Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1) (67 page)

“Is this what we saw last night, do you think?” he asked as he drew level with Raven. “The columns of fire, I mean.”

“That would be my guess.” Raven stared at the crystal thoughtfully. There was nobody else in sight, and nothing else had been placed nearby that might explain its presence. “Who built it, and why?”

“Mother said the Order raised it up,” Cole replied. He crouched down and examined the crystal’s base. Hesitantly, he ran a finger around the space where it met the flagstones. He frowned.
This can’t be right.

“What is it?” Raven asked as she caught sight of his face.

“I don’t think that anyone built this,” he said. “There’s no join at the base, nothing to suggest it was placed here. And see here,” he pointed at the ground. “The flagstones haven’t been dug up. They look like they’ve been forced apart by something underground. There are loose stones all around. I think this came up from below.”

“How is that even possible?”

Cole shivered. “I have no idea. But whatever it is, it doesn’t feel natural.” He reached out again, placing his palm against the smooth surface of the crystal.

Raven showed no sign of doing likewise. “Well?” she asked him.

“It’s... warm,” he told her. “In this weather I would have expected it to be like ice. But there’s something else, like a buzzing or vibration of some kind. It’s very faint, but it’s there.” A groan from the pouch around his waist made Cole look down. He lifted the flap and peered inside. “Grume, are you all right?”

“I feels... odd.” The boggit’s face rose up from the pouch and Cole nearly laughed at the sight of it. The creature’s hair was all standing on end, so that he resembled a particularly cantankerous hedgehog.

Cole reached down. There was a loud pop, and he jerked his hand away with a cry of pain. “You shocked me!” He examined his fingers, the tips of which were singed black. He sucked them sullenly.

Raven bent down towards the pouch. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.

“Dunno.” The boggit’s expression was pained. “My insides is all bubbles and fizz... ack!” Without warning, a spark of green lightning crackled from the creature’s outstretched hand and struck the column, accompanied by a puff of smoke.

Raven stepped back hurriedly. “Cole, I think it might be a good idea to take Grume away. Remember what happened in the swamp when he touched your pendant?”

“We know he has some kind of connection to the crystals. Maybe the bigger they are the worse it gets.” Cole backed away a few paces. “I wonder what it means?”

“Probably that he won’t be joining the Order any time soon.” They both glanced down at the pouch, where a faint, sickly glow seemed to emanate from the unhappy boggit. “Is that any better?” Raven asked.

Grume groaned again in response, but at least no more lightning was forthcoming. Cole was about to ask another question, when a loud voice rang out across the plaza. “Halt!”

He turned, and saw a group of armoured soldiers bearing down on them. Alarmed, he saw they bore the same sigil he had seen on the guardsmen earlier. He looked desperately around, but the men were quickly upon them. They clattered to a stop a few feet away and their leader took another step forward. “What are you doing here?” a forthright voice demanded, slightly muffled beneath a steel helmet and visor. “This monument is the property of the Order of Enlightenment and access to it is strictly prohibited by order of His Grace the Duke. State your business.”

Cole’s voice caught in his throat, but Raven stepped forward. “We meant no harm,” she said. “We are new to the city and were not aware of such an edict.”

“Ignorance of the law is no excu-” the officer’s head swivelled to face her. “Raven?” There was surprise in his tone. “Is that truly you?”

Cole looked on, bewildered, as his companion crossed her arms. “I thought the voice was familiar,” she said. “Your father has you keeping peace on the streets, I see, Conall.”

The officer reached up and removed his helm, revealing the face of a young man, his brown hair and beard cut short. “Somebody has to,” he replied, with a sad smile. The hard edge had gone from his voice. “In times like these more so than ever, alas.”

Cole thought about the disquiet he had felt walking the streets of the city. “Something is wrong, isn’t it? What is happening?”

The man’s eyes, dark brown in colour, came to rest upon him. “Who is this?” he asked. The question was directed towards Raven.

