It had been nine days since Ghiarelli Glasseye last passed through Masselli but it felt like the entire city had transformed. A winter chill filled the valley at the foot of the Carrerra pass at the time. Now a warm breeze rose from the plains to the south and brought the distant scent of the fields to the rocky shores at the headwaters of the Valentine river. Ghiarelli sucked in a lungfull of the beautiful air and let it out in a huff of satisfaction. “Do you smell that, garzone? No doubt we're back in Nernoa again.”
Garzone Tichello took a deep breath and sighed. “I don't smell anything, Signore Ghiarelli. It smells normal.”
“Exactly!”
“It smells like old grass,” Lenneth muttered, looking about at the crowded streets of Masselli with wary eyes. “As far as you can smell anything over the streets here.”
“Perhaps you begin to see why we cityfolk are wound so tight, signorina,” Ghiarelli said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “All these people around. Strange smells and noises everywhere at all times. I wouldn't worry, Lady Wingbreaker, Masselli is the largest place we'll pass through on our way to Verdemonde. The mountains there will be much more to your liking, I think.”
“There are no mountains like those in Isenlund, Ghiarelli,” Lenneth said. The words seemed condescending and the Isenkinder's face was impassive but the tone of her voice was a little wistful. In the three days since he'd left Wingbreaker lands he'd noticed she was growing more and more morose. At first he thought she was just homesick. Now he was wondering if there was some layer to her mission that he'd missed. When her father sent her back to Nerona with him as an emissary to apologize for the Wingbreaker's ignorant complicity in a kidnapping and assassination plot Ghiarelli had just assumed it was typical politics. As Lenneth had grown more and more despondent he'd started to wonder if it was something else.
Of course, the Lord of the Wingbreakers may have just sent his daughter along because of Tichello. Ghiarelli's charge had rapidly grown fond of the young woman, perhaps because she had been the one to break the enchantment on him or perhaps because the striking Isenkinder woman had beautiful features and exotic, yellow-gold hair. If Ulfar Wingbreaker was trying to soothe the possible wrath of the Marquis sending Lenneth along with them was a good way to start.
And if the Isenkinder lord had guessed the full truth there was another layer to it. No one had told him that Tichello was the heir to the province of Verdemonde but it wasn't a hard guess to make, either. If Ulfar had sent his daughter to return the Marquis' son it was a masterful touch. However they were still days from the borders of Verdemonde province in one of the largest northern cities of Nerona and it was clearly making Lenneth uncomfortable.
As if he sensed her discomfort, Tichello stuck his hand through hers and said, “Verdemonde isn't like your mountains but it is a wonderful place!” The boy swelled with the pride of his homeland. “The three highest peaks have a lake in the middle of them, you know. It's amazing to see from the air! Not that I can show you that, of course, but it's one of the only things I remember from my bird life.”
Ghiarelli snorted and marveled at the boy's resilience. Tichello had yet to clearly manifest a gift but Ghiarelli suspected he was an Empath like his father. Most of the physical Gifts would've been obvious in the child at this point. The recent incident had proven the boy had his father's immense mental strength and he was clearly attuned to Lenneth's poor mood as well.
“Let's hope things go as smoothly as you expect,” Ghiarelli said to his charge. “Lenneth should at least have the time to visit Lake Sapphire if she wants. I do recommend it, by the way, it's one of the wonders of Nerona and far more pleasant than the Gulf of Lum.”
She managed to put on a smile. “Thank you, I will. Hopefully we won't be making any such sidetrips here, though. I apologize for all that I said before about you being too tightly tied up in yourself, Ghiarelli, I never knew what it was really like for you city dwellers. The air here is so heavy.”
“That's one way to put it,” he said. Truthfully he suspected her reaction had more to do with the people and the closeness of the buildings than the air or the smells in it. Already her heavy cloak of roc feathers and her strange Isenkinder dress were drawing attention. That, and the long strip of skin her clothes left exposed. For reasons Ghiarelli never quite understood, in Isenlund leaving the left arm, shoulder and side of the body uncovered was a mark of welcome and peaceful intent. On the men it was a little strange. On a woman like Lenneth it was almost obscene, drawing the eye of ever person on the street to gawk or leer as they saw fit.
He took a couple of extra steps forward, placing himself just in front of her so her side was less exposed. Even with the dress covering her enough to suit Neronan notions of modesty this was not going to be viable for the rest of their journey. “I know you may not like it, Lady Wingbreaker, but I think we do need to stop here. I should send ahead to confirm the Comte is still at Citadel Verdemonde and we should find you something to wear that will stand out a little less. Your traditional garb is suitable for a formal visit of state. Something less eye-catching is better suited to the road.”
