immediately set to eating with unabashed enthusiasm. He fought the urge to stare as she downed two long draws of ale before dabbing her lips in an incongruous dainty gesture.
“I don’t want to keep you, so perhaps we should get the formalities out of the way?” Jeron found his voice, tearing his gaze away from the woman who was already polishing off a second piece of pie.
“Good thinking,” Captain Hawke nodded. “As you both know, Niamh is here to help with the Northgate Expedition’s perimeter protection. Jeron is a Mageguild Sage who will investigate the site. He’ll show you around the city in the next couple of days, Niamh, including whatever shops you need.”
“Yes, I traveled light from Sylvania, so I’ll need supplies. I’ll also need clothing proper for the weather. Is that something my new goodwill ambassador can help with?” A hint of a smile flickered over her features, brightening her eyes and sending yet another shiver up and down Jeron’s arms.
“It’s entirely within my power to go shopping and spend someone else’s money. I can meet you here at the inn mid-morning bell, if you’d like,” Jeron replied, grinning back and hoping he had nothing stuck in his teeth.
His rotten mood was melting as quickly as snow in the summer sun. Maybe it was Niamh’s enthusiasm for the food, or that barely there smile, but Jeron was thinking this assignment might not be so bad after all.
Captain Hawke produced a folded sheet of parchment, handing it to Niamh. “Most of what you need will be at the Garrison. This is my permission for your requisitions. And everything else you’ll want is in the market district nearby.”
Jeron could not help noticing that Captain Hawke was entirely at ease with the newcomer, his posture relaxed and tone confident. Jeron pushed away a little wave of envy.
“All is just as planned,” Niamh said, with another of those light-and-shadow smiles. “I like when things go as planned. And I look forward to getting to know this place.”
Jeron raised his tankard to Niamh, grinning. “I’m looking forward to helping you do so. I’m curious—why did the Valiants choose someone from Sylvania to help with our expedition? Not that I’m complaining, of course,” Jeron asked, unable to hide his interest. It was something he’d been wondering for a while now, and had never really gotten a straightforward answer for.
Niamh tilted her head, just slightly, as if considering her answer. “I’m told my expertise matches your needs perfectly,” she said lightly, keeping her voice casual, though her gaze was keen, aware of him. Jeron again sensed a frisson of the sheathed-dagger danger he’d felt the moment he first saw her. “I’m sure I’ll learn more about those needs soon enough.”
“You will, I assure you. And sooner than later.” Captain Hawke eased into the conversation with a small, polite smile. “After Jeron shows you around tomorrow, you get to meet the other Valiant officers you’ll be serving with.”
“Another thing I can look forward to,” Niamh said, an open warmth in her words that had not been there before.
“I’ll offer reassurance both as your ambassador and from a leymage’s point of view, Niamh. I truly don’t think protecting the Northgate will be unpleasant. It’s just another lovely old site full of dusty runes and depleted magic. And none of the rumors can be true.” The words escaped before he could stop them, a rush of embarrassment flooding over him. It was foolish of him to worry her about gossip he barely believed himself.
“Rumors?” Niamh asked smoothly, but her eyes were sharp with interest.
“Oh, you know—ghosts, leylines activating out of nowhere, other impossible old wives’ tales.” He laughed shortly, dismissing his earlier comment. There were always rumors about ancient sites, and for a defunct Waystone that was doubly so.
“Indeed,” Hawke interjected carefully. “We are always on our highest guard as Valiants, but there is no need for fuss over hearsay. Now, Sage Wright, Niamh and I have some things to sort out. Just standard site debriefing, local Garrison rules and regulations and whatnot. Thank you for all your help,” Captain Hawke said with a slight nod.
Jeron didn’t have to be one of Hawke’s Valiants to know he was being dismissed but he was disappointed about being sent away. Niamh intrigued him, something unexpected. He picked up his ale and polished off the last sips, glancing at Niamh, a burst of butterflies taking flight in his stomach. The quiet elven woman bowed her head in his direction, and the butterflies multiplied by hundreds.
“I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Niamh,” he managed, the fire heating his face now taking residence in the rest of him. Jeron nodded to Niamh and her captain, then ducked out of the room and descended into the cozy chaos of the Duskcat’s main floor.
He barely noticed the raucous chatter of a busy tavern night as he wound his way to the front entrance. His mind buzzed. Had he imagined the sudden, intense instant of alarm on Niamh’s face when he mentioned rumors?
Jeron, you ass. Next time, keep your mouth shut, he chided himself, shaking his head. In the future, he would leave superstition out of the proceedings, and make sure Niamh had everything she needed for the journey ahead. He sighed, pulled up the hood of his green Mageguild cloak, and stepped out into the freezing night, mind already on the day ahead.
Lizzie Sinclaire 