James left the Ithicanians to row back to the ship and started walking down the banks of the bay, his boots crunching on the frost-laden pebbles. The moon had risen, and the crescent illuminated Bryngaleth in the distance. The castle loomed like a crag of black stone at the edge of the bay, its towers stark against the sky. Bryngaleth seemed to drink in the moonlight, its walls gleaming faintly, almost alive in their stillness. Yet it was the sounds of the bay, not the castle, that held James’s attention as he walked.
The lap of waves against the rocks was soft and rhythmic compared with the violent seas around Ithicana. Both seas were beasts, but this one slept, each wave a soft breath of slumber. From somewhere out in the darkness came the low, mournful cry of a loon, its voice haunting as it drifted over the icy water. Closer, a fox barked sharply, its yip a sudden, wild punctuation to the silence, before it fell still once more.
James glanced toward the edge of the path, where a dark tangle of undergrowth met the slope of the shore. A rustle there, brief and faint, set his nerves on edge. Perhaps it was just the wind worrying at the brambles, or some small creature—a stoat or a hare—scurrying through the frozen brush. Yet the sound lingered in his mind as he walked, a reminder of how alone he was. Of how empty these lands often seemed, despite this being the heart of Cardiff.
Bryngaleth seemed to grow taller, its form sharpening with each step. The castle’s gates were dark and closed, a void in the wall of frost-covered stone. Somewhere high above, a single owl screeched, its cry slicing through the stillness like a blade. James paused, his breath misting in the frigid air, and listened.
Not an owl. A signal.
James stiffened right before a voice said, “State your business, traveler. It’s late to be out and about on a night such as this.”
He turned to find two men dressed in heavy furs standing behindhim, one with a sword in his gloved hand and the other with an arrow loosely nocked in a longbow. Slowly, so as not to cause alarm, James pulled back his hood so that moonlight illuminated his face.
Their eyes widened in recognition. Not because his face was well known in Cardiff, for his uncles had kept his presence hidden, but because these men were part of the king’s war band. Close as brothers to both Ronan and Cormac, and James knew them well.
“Look who the cat dragged in,” Theryn said. “You’re supposed to be dead, boy. Dead at the Ithicanian princess’s hand. They held a funeral for you at Verwyrd. Ronan took it hard, but Caly told him not to weep over an empty grave.”
James’s skin prickled, but he ignored the sensation.
“The rumors of my death are grossly overstated,” he replied with a shrug. “I need to speak with my uncle, but I also need discretion. For reasons I’ll relay to him, there’s a target on my back, and I do not care to make it bigger.”
Theryn’s bushy blond eyebrows rose. “This is bound to be a good story, but good stories are worth the wait. Hood up, lad, and we’ll get you to him.”
James pulled up his hood and followed them into the town nestled at the base of the castle. Light glowed from around closed window shutters and doors, the air heavy with the smoke of hearths that burned all night to ward off the chill. Nearly every wooden surface was carved with constellations, and wind chimes formed from the skulls of small creatures hung from the eaves of every home.
Yet despite everything that was said about astromancy in Harendell, none of it felt ominous. How could it when he could hear singing and laughing from inside the homes, the sound of children quarreling about having to go to bed, and from the taverns, reed pipes and drums playing joyful tunes accompanied by the unmistakable thuds of people dancing.
“All seems well in Bryngaleth,” he murmured. “Spirits seem high.”
“Why wouldn’t they be?” Theryn replied. “With the blockade onthe bridge, the Harendellians have no choice but to trade north. Edward’s treaty of peace lives on with William and Lestara, and while they buy our furs, we fill our bellies with their beef and win the hearts of our wives with their shiny trinkets. We have you to thank for it, Jamie. That will never be forgotten.”
James gave a tight nod. He could not feel good about what he’d accomplished for a multitude of reasons, not the least being that he was about to ask them to give it all up. Yet he’d also heard a thread of tension in Theryn’s voice, which was confirmed as the man added, “I do not wish to be the bearer of dark tidings, but your uncle Cormac is dead, lad. Poisoned by the Amaridians. Yet when pressed for action against Amarid, your brother gives only platitudes. Katarina has the blood of two Crehans on her hands, and that cannot go unavenged. The stars care not for profit—they care for blood.”
“If I have my way, they’ll get their blood and more,” James replied. “But I don’t rule in Cardiff. Ronan does.”
Both men grunted their agreement and approval, and they carried on in silence.
They reached the base of the hill and began the climb to the castle itself. The road to Bryngaleth twisted and turned in a relentless series of cobbled switchbacks that clung to the hillside like the scales of a vast serpent. The stones were old and uneven, polished smooth in some places by centuries of wear but fractured in others where frost and time had pried them apart. It was a hard climb, the incline growing steeper with every turn, the switchbacks carving a deliberate, unhurried path upward as if daring anyone who did not belong to turn back.
Halfway up, James was breathing heavily, each inhalation laced with the faint tang of the sea far below. The walls of the castle rose high and unyielding, their stone blackened with age, and the towers jutted upward like broken spears.
The wind picked up, biting and sharp. It tugged at his cloak and howled between the battlements, and James felt the sudden certaintythat it was warning him to go back. Which made no goddamned sense given he was safer in these walls than anywhere else on the continent. The gates of Bryngaleth emerged from the darkness and fog, flanked by torches that crackled and sparked. Thick timbers reinforced with iron stood closed, their surface etched with deep scars that hinted at battles long past. Above, the raised portcullis cast jagged shadows against the stone, its iron teeth a silent threat.
Instead of approaching them, Theryn led him along a narrow path beneath the walls and banged his fist on a small banded oak door in the base of the wall. “It’s Theryn and Waynne. Open up.”
A tiny slot opened and eyes peered out, taking in the three of them. The creak of wood filled James’s ears as a beam was lifted off the door and it swung open, allowing them into the castle.
“Who is he?” the guardsman demanded.
“King’s business. Get the castle shut up good and tight; there’s a bad feeling in the mist and winds tonight.”
So it wasn’t just him who felt it.
James fought the urge to reach for his sword, instead keeping his hands at his sides as he walked behind Theryn through the castle. In deference to the height of the Cardiffian people, the ceilings were vaulted, but the corridors were narrow and there were no windows to speak of. Everything was solid and heavy, designed and built in the times when the clans warred against one another, before Cardiff had unified beneath one king. So very different from the airy and open palaces of Harendell, most of which couldn’t be defended from a mob of grandmothers angered by the rising price of tea.
He’d only been in this particular castle a handful of times and James was swiftly lost in the warren of corridors, the sense that he was walking into the center of the earth making his heart beat quicker than their steps warranted. “Ronan will be in here,” Theryn said as they reached a shut door. “Let me speak to him first.”
The big warrior went in the door, then shut it behind him, leaving James alone with Waynne.