Lenneth pursed her lips and nodded, saying, “I suppose if you think its best I could. Your roads have certainly inspired me to invest in boots. I wouldn't have thought paving stones could be more dangerous than the clutter of the forest floor but it's certainly been terrible for my feet.”
“I know just the place. The southern part of Nerona is much warmer than your mountains this time of year and I had to buy a few things to prepare for the cold on my way north. The hostelry I visited had plenty to fit your needs that would suit you just fine.”
“She'll be pretty in anything,” Tichello said.”
“An excellent eye, garzone,” Ghiarelli replied with a laugh. “But she is a visiting lady of standing! We must ensure that she is attired as befits her rank!”
“Stop it, both of you.” A glance told Ghiarelli she was blushing, which had the amusing effect of turning her red from the shoulders up. “I'm sure the two of you-”
Drum beats boomed out across the city, three pulses of three beats each. Ghiarelli froze, his eyes going wide as they stared through the mists of time, searching for what might be amiss. The struggle of all clairvoyants was finding just how deep the should peer into the future from moment to moment. Even with his trademark glasseyes, he tried not to look more than half a second most of the time. Too much could happen to throw off a vision of the future before it came true. However clairvoyance was a very instinctive gift. Sometimes he glanced things from random moments in the future that made it difficult to gauge what happened when. Even with the glasseye he wasn't sure what to expect.
Then again, even normal people found their seemingly reliable vision easily fooled with shocking regularity. They had to muddle through, just as he did. So Ghiarelli peered into the future and saw a griffon with blue wings dodging arrows and bolts of fire rising from the town. By his judgment what he saw was no more than forty seconds in the future. “Lenneth, you were followed.”
“What?”
“I think a griffon from Wingbreaker lands has been following you for some reason,” Ghiarelli said. Already the future was changing before his eyes. He narrowed them, trying to dial in on something closer to the present, and saw Lenneth running towards the creature. The poor thing plummeted in free fall, its feathers burning. The vision rewound as Ghiarelli pulled his gaze back to the present moment. He pointed towards a long, two story stables building on the opposite side of the river. “Can you get up there? It will fly over that building in half a moment and you need to wave it back out of the city if you can. Otherwise it may be hurt.”
Lenneth took off in that direction, taking long, leg baring strides then lapsing into an easy glide across the paving stones as her Gift took over. Even the river wasn't a real obstacle to someone with the Gift of Grace. She slid along the surface of the water as easily as the ground.
Once she was safely on her way Ghiarelli peered forward in time once more, only to find the future changed again. As Lenneth glided up the side of the stables, somehow defying gravity the whole way, another person popped into view as well. He was at least twice her size, dressed in a bright red doublet with slashed sleeves. His royal blue cloak billowed behind him, a black and gold hammer insignia sewn across it. The symbol of Caesar Shieldbreaker.
“Zalt,” Ghiarelli muttered. “Garzone, you must find an out of the way place and wait for me there. A complication is about to come up.”
“Ghiarelli.” He paused, looking back at his charge. “Make sure the lady is safe. If she gets hurt I'll be upset and father's hospitality will be insulted!”
The bravo grinned. “Consider it done, garzone.”
The he took off at a dead sprint for the nearest bridge across the Valentine.
In Isenlund woodwork was a necessary part of the architecture. In Nerona it was art, pure and simple. The smoother a surface the easier Lenneth found it to cross with her Gift. Very rough ground was harder to cross by her Gift than normal walking while still water was almost as easy to cross as it was to stand still.
The lumber of Isenlund was so rough that gliding along it was as bad as crossing dirt. In stark contrast the timber in a simple Neronan barn was smooth as glass. She marveled at how easy it was to cross. With a sliding start she was even able to move up the side of the building, something she'd only managed on sheer stone cliffs back home.
For a brief moment her concern for the animals Der Isenkoenig had entrusted to her family gave way to amazement at the skill of the craftsmen and exhilaration at the way she rushed along it. The sharp scent of tar filled her nostrils as she swept up onto the roof. For a brief moment she had a breathtaking view of the river valley and the mountains rising behind. Standing out in sharp contrast to the green and gray mountainside a golden feathered griffon with blue wings wheeled through the sky.
