"The Bronze King and Winter´s Daughter"

"The Bronze King and Winter´s Daughter" 

 by;fernand jiro marantal

The girl's tiny little body was only hints and folds under the thick woollen coverlet of her bed - hands, feet, even half her face had all been hidden from the cold. Her eyes still stared out over the tuck of the coverlet, though, clear and blue.


The pale man at the window looked out at the night sky a few moments more, then turned and moved to sit in a chair by the girl's bed, his boots speaking loud and soft as he crossed stone floor to rug to stony floor again. Once seated, he met her unwavering stare and gave a small grin.


"You look just like you're waiting for a bedtime story, my dear," he said.


The little girl said nothing - just stared at him over the covers.


"There's really only one story that springs to mind at the moment, and you're probably sick of it by now. Hah, I'm absolutely certain your mother must be. Still ... I guess while we're waiting for her, there's not much else to do, is there?


"'Once upon a time, there was a young but lonely King. Hard though he searched, he could not find a woman to be his bride. It was not for want of princesses and ladies seeking his favour, no; the problem was rather that he sought nothing less than the most beautiful, the most graceful, the rarest and most devoted of maidens for his wife. And why not? He himself was a man of beauty and grace, a lion-hearted warrior devoted to and adored by his people, beloved and favoured by many divine as many of his noble line had been before him.


"'But the years wore on and the young King grew less young, reaching fullest manhood without finding the wife he so ardently sought. He began to despair of ever finding her. Rather than continue his search, he took to riding far and alone through his beautiful country, and his people mourned to think that this most glorious line of kings would end.


"'Mortals cannot see all ends. The world is wide and mysterious, and full of gods.'"


The big pine tree outside the house rattled the bristling hands of its branches against the wall in a heavy evening huff of wind. The man in the chair looked up and laughed.


"Ooh, an omen," he grinned. "They like to hear their names spoken. Perhaps they're listening to the story ...


"'One evening, in a dark and cold midwinter, the King rode alone to the titan-toothed mountains of the furthest west, where the Sun dies at the close of every day. And it was here he found a forest, and it was here he found a glade, and it was here he found the maiden made of night and winter, dancing the leap-and-dance of the hunting wolves.


"'Beauty so cold he trembled, grace so silver he wept, love so terrible he cried in terror! He might have fled, for he feared he had disturbed a goddess, but she looked at him with her eyes made of night and winter and he did not move.


"'Who can say why she deigned to speak? She was not divine, but she was born of the divine, Winter's Daughter, too great for the greatest kings of men. Who can say why she offered her voice, soft echo of the first snow, to a mortal? Perhaps she thought him strange, warm in the coldest place, colours in his red-gold hair and grey-green eyes. Perhaps she thought of her mortal father, centuries gone, and wished to know him more.


"'None can say why Winter's Daughter spoke, but speak she did, and asked him why he had come.'"


The evening winds heaved again, strengthening as they always did in the river valley when the westerly shift came. A gust of it flooded through the window, imperfectly sealed, and madly ruffled both the man's hair and a few tight-tucked strands of the girl's before it died. He shook his head and raked through his white mane until his face was open to the chilly air again, and then did the same for the child, flicking a freed black lock back from her eyes.


"Speaking's overrated, of course," he said. "Messy. Makes you pay less attention to what's going on. I'm sure you don't miss it much. This story would probably have been a bit different, too, if no-one had spoken. Although -" he gave another sudden rapid-fire laugh - "I have to speak to tell it, don't I?


"'The King gave honest answer; what fool would dare otherwise? He spoke of a long search, and a longer despair, and a final night in his heart, for no love lived for him in the mortal world. Winter's Daughter listened to his words, and found them curious, for she understood neither despair nor love. She told him that neither such thing lived in the snows under the furthest mountains, and he had best go home to find them quickly before the brief span of his years played out.


"'The King did return to his kingdom, but the colours of the world seemed glaring and garish, a giggling child's attraction after the older, regal beauty of white and black.


"'And Winter's Daughter danced with the oldest wolves again, but the ageless monotones seemed tired after the clear shout of green, and she began to wonder at the tides of time.


"'After only a year, the King returned to the glade in the forest in the mountains. Winter's Daughter delighted in the colours; the King delighted in her dance. But he was a good man, and devoted to his people, and although he returned to her every year, every year he returned to the affairs of his kingdom. Winter's Daughter was no less a devoted child; every year she waited, but every year she refused to leave her mother's place.


"'Stay with me, stay with me, she told him every time.


"'Come back with me, come back with me, he begged her every time.


"'The people of the kingdom were afraid, and pleaded with their King to leave the mountains to the gods, for mortals cannot find love with the divine. And wild Winter herself was troubled, and warned her daughter to show herself no more, for mortals have nothing to offer the divine.


"'But just as they would not break faith with country and kin, they would not break faith with each other. Every year the King returned to the mountains, and every year Winter's Daughter greeted him there.


"'And the years went by, and the King grew old, and lost much of his colour; but he made the same journey, and she welcomed him in the same way.


"'And then the King died, and the mountains, like all the world, were closed to him, and his final journey was in the final dark, to Dros.'"


The man tapped his foot lightly on the floor for a moment, then stood up and went to peer out of the window again. Pressing an absent hand to the loose-rattling window frame, he stared outside past rhythmically bowing pine-branches and early little spittings of rain.


"Your mother shouldn't be out in this," he remarked absently. "I'm sure they'll bring her back soon, but it was rather silly to go out in the first place ..."


He stood there a while longer, still peering out, then waved a hand and went to flop down in the chair again, back under the focus of the little girl's stare. "Sorry. Bad place to leave the story," he said.