“This is Cole,” Raven answered. “He’s a friend. Cole, this is Conall Maccallam, third son of the duke.”

“Well met, Cole,” said the young officer, inclining his head. “Raven is a friend to Strathearn, and any companion of hers is welcome within our walls.” He turned back to Raven. “Your friend is correct, all is not well here currently. But I would rather not speak of such matters here. Would you care to join us for supper? I know His Grace would be pleased to greet you himself.” His eyes flicked back to Cole momentarily. “Both of you, of course.”

“We’d be honoured.”

The young noble led them away from the crystal pillar and across one of the stone bridges that spanned the river. Raven walked at his side, while the guardsmen fell into formation behind them.

“How are your brothers?” Raven asked as they crossed the bridge. The water that rushed past below was clear and sparkled in the sunlight.

“They are well,” Conall replied. “Neither will be joining us this evening, unfortunately. Kester went south three months ago with a regiment of our best soldiers, to aid with the war. Then, just a fortnight past, the emperor requested further levies and so Fearghus left for The Vigil as well, marching at their head.”

“You’d better hope the war ends soon, or you’ll be off next,” Cole quipped.

“I would be honoured to fight if called upon,” Conall replied stiffly. “My father believes my time is better spent leading the city guard currently.”

“What about Kester,” Raven asked, changing the subject. “Has there been any recurrence of...”

“No, none,” Conall said hurriedly. “As I said, he is well. My father is still grateful for your services at a difficult time for our family.”

From the tone of his voice, Cole knew that it would be unwise to pry further. As Raven and the duke’s son began to discuss people of whom he had never before heard, he found his attention wandering. With their words washing over him, he gazed around at the streets they now walked along. As Raven had explained, the city was divided into two halves, but the difference between its northern and southern districts was striking. Where, on the other side of the river, the buildings had been tall, thin and butted up against one another, across the bridge were large, gleaming estates. Most were hidden behind high walls, but as they passed ornately crafted, wrought-iron gates, Cole caught glimpses of lush gardens and opulent stone manses. Even the streets they walked along were different; broader, the cobblestones kept clean and polished.

After a while, the road bent around a corner and continued uphill. A wide, tree-lined avenue travelled up the mount on which Castle Strathearn stood. Cole realised they were practically doubling back on the direction they had just come from, only now they were looking down upon the rich estates they had recently passed. From above he saw marbled courtyards, fountains spraying water that glistened like diamonds in the daylight, hedgerow mazes, statue gardens and other signs of luxury. It was abundantly clear on which side of the river the wealth of the city washed up.

The castle itself looked quite homely in comparison. The duke’s ancestors had clearly valued martial prowess above ornamentation when constructing their seat of power. Its outer wall was a ring of featureless grey stone circling the top of the mount, broken only by arrow-slits like those he had seen at the city gates, while battlements along its top would similarly allow archers within to fire upon any invading force that approached. Before the gatehouse, a huge section of the mount had been excavated. A drawbridge was currently lowered to allow access, but when the keep was threatened this would no doubt be raised, leaving invaders staring down at a deep ravine that would be near-impossible to cross while being fired upon.

Beyond the curtain wall was a second, built in the same fashion, past which the keep itself crouched like an ugly fist of grey stone. Several tall turrets protruded from the main body of the castle, though they did not make it any more pleasing to the eye.

Their party’s footsteps clattered loudly on the wooden drawbridge as they crossed. The city guards’ barracks were stationed between the outer and inner walls of the castle, and Conall dismissed their escort once they had passed through the gatehouse. As the three of them marched towards an archway set into the inner wall, they passed through a training ground. Dozens of armoured soldiers wearing the same uniform they had already encountered were practising with a variety of weapons. Guardsmen armed with swords and maces sparred with one another, their grunts of effort and pain ringing out across the yard. Along one wall, meanwhile, a row of bowmen were loosing arrows at straw-filled targets.

“It looks like they’re preparing for war,” Cole observed.