The occasional crankbow shot came up after the creature. None of them moved in the unpredictable way they might if guided by someone with the Impulse Gift so the creature was able to avoid them easily so far. Lenneth adjusted her heading slightly to intercept the griffon. Taking in the city spread out before her she picked a path down the other side of the stable, across an open field and then up the city walls to meet it. If the masonry in Nerona was half as good as the carpentry getting atop the wall and attracting the griffon's attention would be simple.
But the moment she started to follow through she was cut off by a man in red flying up the other side of the barn. Deep lines carved by a lifetime of cares creased his face. White and gray shot through the deep chestnut hair on his head and face but the signs of age seemed to end there. The man was huge but moved with as much Grace as she did. There was power in his shoulders and a deadly watchfulness in his eyes.
All the details took only a split second to take in then their moment carried them into each other with a heavy thud. The breath left Lenneth in a rush. Then the big man's hands clamped onto her shoulders with bruising force. “What's this?” He boomed. “Griffon riders in Nerona again? I haven't seen your kind in almost fifteen years, little woman! Explain yourself.”
It was about a hundred and fifty feet down the river to the narrow plank causeway Ghiarelli used to cross the river and the same to get back. Hardly a great distance but enough that Ghiarelli's lungs began to burn with the effort of running. He'd just set foot on the grass around the stable building when a flickering premonition in the corner of his eye warned him someone was about to step around the side of the building.
Instinctively Ghiarelli slid to a stop on the grass he drew rapier and buckler. One eye narrowed to stay firmly in the present the other opened wide, diving into the future. He got a clear look at the men about to round the corner. He didn't know one but the other was tall and thin, carried a rapier and dagger and wore a bright yellow doublet with fur lining his collar. Ghiarelli recognized him immediately. “Nero Ninelives,” he called out. “I see you there!”
The future shifted and the two men disappeared from it, accompanied by the sound of feet sliding to a stop in the present. There was a muttered exchange Ghiarelli couldn't make out then Nero stepped around the corner. The man looked almost unhealthily thin but he was a dangerous duelist and he'd decided to draw his weapons before rounding the corner so they were on equal footing. Ghiarelli raised his own guard and pulled his foresight closer to the present again. Any more than a second's worth of foresight would just be confusing going forward due to the nature of his opponent.
The best swordsmen were constantly reevaluating their options and considering movements. They never committed to a decision until the last possible moment and that made their future incredibly difficult to see clearly. An Impulse duelist like Nero, able to change the movement of his blade almost at will, was even worse. Even now, looking only one second into Nero's future, Ghiarelli saw him breaking forward to attack, backwards to retreat and remaining steadily in place.
“I thought it sounded like you, Glasseyes,” Nero murmured. His prominent nose, the only overly thick thing in his body, twitched once like he was about to sneeze. “What brings Verdemonde's dog so far north?”
“I could ask you the same,” Ghiarelli snapped. Something bolted past them and into the stables with stomach turning speed, a blur that passed by them first in the future then in the present. It happened too fast for him to react even with his clairvoyance warning him ahead of time. “What was that?”
“Nothing for you to worry about,” Nero purred. “Griffon riders are no business the Marquis of Nerona's southernmost province needs to worry about.”
Ghiarelli took a single, careful step forward with his weapons raised. “Shouldn't you be in Torrence, watching the court of that dotard you call a prince?”
Nero chuckled. “I won't mention that when I report this to the Captain. That way the Prince of Torrence won't blame your employer after I kill you.”
“I suppose we'll see, won't we?” Ghiarelli slid his foot forward and began to probe Nero's defenses and their blades met with a ring of steel.
“I'm not a griffon rider,” Lenneth blurted out. Not the most eloquent thing she'd ever said but true none the less.
“You'll have to try harder than that to swindle me, Isenkinder,” the big man said. “I founded my condottieri during the Rider's war. I remember womenfolk riding with the men and I've seen griffons searching for downed riders plenty of times. I can't-”
At the last possible second the man ducked out of the way as the griffon swept low and slashed at his head with its talons. Lenneth shot backward, trying her best to watch him and the roof's edge at once. The griffon wheeled in midair, looping back towards her and Lenneth quickly took her feathered cloak and pulled it up and over her right arm, making a semiprotected surface for the creature to come to rest on.
Now it was apparent that the creature was quite young. About the size of a hunting dog, although much lighter, the griffon couldn't be more than three years of age, more than a decade away from fully grown. It spread its wings to their full extent and hissed at the big man, the sharp silibance of griffontongue a contrast to the scraping of his boots on shingles and the pounding of blood in her ears. Griffons were simpleminded creatures and Lenneth didn't speak their language well. Many of the concepts just didn't translate.