"'Winter's Daughter did what the divine cannot: she wept, the tears granted by her father, and pleaded long with her white mother for aid. But Winter would not answer her.


"'Winter's Daughter went then to each of the Divine Families, heedless of alliance and descent and enmity, begging every god and goddess in all the heavens and hells for their clemency. When they would not move for her, or could not, she went at last to the place of the hopeless, to the land of the Judge himself, Even-Handed Dros of the Dead.


"'How many suppliants has Dros looked upon, hands raised and craving his intervention? How many petitioners has he seen, pleading with him to turn back the fate the divines ordain for a loved one? How many of those begging mercy were themselves divine?


"'Dros is Law, moved only by the Rule and the Oath, and never-near-never by pity alone.


"'But Winter's Daughter is one of the few - the very few, countable even now by name - to have moved him.


"'Perhaps it was love that swayed him, though the pleas of lovers shower daily upon his unturned head. Perhaps it was the privilege of the divine, though the Queen of Heaven herself begged him on her knees for her son and heard no answer. Perhaps it was the lonely fate of the half-divine, neither this nor that, neither of this world nor the ethers, which moved Dros to bend the Rule.


"'Or perhaps it was the bargain. Dros gives nothing for nothing, for that itself is unjust. Winter's Daughter begged for the King to be reborn of her own divinity, for her own self to be halved for his sake, to share all that she was with him - a mortal to be made more divine, and a divine-born to be made more mortal.


"'Dros deemed it fair. He granted her request.


"'The King returned to life, more than he was, youth restored and power greater than it had ever been - a man with a taste of the very ethers. And his kingdom was overjoyed, and he took Winter's Daughter for his wife, for truly she was the most beautiful, the most graceful, the rarest and most devoted of maidens in all the mortal world. She became his Queen.


"'And they lived ... ever after.'"


The pine tree scratched lazy fingers on the wall outside, like the fingers that the man was lightly drumming on his knee.


"Just one word missing, eh?"


The child was silent.


"That's real stories for you," he chuckled, glancing at the door this time as louder noises struck up on the lower floor - juddering door-hinges, heavy footsteps, jingling mail. "Amazing how crucial the little details can be."


"Tintauri!" came a muffled shout. The voice was resonant, authoritative. "Hells, are you still up there? Whichever of your giggling games you're playing, leave it! I can't find her on my own, and if we don't find one survivor in this ratpit we'll have come the whole way for nothing."


The pale man in the chair glanced at the door again, his smile curling at one corner for a moment - a hooked grin, a barbed contempt. Then he looked back to the silent, empty-staring child under the bloody covers.


"Well, I'm afraid that's that, my dear," he said. "Time to wake up and go find mother."

"Tintauri´s Squire (Part IV)"

"Tintauri´s Squire (Part IV)"
by;fernand jiro marantal

Tintauri's eyes flared wide, but Tal could already tell that she had struck slightly awry in the darkness. One of his hands flew up and locked around her wrist, but she broke the hold with a sharp wrench and twist, twirling gracefully out of the way as he snatched at her again. 


She left the dagger embedded there in his sternum, giving it up for lost, and reached for the other tucked beneath her shirt. Even tightly bound, it had cut at her skin all this time, but the wound now was well worth it. 


"You sneaky little bitch," exclaimed the winterknight, voice strained and impressed all at once, and rattling with moisture. Perhaps she'd found a lung, then. He rose from the bed, one hand clutched around the hilt of the dagger in his chest. "You are quick!" 


"I'm not quick, Queen's Dog," she replied scornfully. "I'm the fastest. I'm Taleth Cometfall, daughter of Caul the Wallbreaker, lord of the unbroken Narraine - and if I can't kill your mistress I'll just have to settle for a few of her favourite hounds!" 


"My word," Tintauri replied, giving another crooked smile. "You play the terrified child very well, squire. Very well." 


"I wish I could say it was an act every time, Corpseraker. But I'm human, and I have all the usual weaknesses - and strengths - associated with my humanity." She gave a hard smile, matching his smirk eye to eye. "You wouldn't know about that." 


"No." The winterknight pulled the knife out of his chest, and the dark blood poured down his robe in the moonlight. "I wouldn't." 


He lunged at her, bloody steel leading in a flying slice - but she was quick, she was the fastest, and she dodged aside on nimble feet, proud of how they had recovered from the eerie spider-poison. He was one of the winter bitch's demons, not human enough to die as easy as her other foes, but she had hurt him badly and he was slow. He would weaken more as he bled. He would slow further. And she would kill him. 


Then the wolf Madaire. A full slice of the throat this time - worth the risk - and then a smile into the final flare of his cold, hungry eyes. 


Perhaps then she would die. But she was determined to take at least those two with her. 


Tal felt her mouth pulling up in a smile again. She lashed at Tintauri with a feint at his stomach and then a slash at his face, missing by a width shorter than one of his pale eyelashes. The winterknight retaliated, coming at her again with a trim double-step and snatching at her knife-arm while he cut at her own face, but she dodged the cut and warded the grab with another slash of her own. This time she cut him, too - more dark blood down his arm. 


Tintauri backed away for a moment, his breath already rattling hard, pressing one bloody hand to the dark, sodden wound at his chest again. 


"Sweet divine," he forced out, smiling loosely around each gasp. "The squirrels in our woods ... those are the Narraine ..." 


"I told you," replied Tal, unsmiling herself. "No-one dares what we dare." 


He lunged at her again while she was still speaking, knife flashing and biting with a speed that should not still have belonged to one so wounded, but again she dodged, feigning a slip on the floor and grabbing at his knife arm when he swooped. After only a moment's struggle she knew she could not take his weapon - his grip was like death - but while they stood at those quarters she closed her fist and jabbed a hard punch at his middle. 


