murmured after another sip. “It all comes back to him, doesn't it? I wish I'd had a chance to get to know him better when he was here.”
Kyril relaxed a little. “He's not a bad man, Lady, nor a happy one.”
“You wrote a song about him, didn't you?”
Kylin's heart skipped a beat, even as confusion invaded him. “I … Lady, I did not!”
“For his wife, then. ‘The Dreaming Jewel’?”
Anger replaced confusion. Kylin's pulse started to race, even as a rush of heat roared up his cheeks. “You had no right!”
“It was in your quarters,” Crim retorted stiffly. “You abandoned them without warning, permission, or explanation. It was my responsibility to investigate. I didn't know what I was reading until I'd read it. I didn't know what it meant until I heard about the gem.”
Kylin stood abruptly. “I'd appreciate it if you'd—”
He broke off, cocking his head. Listening.
“What?” Then a confused, “I don't hear anything. If this is some excuse—”
“Hush!” Kylin hissed. “Someone's approaching at a run and asking for you. Surely you can hear—”
Crim rose in a swish of garments. Kylin followed her footsteps toward the threshold. She paused there, holding her breath, then slowly eased the door open. The sounds came louder—loud enough for anyone to hear, even one with sight: the hard, brisk tramp of heavy outdoor boots. And words that chilled Kylin to the bone. “Lady,” a young male voice announced breathlessly, “there seems to be a … disturbance.”
“What
kind
of disturbance?” Crim demanded as she let the door slip closed behind her and confronted the panting young man in Warcraft livery who'd just tracked mud onto Clan Omyrr's expensive carpet. He'd been outside, she knew already, by the flush on his cheeks as much as the layered clothing— this far north, the days were chill, even in High Summer. Too, he was Warcraft, in official livery, and the only function such folks served here was to keep watch and guard.
“Armed men in the woods,” the youth gasped. “Moving toward the hold. We've seen the flash of their weapons.”
“Show me,” Crim demanded, already pushing past the breathless messenger in the direction his footprints indicated. He followed at a trot, as her own steps became a run. Fortunately, it wasn't far from Omyrr's suite to the high-arched east–west corridor that was the hold's main thoroughfare. And not far from there to a door that let, via the requisite weather-gate, onto one of the massive stone arcades that wrapped Gem-Hold-Winter on three sides this low down, and four higher up.
By the time she rushed out to join what she saw with dismay was a concerned mob in the arcade, she'd learned that there were “a lot” of these men, that they wore white cloaks above dark blue tunics, that they also wore helms and carried shields but sported no insignia. And that over half of them were mounted on very good horses indeed.
Eronese
horses and weapons. Which negated her notion that this might be a band of renegade Ixtians bent on vengeance.
Her forces were moving, too—such as they were—men and women alike, all clad in summer cloaks of Warcraft crimson, pouring out of archways at the arcade's either end. And if that was happening here, it was probably happening in the other arcades as well. But what could be going on? “Find Akalian,” she told the guard, meaning Warcraft's local chief.
“He should
be
here,” the guard panted, still winded. “We sent for him when we sent for you.”
“
Find
him.”
“I was told to guard you.”
Crim started to reply, then thought better of it, though already she was wishing she'd snared at least a paring knife from Omyrr's suite. Instead, she seized the arm of the competentlooking woman next to her, not waiting for the woman to recognize her before she barked an order—“Go find Akalian of War!”—and was pleased to see the woman scurry off.
For all its enormous size, the arcade was rapidly filling
Kyril relaxed a little. “He's not a bad man, Lady, nor a happy one.”
“You wrote a song about him, didn't you?”
Kylin's heart skipped a beat, even as confusion invaded him. “I … Lady, I did not!”
“For his wife, then. ‘The Dreaming Jewel’?”
Anger replaced confusion. Kylin's pulse started to race, even as a rush of heat roared up his cheeks. “You had no right!”
“It was in your quarters,” Crim retorted stiffly. “You abandoned them without warning, permission, or explanation. It was my responsibility to investigate. I didn't know what I was reading until I'd read it. I didn't know what it meant until I heard about the gem.”
Kylin stood abruptly. “I'd appreciate it if you'd—”
He broke off, cocking his head. Listening.
“What?” Then a confused, “I don't hear anything. If this is some excuse—”
“Hush!” Kylin hissed. “Someone's approaching at a run and asking for you. Surely you can hear—”
Crim rose in a swish of garments. Kylin followed her footsteps toward the threshold. She paused there, holding her breath, then slowly eased the door open. The sounds came louder—loud enough for anyone to hear, even one with sight: the hard, brisk tramp of heavy outdoor boots. And words that chilled Kylin to the bone. “Lady,” a young male voice announced breathlessly, “there seems to be a … disturbance.”
“What
kind
of disturbance?” Crim demanded as she let the door slip closed behind her and confronted the panting young man in Warcraft livery who'd just tracked mud onto Clan Omyrr's expensive carpet. He'd been outside, she knew already, by the flush on his cheeks as much as the layered clothing— this far north, the days were chill, even in High Summer. Too, he was Warcraft, in official livery, and the only function such folks served here was to keep watch and guard.
“Armed men in the woods,” the youth gasped. “Moving toward the hold. We've seen the flash of their weapons.”
“Show me,” Crim demanded, already pushing past the breathless messenger in the direction his footprints indicated. He followed at a trot, as her own steps became a run. Fortunately, it wasn't far from Omyrr's suite to the high-arched east–west corridor that was the hold's main thoroughfare. And not far from there to a door that let, via the requisite weather-gate, onto one of the massive stone arcades that wrapped Gem-Hold-Winter on three sides this low down, and four higher up.
By the time she rushed out to join what she saw with dismay was a concerned mob in the arcade, she'd learned that there were “a lot” of these men, that they wore white cloaks above dark blue tunics, that they also wore helms and carried shields but sported no insignia. And that over half of them were mounted on very good horses indeed.
Eronese
horses and weapons. Which negated her notion that this might be a band of renegade Ixtians bent on vengeance.
Her forces were moving, too—such as they were—men and women alike, all clad in summer cloaks of Warcraft crimson, pouring out of archways at the arcade's either end. And if that was happening here, it was probably happening in the other arcades as well. But what could be going on? “Find Akalian,” she told the guard, meaning Warcraft's local chief.
“He should
be
here,” the guard panted, still winded. “We sent for him when we sent for you.”
“
Find
him.”
“I was told to guard you.”
Crim started to reply, then thought better of it, though already she was wishing she'd snared at least a paring knife from Omyrr's suite. Instead, she seized the arm of the competentlooking woman next to her, not waiting for the woman to recognize her before she barked an order—“Go find Akalian of War!”—and was pleased to see the woman scurry off.
For all its enormous size, the arcade was rapidly filling
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