But she was pretty sure it was calling the man a rock and demanding he fall of the roof and sit in the mud until he died.
“Hush,” she whispered to the griffon. Lenneth rolled her shoulders, encouraging the flying feline to move so its weight was more over her shoulders than on her arm. It wasn't as heavy as its size implied but it was still a good twenty or thirty pounds. “Stop antagonizing him. They don't trust griffons here. You need to head back to the mountains.”
The griffon chirped something about theft that she couldn't follow. The big man snorted. “Not much of a mount for you, griffon rider.”
“I'm not a griffon rider, Lord Condottieri, I am a traveler headed south, nothing more.” Lenneth stroked the side of the griffon's head, trying to keep it calm as it pranced nervously and spat at the man.
“My name is Caesar,” he said, his hand resting on a dagger in his belt. “As for you, if you wanted to appear a simple traveler you should have left your cursed beast at home. I know too well what kind of spy they are. You're not leaving here and reporting back to you commanders about the defenses Masselli. Surrender and we'll ransom you back home in due time.”
“I tell you, I'm a traveler and guest of the Marq-”
The rest of what she was trying to say was cut off when something moving impossibly fast exploded out of the barn's hayloft, grabbed the rope used to lift hay and swung up onto the roof. For a brief moment Lenneth thought she could make out a human silhouette in the blur of motion. The griffon reared and shrieked at the sudden threat and Lenneth backpedaled to keep her balance. Instead her back foot slipped off the roof.
For a moment she thought she could recover by gliding forward on her front foot but the griffon's wings caught the air and yanked her back, breaking her connection with the roof. Flailing wildly for any purchase Lenneth tumbled backwards into empty air.
The Gift of Impulse is used to give an extra push to something, which is useful enough in any line of work. In battle it was most often used to ensure a thrown lance or loosed arrow hit its target. For the select few that could develop the right degree of finesse with the Gift it was used to change the course of a weapon just enough that it avoided a parry and struck true or landed in a critical gap in a suit of armor. Or, on occasion, enough of a push to carve all the way through multiple people.
For example, when a man named Nero used it to slash the throats of nine men in one slash.
For Ghiarelli, an Impulse duelist like Nero was the most frustrating thing there was since he could use his Gift to change the trajectory of a strike slightly and the decision to do so did almost nothing to change the future. Small changes were the hardest things to see by clairvoyance. They made three passes, then four, each crossing of blades sending sparks in the air and leaving small nicks on Ghiarelli's buckler and the guard of Nero's parrying dagger. A cut opened in the sleeve of Nero's doublet. A thin, angry red crossed the back of Ghiarelli's sword hand.
Nothing was working. Reading ahead of your opponent was supposed to be the way to win a duel but it wasn't working on Nero. It wouldn't be so frustrating if it was a stranger. But he'd dueled Nero Ninelives a year ago at the Grand Tournament in Torrence and lost. They were headed for a repeat under much less friendly circumstances and for some reason Ghiarelli was infuriated by it.
Bravos died in stupid duels like this all the time. However in this case he feared he was going to be a tremendous disappointment to Tichello and Lenneth, which sat poorly with him for some reason. Holding his buckler forward, Ghiarelli prepared for another pass.
Then he had a flash of involuntary clairvoyance and glimpsed Lenneth flailing as she fell through the air tangled with her griffon. Shocked, he jerked back and looked up. An inhuman shriek rent the air and a split second later the vision came true.
All his life he'd heard people talk about time slowing down in times of danger. That wasn't something clairvoyants understood. For him, time always moved forward with the same feeling of inexorable progress. However, in moments like these he suddenly felt, heard and smelt everything around him with the kind of clarity he could normally only hope for. He heard Nero saying, “What on-”
He smelled the hot metal of his weapons.
He felt more than saw that Nero was also looking up at Lenneth falling, perhaps drawn to look that way when Ghiarelli did.
And he understood exactly what he had to do. With a single full body lunge he shoved his buckler into Nero's gut and pushed him flat. He let go of the buckler as he did then shoved his sword point first into the dirt. Lenneth was tumbling ever lower.
Eyes wide, Ghiarelli looked into the future for the right kind of catch to make. A jumping catch killed them both, or near enough that it didn't make a difference. Just putting his arms out wouldn't slow her enough to break her momentum, she'd break through his grip and break her neck. At the last moment he put his hands up just over his head and grabbed for her shoulders, pushing as hard as he dared. He hadn't seen a clear future for this move but it couldn't be any worse than the alternatives.