He reeled back with a strangled cry, and this time she followed him with a swift step, kicking him again - harder - in the middle. He went down on the sticky floor, half-curling, cloth whispering against the stone as he writhed. 


Tal was Narraine and no fool. She stood and watched him first, waiting until the bloody froth collecting on his lips convinced her it was no act. 


"Wait," he choked as she knelt, snatching the knife from his now-unresisting hand. "My lady ..." 


"Now you call me lady?" asked Tal with a contemptuous snort. 


He laughed, or tried to. The air coughed and bubbled deep in his chest. "I will take you," he said, making visible effort to breathe more shallowly, "to my lady ... the Queen ..." 


"I don't believe you, Queen's Dog," she replied evenly. "What winterknight would do that?" 


"Me ..." 


"Why?" 


"I ... remember ..." He struggled over the longer word. "Snow ... night ... no ... feeling ... no thought ... and then ... me ..." 


"And?" 


"I ... won't ... go back." 


"I think you will, Corpseraker. I think you're dying." 


He coughed, a thick, wet sound, as if the divines were giving omen of the same, but shook his head. "Not yet." 


Tal rested back on her haunches for a moment, still watching the winterknight like a hawk, and considered her options. She didn't trust him. Of course she didn't trust him. Was it worth trading at least one last sure kill - Madaire - for possible treachery? She had come at first to kill the Queen, with the blessings and tears of her family, who must still be praying for her success in the woods outside these unholy walls. 


She made up her mind. Personal revenge was a selfish choice over the needs of her people. And even if Tintauri tricked her, she had at least killed him - the Corpseraker, who would have raised the bodies of faithful Narraine and used them against their own in the battle to come. 


"Let's go see your Queen," Tal told the knight, taking one bloody arm to help him rise. 






Getting to the keep was slow. Very slow. Tintauri was a tall man and hardly light, and Tal was known for her speed, not her strength. Descending the South Tower stairwell was a dangerous and slippery business, nerve-wrackingly slow. Most of the way she had to brace Tintauri against the outer wall and half-slide him down with her as she descended step by cautious step. 


As she passed the third floor landing she cast a regretful look towards Madaire's door, but no more than that. Her mind was resolute. 


Legs crawling again with the memory of spiders, Tal stepped onto the stone floor of the stairwell and hurried - inasmuch as was possible - out through the door, reemerging in the moonlight. Tintauri hung over her shoulder, almost a dead weight, his shallow breaths still not quite enough to keep all the coughing at bay. 


"Which floor?" she asked him, staring up at the towering silhouette of the stone keep with fresh misgivings. He could easily betray her. One word to any guard on any floor. Still, nothing for it now. 


Tintauri coughed fresh blood down her front, struggling for breath to speak. "Garden," he croaked. 


"The garden? What ... you mean the rose garden?" 


He nodded, still coughing. She ignored the dark, warm mess soaking through to her skin, the thin, metallic smell of the blood, and set off doggedly, her back muscles throbbing from all her exertions. 


They made a very visible pair in the moonlight as they crossed the grounds from the South Tower. Perhaps someone did see them, but thought nothing of such a silhouette. Tal had no doubt that death in Ceorlkeep - particularly near the South Tower - was no uncommon thing at all. 


She felt nervous all the same, and more so when they finally reached the small, creeping garden of roses on the keep's south face. It was deserted. Audible snores roared from the nearby groundsman's hut. The roses themselves were closed tight in the chilly darkness, their leaves shivering in a wash of whispers when the wind blew stronger. 


"Where's your -" Tal began. 


Tintauri gave a sharp, hacking cough, spilling more dark froth on the thin weave of her shirt, and then another, his arm starting to slip away from her shoulder. She tried to catch at him, but without even the tiny assistance he'd lent her before, he was now too heavy. All she could do was ease him down, swearing. 


"My lady," he choked out, a plea; then he lay back bleeding, drowning in what rose in his lungs. 


The delicate leaves in the garden whisper, whisper, whispered on the trellises. Tal's short-cropped hair stirred in a sharp, clean wind that made the blood on her shirt feel like ice, and suddenly the smells of most ancient winter - sharp-spice pine and rank wolf - came with it. 


Snow fell in the garden. It fluttered in fairy-flakes to start, as if someone had cracked a door open on a winter's day, and then rushed down in swirling torrents, bleaching the world away. Tintauri's blood went from night-dark to livid crimson in the white. 


And then the Queen came. She emerged like a shadow from the silent storm, her long, raven-black hair cutting dark comet-trails in the sky behind her, her black night-eyes cutting holes in her blanched white face. Tal remembered how she had looked on her throne, an unreal thing in a living world, and knew that this was the Queen's real place. 


The Queen cried out, a crow-like mourning, and suddenly rushed forward like a snow-flurry, swooping and kneeling over the fallen knight. Tal stared unheeded at the warm blue fabric of the Queen's dress, at a loose thread trailing in the breeze from one sleeve, and smelled the stately but worldly perfume of lavender. It eroded Tal's frozen fear, the awe of the divine. The Queen was the daughter of a goddess, but not a goddess herself. 


Crooning gently over Tintauri's bloody face, the Queen slid both arms underneath him and lifted him as though he weighed no more than a child. Then she turned and began to stride away through the snow, trailing that very mortal perfume behind her. 


Tal rose to her feet, conscious again of the knife now tucked into her sleeve. When she glanced to her right and left she could see the more subdued darkness of Ceorlhold night bleeding back in, and realised that the Queen was going somewhere she would soon be unable to follow. 