“We may well be called upon to send further troops to The Vigil,” Conall replied. “If that happens, we will stand ready. However, it is more likely their skills will be needed closer to home.”

“You hinted at something earlier,” said Raven, glancing at the young officer. “Are you ready to tell us what is going on?”

Conall shook his head. “It will be better if you speak to my father regarding these matters. I... do not wish to speak out of turn.”

On that enigmatic note, they passed through the inner archway, and climbed a flight of plain stone steps leading to the keep’s main door. Inside, was a small antechamber. Sconces set along the wall had been lit, bathing the interior in flickering light. Little effort had been made here in the way of decoration, with only a banner bearing the Maccallam crest and a pair of crossed, fierce-looking waraxes adorning the walls.

Conall led them to a door in the opposite wall, through which was the keep’s Great Hall. Long rows of benches took up most of the floor, while a shorter high table was set upon a raised platform beneath a round stained glass window. On it, the now-familiar plated warrior and claymore was depicted, bordered by the family tartan of green and blue. Hanging from the high ceiling was a round, iron chandelier, larger than a cartwheel. It held a score of thick, dribbling white candles, from which gobbets of hot wax dripped periodically to the floor below.

Servants had already begun to lay plates and goblets upon the top table, while a fresh round loaf, still steaming, sat on a platter in the centre. It had been a long time since Cole had last tasted bread so recently from the oven, and his mouth watered at the sight of it.

“Please, sit,” Conall said, indicating two tall-backed chairs, as free of ornamentation as the rest of the castle. Cole rushed to obey, while the young guard-captain took up a seat opposite. “Father will join us shortly, I’m sure,” he continued. “In the meantime, please cut yourself some bread. We don’t stand on ceremony, unlike our southern cousins. There is butter too, fresh from our dairy, and salt if you care for it.”

With his stomach rumbling with anticipation, Cole eagerly hacked off a hunk of the loaf, slathered it with thick butter as yellow as the yolk of an egg, and added a pinch of gleaming white salt. The result was as delicious as anything he had ever tasted. He finished his slice in three bites, and was still chewing eagerly as he sawed another from the loaf. He was halfway through his second before he guiltily remembered Grume and surreptitiously placed the remainder into his pouch.

Conall watched this display with barely concealed amusement. “You seem half-starved, Cole,” he said, taking a bite from a chunk of his own with rather more restraint than Cole had shown. “Anyone would think it had been a year since you tasted a hot meal last.”

A servant filled the goblet nearest his hand with a golden liquid, which turned out to be a sweet mead. Cole gulped it down with great satisfaction. “Not a year, perhaps, but sometimes it seems that long and more,” he replied, after he’d drained his cup. Taking care to omit certain details of their mission or their various adventures, Cole told the duke’s son about his journey from Westcove to Strathearn, via Hunter’s Watch, the Spiritwood and the mountains. Raven watched him intently, ready to intervene should he say anything unwise.

For his part, Conall listened to his tale with interest. “A gruelling journey, indeed,” he said, after Cole had finished. “And a bizarre one. Is there a problem with the Spine that I’m not aware of? The road has not vanished since last I laid eyes on it, I trust?” He glanced at Raven, who held his gaze evenly. “Well, I’m sure you have your reasons for taking such a roundabout route,” he said finally, addressing Cole once more. “You were lucky to have such a guide with you. I’m not sure that you would be sitting here now, filling your cheeks at our table, had you attempted to travel alone.”

“It did not come without cost,” Raven said quietly.

Conall opened his mouth to respond, when a door opened and another man entered the hall. He was far older than the young guard-captain, but the similarities in their features were plain, hinting at familial ties. Duncan Maccallam, Duke of Strathearn, was tall and slim, with greying hair and beard worn slightly longer than his son’s. The duke’s clothes were simple but obviously of fine quality; a dark blue doublet and padded breeches embroidered with gold thread, white hose and polished black shoes adorned with a golden buckle. From his shoulders hung a leaf-green cape.