He felt Lenneth's weight crash into him, pushing his hands down to his chest. Her elbow came down and cracked him over the head, stunning him, and they both tumbled to the ground in spite of his best efforts. As they did something dug into his shoulder and pulled up. Ghiarelli screamed, thinking Nero had come back around and stabbed him in the back for good measure.
For a moment all he knew was pain. Then he heard hissing and flapping and realized he was alive, pain or no. The world swam around him as he opened his eyes. Not because he was in pain, or not entirely because of that, but partly because he was seeing a swirl of possible futures unfiltered. Somewhere in his fall he'd lost his glasseyes. His left shoulder shot pain through his body when he tried to move it and find the artifact. Groaning, Ghiarelli squinted and looked down at it.
There were three clawlike puncture marks there. Looking around he spotted the source of the injury – the bloody talons of the griffon hissing at Nero Ninelives as he approached. Ghiarelli prodded Lenneth with his right hand and she made a pained noise. It might not be safe to move her so he left her in a tangled heap in his lap, eyeing both griffon and Nero warily. “How unexpectedly sacrificial of you, Ghiarelli,” Nero said, approaching with sword point first. “Should I arrange for a suitable epitaph for your gravestone?”
“Please do,” Ghiarelli spat. “Something pithy, like, 'killed by a coward.'”
“Now what does that say about you?” Nero asked, flicking his sword in a quick slash at the griffon, which danced away.
Caesar Shieldbreaker swept down the side of the stables, his cloak rushing behind him like a thundercloud, and skidded to a stop beside the three of them. Somehow the effortless Grace was even more impressive coming from a man of his size than it was with Lenneth. “Enough, Nero. I can't have you killing the Marquis Verdemonde's favorite bravo. It's just going to cause us problems down the line.”
“What's wrong, Captain?” Nero asked. “I thought you were worried these damn griffon riders were plotting something new. Shouldn't we be rid of them and their collaborator as well?”
“I'm not collaborating with anything,” Ghiarelli said with a groan. So that was what this was all about. The man who made his name driving Isenlund's famed flying cavalry out of Nerona feared a repeat of that invasion was in the offing. “I'm escorting a guest of the Marquis Verdemonde back to his province for an official visit of state.”
“Meaningless!” Nero snapped. “We are here to protect the northern border on the orders of the Prince of Torrence.”
“Verdemonde is pledged to the Prince much like your captain,” Ghiarelli said, irritation starting to overwhelm the pain. “You're in no position to gainsay his orders.”
“Can you prove these are your orders, Glasseye?” Caesar asked.
“I can.” Tichello's high voice cut through the tension like a knife. The boy trotted up to them, brimming with confidence and showing some of the poise his tutors had tried to drill into him on those days when they could prevent his slipping out to watch the soldiers spar. “It's good to meet you again, Captain Caesar.”
The condottieri swept off his cap and bowed from the waist. “Comte Cerulean! The honor is mine. I had not heard you passed through these lands recently.”
“Today is my first day here,” Tichello said. “Forgive me for imposing on you but do you have your full Century here, Captain? I think Ghiarelli and my guest, the Lady Wingbreaker, are both injured and I would like to hire your Mender to look after them if he is available.”
“Of course. Nero, Tiberius, see to it.” A second man, perhaps the blurring man who'd passed by at the beginning of his duel with Nero, stepped out of the stables, his face slick with sweat. Nero looked like he was about to complain but Tiberius took him by the arm and led him away.
Some further pleasantries passed between Tichello and Caesar but Ghiarelli lost track of it. The griffon was prodding at him with its beak and hissing at him. Lenneth stirred and pushed it away. “Stop it,” she said. “You're being rude, little one. He's not.”
“Not what?”
Lenneth struggled to sit up. “You're not a thief. For some reason this little fellow thinks you stole something when you left the mountains and has been following us to try and get it back.”
Ghiarelli helped her get upright then used her as a brace as he sat up as well. In the middle of the process he started chuckling. “That's what caused all this? He followed us and caused this mess because I'm a thief.”
“But you haven't stolen anything!”
He laughed once then stopped when it made his ribs creak. “No, no, he's quite right.” Ghiarelli wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her closer and leaned against her so the mutually supported each other's weight. “But I don't think I'm in any mood to give it back right now. Your friend's welcome to follow us all the way back to Verdemonde but I don't think I'm going to change my mind any time soon.”
The griffon sat down on it's haunches, stared at him and squawked.
Ghiarelli grinned. “Do you worst.”