Tal was Narraine. She glanced at the sky only a moment longer before readily giving it up and giving chase, rushing full into the world of white. 






For a while, Tal was able to follow the dark, dark trails of the Queen's hair and the blue flap of her skirts - the only shadows in these snows. But the storm was thick and eerie-silent, and soon Tal could not see even that. 


The sound of the Queen's voice, still soothing and murmuring, led Tal on a little further then. She pursued it doggedly, and even drew close enough again to see the Queen in her shadows and colours again, kneeling on the ground to gently scoop snow over her half-buried knight's face. 


Tal approached softly, ready to withdraw her knife and strike at the nearest chance. The Queen continued to scoop and pat down the snow over Tintauri until there was nothing but a mound of ice before her; then she trailed a long, white finger in an arc through the snow hiding his face, as if giving him back his smile. 


By then Tal was only two yards away. The Queen rose, ice showering from her skirts, and then turned to look at Tal with her black, black winter-night eyes. 


"Are you lost, child?" she whispered. 


"Yes, your Majesty," said Tal. "Please, it's all white and I can't get home ..." 


She folded her arms as if cold, taking hold of the dagger in her sleeve, and then lunged.


The world glared even more blindingly white, and hails of snowflakes blasted against Tal's skin, scouring like a sandstorm. Tal clenched her eyes shut, shielding her face and hunching down in the face of the screaming winds, half-expecting her hair to pull out at the roots and fly free. 


Then the sudden wind died. Tal lifted her head and looked around, seeing nothing but snow - flat, featureless snow, and the colourless grey-white sky. 


She wandered for a little while, but without much hope, and eventually stopped walking to settle down on her haunches, resting her tired muscles and coddling her empty belly. This had always been a possibility in the end. She had tried. The divines would bear witness to that. 


The cold was real, now; belatedly she realised that for some reason or another, she simply hadn’t felt it before. For a long time she sat in the snow and sheltered only in the comfort of her thoughts, feeling them burn lower and lower. Soon the courageous warriors of Narraine would lay siege to the Queen's castle of Ceorlhold. Her father would be there, and her brother, and whether the divines granted them victory or defeat - let it be victory, roaring Brann! - the whole world would see that not every northern kingdom feared the winterknights. Perhaps another kingdom would see it too. 


Her family would know, as well, that she had died bravely with them. 


"I hope you're enjoying the Queen's mercy," said the voice of Sir Tintauri. 


Tal opened her eyes with an effort, unaware of having closed them. The winterknight stood over her, watching her like a carrion crow, his wild hair even wilder in the cutting wind. 


"She admires you," he said, crooked smile arching. "She feels it wouldn't be right to kill you. So here you are, happy and unharmed in the snow!" 


"Do you demons never die?" asked Tal through numb lips. 


"Not here," he replied. 


He leaned in, grabbing a fistful of her collar, and hauled her to her feet. 


"I knew you'd try to trick me," she said, staring unafraid into his face. "I only hoped you'd die as well." 


"Did I trick you?" the knight replied, the crooked grin curling back for the first renewed laugh. "The Queen must have stepped into Ceorlhold to bring me here. It seems to me, not-quick-but-the-fastest, that you were just too slow."


"Do whatever you want," she threw back. "I'm the warrior daughter of a warrior. Nothing you do can take my honour from me - not you and not the worm Madaire. Divine Brann send my people victory!" 


Tintauri laughed again, almost gaily, and linked his arm with hers, striding away across the endless snow. Tal blinked snowflakes from her lashes as she stumbled along, wondering if she still held the knife in her numb hand or not. 


The blanched sky began to fade away, darkening to the real black of night, and Tal caught a whiff of soil and grass moments before the snow was simply gone. But the sights of Ceorlhold and the whispering rose garden brought her no relief. 


"Here's what we're going to do," said Tintauri. "We're going to stop by the kitchen hearth until you can walk again. Then we're going to march down to the gates and say our tearful farewells. I'm afraid you just don't make a very good squire." 


Tal turned her stiff neck so she could look at him, nothing but suspicion snarling in her gut. "I don't want to play with any of you any more. Just give me a knife and a moment with you - or Madaire." 


"You're already holding a knife, my dear," he replied, confirming her hazy suspicion. "And no, that will come later, you see. We'll warm you up and send you back out to your family, and then at some point over the next few days there'll be a very large battle between our two forces. I expect you to be there." 


"If you actually do as you're suggesting, then yes - there's no other place under the heavens I'll be." 


"Good," he said. "I'll be looking for you. Don't get yourself killed before then." 


She laughed a scornful laugh, glad it still came. "You really want to fight me again?" 


"I do my best work without a knife in my chest," the winterknight smiled. "And to be honest, I rather prefer a sword anyway." 


"What a happy coincidence," Tal replied. "So do I." 


Tintauri laughed, definitely a delighted sound this time. He began to escort her to the keep on his arm, as if they were just knight and maid hastening to join the dance. "I've really become very fond of you these last few days, you know. I'm glad the Queen settled on her usual 'mercy'. Oh, and that reminds me - speaking of the Queen ..." 


Suddenly pain blazed up in Tal's half-numb face, a hot, heavy pain, and when her senses returned she was on the ground again with blood still rushing from her broken nose. 


The knight was kneeling next to her, fist still clenched on one knee, waiting for her to come to. 


"I remember snow, night, no feeling, no thought - and then me," he said as her eyes opened, his light voice sinking deeper, and there was no trace of his laugh or his smile left even in his eyes: only winter, the endless white winter. "I won't kill you clean if you lift a hand to her again. I'll gut you and leave the crows and flies to eat you hollow. And then, when the maggots have swollen your belly, I'll raise your corpse and let you scrape them all out." 


