In the light of a new dawn, Rian prepared himself for a morning meeting in his upstairs living quarters in the Hall of Swords. He pulled his leather shirt over his head and tossed it on the bed before him.
Beside him, Chan Linn slipped open the lid of a large trunk at the foot of the bed and removed two articles of clothing. He slipped a pine-green shirt of silky fabric over Rian’s head and shoulders, cursing softly when the leather hair tie came loose and Rian’s braided tail came unraveled.
Long, shiny raven strands fell loose about Rian’s broad shoulders as the shirt settled in place.
Holding up the second article of clothing he had removed from the trunk, Chan shook it out, and slight tinging sounds filled the air. Though it looked like a garment made of silver silk with tiny white pearls sewn into the fabric, what Rian slipped on was the finest mail ever fashioned, one designed and created by the Fairis Dayan of the Vale of Seven Rivers. It had been Tannen’s gift to Rian, a priceless treasure, and though it looked like cloth fashioned from spiderwebs, it could turn the sharpest of blades.
He snuggled his way into the shirt by stretching his arms wide and rolling his shoulders several times to settle it into place. After buttoning the collar, he snatched up his leather shirt from the bed and put it on over the mail.
“Expecting trouble, Master?” asked Chan, his dark brows raised.
Rian watched as Chan raised his arm to provide a perch for the sparrow hawk that drifted in through the open window. “I go to a meeting called by Sir Robar of House Preston.”
The small falcon bobbed her head as if in agreement with Chan’s words. “Robar’s a sly bastard, Master! In dueling circles, he’s known as the Widowmaker.”
Smoothing creases out of his black leather shirt, Rian said, “I know, Chan. There’s also the rumor that Sir Robar coats his dueling blades with rare poisons.”
Chan blinked in astonishment. “All the more reason not to cross blades with him!”
Approaching the dresser and reaching for the leather sheath hanging on a knob directly above it on the wall, Rian dipped his head. “I will be extra cautious.”
Rian twirled the long sword he held, and a mysterious light glowed within the blade, resembling sunshine illuminating a green summer leaf. “Rian?” Chan said, hesitant to use his given name. “No matter how magical your Fairis blade is, it won’t cure the flow of poison once Robar slices you.”
Rian sheathed the sword. “Chan? Don’t worry your pretty little head about my meeting with Robar. It will be a frosty day in the Vale of Fire before the Widowmaker can best me! Remember? I am the Wraith of Glen Fallows!”
Chan’s dark eyes opened wide at this. “Don’t speak so flippantly about wraiths—ghosts—or specters, Master Blackthorn! Lest you become one!”
Surprised, Rian looked kindly at Chan as he slipped the strap of the sheath over his head and adjusted the leather-encased sword so it hung at his left shoulder. Testing the reach and draw several times until he was satisfied with the sword’s position, he said, “Chan, something has you on edge evidently. How about this? After my meeting, I’ll saddle up Brindle and take you and Heather hawking in the North Feld.”
Chan peered out to the wind-ruffled leaves just outside the open window. “Then,” he said, “let’s leave today! No meeting with Robar! No more teaching young pups how to bite! And no more serving this foul king! Gather your belongings, saddle Brindle, and let us leave for the Kestrel at once!”
Peering out to the rippling leaves of the treetops below his window, Rian was sorely tempted. He was more at home in woodlands. He had come to the city of Brystyn only at the king’s request, which had been nothing more than a polite invitation at first, an offer to teach the ways of the blade at the Hall of Swords. The agreement had been for one year. Yet with his successful training of fifty young sons of lords and nobles, King Mandan had insisted Master Blackthorn remain, and one year stretched into two. It did not please Rian.
Adjusting his sheath, Rian moved to exit his living quarters. Chan followed behind him, balancing Heather on his wrist. Chan said, “Lord of Life protect you, Rian.”
As he reached the stairs leading down to the Hall of Swords, Rian said, “I certainly hope so.”
*
Sir Robar Preston was certainly no slouch with the blade. He proved his skill during the first dozen strokes he exchanged with Rian in the Hall of Swords.