"Help me up and let me tell you what I'm going to do to you as we walk," croaked Tal, spitting some of the blood that had trickled into her mouth. "My idea's got more broken glass in it than flies." 


It hung there for a moment. 


"Do tell," Tintauri replied at last, crooked smile returning. He stood up again, bowing in courtly invitation, and then pulled her up as well, offering his arm once more for the last of the cold walk to Ceorlhold's keep. 

"Tintauri´s Squire (Part III)"

"Tintauri´s Squire (Part III)"

by;fernand jiro marantal

It was dark in the stable - most stablehands had gone home - when Sir Tintauri came in. It was long past the evening meal. Perhaps he had been forced to pour his own wine. 
"Have you watered my - uh? Squire?" The winterknight paused, looking down at Tal by the door. "So this is where you've got to!" 
"I can't feel my legs," said Tal through fuzzy-feeling lips. "I can't move." 
"Ah," Sir Tintauri replied. "I suppose that's why you're still here." 
The knight moved on, back down to his horse's stall, and for a while Tal could hear the pale man murmuring to the beast. The few remaining stablehands passed back and forth, mostly tidying things away. 
Finally Sir Tintauri came back and hunkered down on his haunches, eyeing Tal rather thoughtfully. He smelled worse than horse, now. It was a smell rather similar to a tannery when the fresh hides were first stretched out in the sun, thick and rich and ripe. 
"I'm dying," said Tal in a whisper. 
"No, you're not," the knight replied. "Trust me. I know." 
"Spiders ..."
"Yes, Madaire and his bloody spiders. No restraint and no imagination." Sir Tintauri rolled his pale eyes, then leaned in. 
"Don't touch me!" Tal cried, voice cracking. "Don't touch me don't touch me -"
"You want to sleep here?" 
"- don't touch me don't touch me -"
"It's probably warmer than the corridor, I'll grant you, but if someone finds you out here ..." 


Tal continued to pour the litany out, appealing to the divines as much as to the winterknight. 


"All right! All right! Five Hells, I've never heard anything so shrill!" Sir Tintauri raised his hands in surrender and rose, giving Tal first an odd look, then a little wave. "I'll see you in the morning. Sweet dreams." 


But Tal did not sleep much, and dreamed only of spiders. 


The next morning, although Tal's legs still felt thick and heavy, they were no longer numb. Tal rolled back the cuffs of the thin trousers to see streaky red welts, still quite chill to the touch. 


"Well, ouch," someone said as Tal ran a finger around one ankle. 


It was Sir Scadamain's squire, Jeys. The boy had said it in passing, and was now striding towards the stall where his master's horse was quartered, hoisting the saddle off the stall wall. 


Tal didn't reply. A little while later, the two other squires Tal had met at dinner came in as well, heading silently for their respective stalls. 


Tall Sir Scadamain was the first winterknight to enter the stable, even more intimidating than usual in his mail and white tabard. If he noticed Tal, he gave no sign of it. He simply stood by the first stall with arms folded, impatiently waiting. 


Lady Auridine was next, and with her Sir Madaire, both muttering in lowered voices. Lady Auridine cast Tal a fleeting, narrow-eyed look, and Sir Madaire a distracted smile, but no more than that. 


Sir Tintauri came last, yawning and raking his wild hair out of his face. All three squires had already finished saddling their masters' mounts by then. 


"I'm glad to see you all so battle-ready," said Sir Scadamain. 


"Don't be such an old woman," replied Sir Tintauri with another yawn. "I had to find someone with half a clue to help me with my armour. Anyway, unlike some, I was ready yesterday."


"Sweet divines, Tintauri, you still reek," Sir Madaire grimaced, fanning air away from his face. "If you were ready yesterday, you could've indulged in a bath." 


"Are we decided?" interrupted Lady Auridine impatiently. "Do we ride out with Tintauri's smelly friends today or not? The group in the woods seems skittish, so it can't be large. I was one on a horse, and they still scattered when I got near." 


"We ride out, but we don't engage," Sir Scadamain said. "If Hanalia were here ..." 


"If Hanalia were here she'd have taken twice as long to prepare as Tintauri," the woman muttered. "Well, let's mount up." 


"Race you back, too, Tintauri," Sir Madaire laughed, winking at Tal. 


"Can't take that bet," replied Sir Tintauri. "You're always first to turn and run home." 


The first three winterknights headed for their respective mounts, leading them out of the stable in even procession. Sir Tintauri lifted his saddle down to take care of it himself. 


"Still can't move, then," he remarked, apparently to Tal. "That's a pity. I certainly hope you can move by the time we get back." 


Tal said nothing. 


"Even with all those welts, you know, you have the tiniest ankles I've ever seen. It's a wonder they don't break when you run. When do you think you'll be able to walk again?" 


"I don't know, my lord. But I can feel some sensation in my legs again." 


"Hmm," said the winterknight pensively. "Is that right?" 


He didn't say anything else after that. He simply finished saddling up his restless horse, then led him outside into the light. A little while later, Tal heard the four knights ride away. 


The three squires filed out without saying anything, either. 


Tal spent the first part of the morning chafing both legs, trying to work off the ugly feeling of leaden clay. The stablehands watched with occasional interest, and Tal heard a few bets being laid on when the squire was likely to be up and moving again. 


Stamping, stretching and flexing for all that time finally had the desired effect around midday, when Tal heaved upright with the support of the wall and took a few tottering steps. A few cheers and groans went around the stable, and some money passed hands. 


Tal didn't pay much attention. By mid-afternoon, swift walks up and down the west wall had become jogs and sprints, and that seemed to be the worst of the poison's malice spent; the rest of Tal's recovery was within a startlingly swift hour. There was still a lingering sting whenever something pressed Tal's skin too hard, and the red-streaked welts were still there, but full mobility was restored. 


For all Tal's shaken spirits, that much was a relief. The thought of another helpless night with Madaire about was like snakes down one's shirt - or spiders on one's legs. 


I have to fight, Tal thought, desperate. I can't give in now.


Twilight and the onset of more early-spring cold eventually drove Tal back to the stables again. They were becoming the closest thing to a haven Ceorlhold had. To Tal's surprise, one of the stablehands - perhaps one who'd profited out of the morning's struggles - actually handed over a large, red apple without saying a word, which at least took the sharper edge off all that gnawing hunger. 


Tal picked up a rake after devouring the apple and did a little more hay-stirring, more for want of something to do than desire of it, and spent almost an hour of something approaching calm that way. 


Twilight was almost gone when the sound of hooves came clattering up from the outside - the chaotic non-patterns of horses slowing from a swifter clip - and boots started thumping to ground as riders dismounted. Tal left the rake and went outside to see, as many stablehands were doing. 


The winterknights had returned ... but in a startling state. All four white tabards were blade-torn and stained with vivid blood - Lady Auridine and Sir Tintauri were little more than a sodden mess of it - and Sir Scadamain's head was half-wrapped in a dirty strip of cloth, keeping the blood from a forehead cut out of his right eye. 


"My lords!" a stablehand exclaimed. Then Tal realised it wasn't a stablehand - it was Lady Auridine's squire. "Back up, you gawking hayrakers! Make some room!" 


"Don't flap around like a pinned pigeon," snapped Lady Auridine, tossing the boy her reins. Her horse skittered and tossed its head, still unnerved. "No-one's injured." 


"What are you talking about? Brother Scadamain's noble brow was marred," Sir Madaire chuckled, glancing around for his squire. "Are we quite decided we don't want to ride out alone again?" 


"I should've taken a half-dozen turnip-farmers instead," snapped Sir Scadamain, flicking his reins at Lady Auridine's squire when his own failed to appear. "I told you not to engage." 


"We didn't! We were just trying to keep them off our backs after Tintauri’s last bit of meat got dropped!" The other knight wiped his face. "Sweet divine, have you ever seen anything like it? Like being savaged by a mob of rats!" 


"Very, very brave rats," remarked Sir Tintauri. "Whoever they actually are. You know, for all that we killed back there, I think there are actually rather a lot more of them out in the woods." 


"Oh, really? You think so, Tintauri?" 


"We'll talk about this tomorrow and in private," Sir Scadamain said curtly. "Until then, stay inside the walls, get rested and clean yourselves up." 


The tall knight left his own restless horse and set off towards the keep, followed by Lady Auridine. The stablehands began to float back indoors again, collecting their rakes and buckets as they went. 


"Oh, very good," said Sir Tintauri when he saw Tal still watching by the door, and prodded a gauntleted finger at his gory mail. "You can move again. Let's get back to the tower - I need you to get this off me.
The tabard, crimson-spattered and tattered, was naturally ruined. Tal didn't so much take it off as peel it off the mail piece by piece, letting each one drop on Sir Tintauri’s floor. "Don't know who chose white to start with," the winterknight remarked at one point, but Tal's mind was too set on other things, grimmer things like where the blood had come from, to come up with a suitable response. 


The lacing on Sir Tintauri's mail leggings had been rather inexpertly knotted by whoever had helped him dress that morning, but luckily sweat had dampened the knots and made them easier to loosen. Tal knelt gingerly before the knight, reaching around his legs to pull each tie free until one legging and then the other dropped down to hit the floor. 


"Small request," said Sir Tintauri. "Don't do that again, even if I do have heavy boots on." 


Then he knelt down so Tal could roll his mail shirt up and over his head. That was the theory, at least. It was a heavy, heavy shirt. Tal wrestled and strained, pulling and tugging until every knuckle was throbbing. 


"Don't pull!" exclaimed the winterknight somewhere underneath all the iron. "Roll!"


So Tal rolled. The mail shirt finally did come off, dropping on the floor with a jingling thump, scattered with fine white filaments of Sir Tintauri's hair. 


"Suboptimal," Sir Tintauri pronounced, rubbing at his scalp. "Let's make sure you clean it better than you remove it. There's a barrel of sand outside for the purpose." 


Tal nodded, dragging the shirt across the floor with the leggings. 


The winterknight started to strip off his reeking underjerkin. "Wait a moment. This will need cleaning too, though I don’t mind if you do that part tomorrow. Oh, and go heat some water at the bathhouse - I think I've finally reached my limit." 


The glare of white skin under Sir Tintauri's jerkin was startling. Tal looked directly down at the floor to take the thing, standing as far back as possible to reach out for it. 


The winterknight laughed, and suddenly Tal felt even more anxious, heart hammering. A few moments later, the weight of the knight's leather trews was draped over the arm that still clutched the jerkin. 


"You're a girl, aren't you, Tal?" asked Sir Tintauri casually. 


Tal's mouth went dry. "Please don't tease me, my lord. I'm trying my best to be brave ... but S-sir ... Sir Madaire ..." 


"I'm not talking about how you take Madaire's silly little games. I'm talking about a very feminine shriek the other night, and very shapely little ankles. And now that I look more carefully, a rather soft jaw-line for a boy." 


"My lord, I'm not the strongest or boldest youth in Narraine, but -"


"Oh, dear." Sir Tintauri let out one of his odd, sweeping laughs, but a short one. Tal heard him walk over to the wardrobe. "There's an easy way to settle this, but do you really want to make me embarrass you?" 