Rian fended off two more vicious crosscuts, danced away from a swipe at his legs, barely preventing Robar’s swift reversal from slicing up and into his groin. Slanting his blade before him, he slid it into the path of Robar’s sword, parried with two solid taps, and backed away.
Glancing at Chan and Heather standing outside the Ring of Blades, Rian forced himself to remain calm as he asked, “You are asking me to murder the son of the king?”
Robar spoke quietly. “Blackthorn? I merely suggested an accident. An impulsive young prince who furiously throws himself at his teacher and, in the fraction of a second, slips and falls directly onto the sharpened steel before him.”
Rian asked, “Who wants this evil deed done?”
Robar fiddled with the gold hoop in his right ear, then the garnet stud in his left. “I cannot reveal my source.”
Taking three more rapid swings at Rian, Robar smiled as Rian swiftly deflected the first two strokes, then wheeled completely out of reach of the third. “Most likely to succeed,” said Robar, “and least likely to be suspected of treachery.”
“Most likely to succeed,” Chan said, surprising himself with his boldness, “and then to be sent most swiftly to the gallows by the prince’s loving father!”
Robar wheeled, glaring at Chan. Rian parried the forward thrust he made as he attempted to silence the young boy. Robar chuckled. “Loving father indeed! But no, there would be no guilt found in you, Rian, no fault of yours that the poor young boy fell directly onto the point of your blade. That matter has been settled.”
Rian felt dread beginning to build at the pit of his stomach. He had never liked Sir Robar, but until now, he never had reason to suspect that he would become a threat. After this morning, that was going to change. The swordsman was seeking to draw him into a conspiracy. That Sir Robar was involved in such treachery did not surprise Rian in the least. What concerned him was someone wanted Corey dead.
“Why?” asked Rian. “Who asked you to come to me with this request?”
Robar lifted his sword tip and pointed at Rian. Not waiting for a response, he launched into a series of attacks.
Irritated that Robar refused to answer him, Rian beat back each slash, poke, jab, and thrust with a show of furious blade work. He fought so fiercely he pierced Robar’s defenses, and the two stopped only after Rian’s sword tip grazed Robar’s padded shoulder guard.
“First strike,” Chan declared.
Robar withdrew his blade, glancing down to the crease in the leather shoulder guard. He said, “It matters not who nor why, Master Blackthorn! It is simply necessary that it be done! And you are in a position to accomplish the task. Consider your coveted position. You are commissioned and paid very handsomely by the king himself. You have amassed quite a fortune because of your skill. Perhaps you don’t fully appreciate the fact you’ve been so greatly blessed with a blade. It is not a cursed man who wields a blade alone against twenty damned Mongers and still lives! You got yourself kissed by Destiny on that day, Blackthorn!”
Rian responded, “And also embraced by a king and a kingdom I wanted nothing to do with. Why does someone want an innocent boy to die?”
Robar said, “This morning in the royal courts, Prince Corin refused the marriage proposal set years ago by King Mandan of Brystyn and King Dannas of Rissen. Corin refused to secure peace for his own kingdom, this innocent boy who is rumored to love only his own kind! A most hideous plague burns within his twisted soul! Shame he has brought upon his father! Priests are vehemently reminding King Mandan that the Lord of Life looks down angrily as he defiles himself in that way!” Casting a wicked grin at Chan, he added, “Perhaps, good Master of the Blade, you have a young lover, a sweet sparrow, hidden away somewhere. You are saying you will not accept this commission? Don’t you see? Your act would be another form of intervention. The Lord of Life would be pleased with your service. You’ve been made an offer, Blackthorn. You have three days to consider. When those three days are up, I’ll return. I’ll expect an answer.”
He handed Rian a leather-bound journal. “Here, this is the journal of young Prince Corin. Read it and find out for yourself where his inclinations lie. There are rumors circulating about this personal journal. Even though his love for lads greatly displeases King Mandan, his network of covert operatives have been combing the streets quite thoroughly in hopes of finding this stolen journal. King Mandan knows that if the journal falls into the wrong hands, his son will be doomed. Read it. I shall return in three days expecting your answer. Mark my words!”
Rian said, “Your words are marked.”
Sir Robar turned and walked out of the Hall of Swords.