Tal closed her eyes, covering her face with a hand. 


"I didn't think so," said the winterknight. "You haven't done badly up to now, you know. Though Madaire would've found out sooner or later - and still will, I might add." 


"I'm begging you, my lord," said Tal in a low voice, hearing the rustle of cloth as the knight began to dress, "please don't let him get to me." 


"Let? Where's the let? I can't watch you every hour of the day. Madaire's a very, very resourceful little creep when he wants to be." 


"Are there no ladies' quarters in the castle?" she pleaded. "Couldn't I squire for one of the Queen's female knights?" 


"No-one, brother or sister of mine, is going to swap squires with me any time soon," snorted Sir Tintauri. "Not to put too fine a point on it, but you're rather hopeless. In any case, they'd still have you sleeping out in the hall where the bad men lurk." 


"Then what about the Queen?" Tal opened her eyes, turning a pleading look towards the knight, who had just begun to tie the belt of a blue robe about his waist. "Perhaps if I went to the Queen and begged for some other duty - her messenger, her jester, anything! Where does the Queen sleep?" 


"You're hardly likely to get anything from the Queen." 


"Please!" Tal fell on her knees, letting the tears flow. "Where does she sleep?" 


Another laugh, almost delighted. "Sleep? She doesn't. She floats on the river's surface, only opening her jaws to snap swimmers in half." 


Tal hid her face again, her shoulders trembling as she wept. 


"Why are you here?" asked Sir Tintauri. "Your father told the Queen he was submitting his son and heir to her mercy. Or is the Lord of Narraine even your father?" 


"He is my father," Tal replied through sobs. "He knew that the Queen would demand my brother as a hostage soon. But my brother is beautiful - glorious - and Narraine couldn't stand to lose him. Nor could my father. So I came in his place." 


Sir Tintauri shook his white head, laughing yet again. "An heir so glorious he sent his sister to suffer and likely die in his place. That's quite a country. I thought I remembered the men of Narraine being rather brave when I fought them." 


"They are the bravest in the world," whispered Tal. "No-one dares what they dare." 
"They obviously don't mind in the least the thought of being called a pack of utter cowards," Sir Tintauri replied cheerfully. "Perhaps there's something in what you're saying." 


Tal raised her head and pleading face one last time as she heard him walk by again, stooping to recover his abandoned armour. "My lord, I call on your honour as a knight. Please help me, I beg you! Help me gain an audience with your Queen. Tell me where she lives in the keep, or where I can find her through the day -"


"You've met my liege lady," the winterknight replied cryptically. "I think that should tell you all you need to know about my 'honour as a knight' and my answer. Quite apart from the fact that you should be hiding from my Queen - she'll be very, very angry with Narraine if she finds out, you realise - I promise you now that there is nothing you could say to make her help you." 
"Let me try. Please, Sir Tintauri. I've no alternative." 
"The Queen is not an alternative," he answered, his ever-amused eyes going suddenly narrow. "You're nothing to her. You're a shape and a sound and she'll look at you without seeing you. If you're useful, you'll live; if you're not useful, she won't kill you - no, she'll make you useful, because unlike her husband, she is merciful."


The last word hung in the air a moment. Sir Tintauri's lips had peeled back from his teeth, half wolfish smile, half wolfish snarl. 


"I will not take you to the Queen," he said at last, stooping and then rising with his stained mail shirt. "Your courageous father and brother have sent you away to this, I'm afraid. Either go to Madaire of your own accord and have it over with - perhaps he'll get tired of you quicker that way - or kill yourself. It's happened before. I'll help you if that's what you want." 
"Are you such a monster?" asked Tal, voice trembling. "Is that really your only answer for me?" 
Sir Tintauri gave one of his crooked grins. "We're all monsters here, my dear. Quite literally. But at least we're not your own flesh and blood." 


Tal crouched against the wall by Sir Tintauri's door that night, weighing all her options together carefully. She thought of her home and her beloved family with a wistful sadness for a while, knowing that she would not see them again. It was a fact now. There had only been a little hope before, true, but even that was gone as present matters stood. 
She would fight as long as she could, but she knew in her heart she wouldn't be strong enough to prevail for long afterwards. 
There was no alternative. Sir Tintauri had spoken. The Queen was no alternative. 
Tal rose, drawing in and letting out a deep, slow lungful of air, steeling herself. Then she opened Sir Tintauri's door. 
"My lord? Are you awake?" 
No answer. But she could not hear the sough and sigh of a dreamer's breath. 
"My lord?" 
"What is it?" his voice finally asked from the darkness, thick with sleep. 
"I don't ... I'm afraid of meeting Sir Madaire. Not tonight. May I spend at least this night in your room?" 
"I'm not your daddy," he replied with the same tired burr. "Thank the divine." 
"Please, my lord. I won't ask anything of you again - just one night. I ..." She paused. "I'll ... lie with you, even." 
"I don't want you, little girl," came the murmur. "I'm not Madaire. Let me sleep." 
"My lord, I beg you - only this, only this ..." 
"Hells! Come in, close the door and let me sleep!"
Relief washed over Tal. She stepped inside at once and pulled the door closed behind her, shutting the outside outside. 
It was cool and oddly light inside Sir Tintauri's chamber. The curtains were not drawn - there were none on the windows, she realised, nor shutters - and the waxing moon blazed through one narrow window, a brilliant white streak across the room. The knight lay on his back in the half-shadows just beyond the reach of the moonlight, half-tangled in his sheets, his new-washed hair even wilder after its bath. 
Tal approached the bed quietly, looking down at him for a moment, and reached into her shirt, below the tight wrap that bound flat her breasts. 
"I don't want you, I said," Sir Tintauri muttered, one grey eye opening half a slit as she bent low. "Go sleep by the window." 
"I only want to give you a mark of my gratitude, my lord," Tal replied. 
Then she withdrew her dagger, and stabbed him. 

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"Tintauri´s Squire (Part II)"

"Tintauri´s Squire (Part II)"

by;fernandjiromarantal

It was drizzling again as Tal hurried outside - not even slightly hungry, and not likely to win much from that rough scrabble for fine dinner in any case. The South Tower was a wet jog around the other side of the keep, past the rose garden and the groundsman's hut. The door to the tower itself was unguarded. Only a true idiot or a truly courageous assassin would even think of trying to kill a winterknight. 


Tal stepped gladly into the tower, shaking off the rain, and began to hurry up the stairs. It was cold in the stairwell, and probably much, much colder to sleep in the corridor. Bed in Narraine was linen and eiderdown. 


Narraine, Narraine, Narraine ... It echoed in Tal's head with every unwilling footfall. Narraine, Narraine, Narraine ... 


There was the third floor. Tal shook away the echoes, choking on bitter homesickness, and thought again about all those resolutions to be brave, to muster up the fullest of courage, before arriving in Ceorlhold. 


It was cold. There was a biting draught. The stone was unbelievably uncomfortable. But Tal curled up beside the door all the same, tightly closing both eyes against the horrible reality of the surrounds. 


There was no sleep, but there was rest, of a sort. The hours passed. Sometimes footsteps passed on the stairs as well, but none came into the third-floor corridor. Perhaps Sir Tintauri was already inside and asleep himself - in a real bed, no doubt. 


Tal lay there shivering a while longer, huffing into cupped hands and curling up as tight as possible for warmth, and finally heard more footsteps. Unlike the others, these did pause on the third landing, and then came down the corridor, the clean clip of a soldier's footsteps. 


"What's this?" came the laugh, and Tal started up on one elbow at the sound of Sir Madaire's silver voice. "I didn't think you'd change your mind quite so fast!" 


"I'm sorry, my lord," Tal said quickly, scrambling up to give a bow. "Y-your squire told me this was Sir Tintauri's room ..." 


Sir Madaire seemed to find that funny. His grin broadened even further, and he gave a ringing little chuckle. "He's precious, that Keal, he really is. Dear me." 


"I'll leave you to your rest -"


"You're a thoughtful boy. Don't worry - what was your name?" 


"Tal, my lord." 


"Don't worry, Tal, I'm a late sleeper. Especially when I'm bored. Come keep me company - I've wine to ward off the cold. Your lips are blue!" 


"You're very gracious, Sir Madaire, but Sir Tintauri may need -"


"Tintauri won't think one way or the other about you. Not while you're still breathing, anyway." The beautiful white youth laughed again at his own joke, mouth twisting just a little, then took Tal's arm at the elbow. 


"My lord, my lord, I really can't," pleaded Tal, resisting. 


"Of course you can," Sir Madaire soothed, opening his door with the other hand. "And let's face it, my lad, I haven't really given you a choice, have I?" 


The crack in the door was smiling too, widening like a parting mouth. Tal ducked and twisted around the winterknight's grip in a sudden lunge and broke free, slipping past him back towards the stairs. 


"Sweet divine!" exclaimed Sir Madaire with another laugh, this one slightly startled. "You're quicker than you look!" 


Cold air swished at Tal's back, warning that Sir Madaire, too, was very fast. Tal bolted back out onto the landing and started sprinting downstairs again, stumbling lightly over the pins and needles in one leg, heart and feet pounding faster than the pursuing footsteps - but only just. 


Down towards the first landing, a pale figure loomed hazy grey out of the darkness. Tal was moving too fast to react, but in another second it dodged and was gone, no longer standing in front. 


A moment later, a hand snatched and caught at Tal's scruff. 


"There are plenty of easier ways around here to break your neck," sighed Sir Tintauri's voice. "Try that on Scadamain, for examp- oh, I see. Madaire." 


"You should've seen him run!" Sir Madaire's voice exclaimed a little higher up and further back. "Keep an eye out if you take him outside, Tintauri. He might even get away." 


"I must admit, vulture, I'm pretty impressed if he gave you the slip." Tal said nothing, still trying to gasp back all that breath, as the winterknight turned them both in an about-face. "Serves you right. Go take a cold bath or five, for hell's sake." 


"Yes, you like yours cold, don't you, Corpseraker?" Sir Madaire returned with a nasty little grin, but he was already walking upstairs again, his own breath barely expended after the sprint. 


Sir Tintauri released Tal's scruff, pointing up the stairs as well. "Off we go," he said, yawning. 


"Which floor?" asked Tal, still panting. "One of the squires told me third floor, but ..." 


The winterknight gave another of his whooping little laughs. "Did he now? Sneaky bastard! Can't blame him if it's you in his place. I thought Madaire had come on a little hunt outside my door. He's done that before, you know." 


"Outside your door? What should I do if he does it again?" 


"Knock really, really loudly," the knight advised, flashing teeth as he laughed again. "Fourth floor. Come on, don't just stand there." 


Tal began to climb, trying to concentrate on the stony tower stairs rather than the orchards of Narraine. A door closed somewhere nearby - Sir Madaire's - and then the only sounds were their double footfalls. 


"My lord?" 


"Yes, my squire?" 


"Where was the Queen tonight?" 


"She eats alone, most of the time," replied Sir Tintauri. "I doubt you'll see her at dinner. Or very often at all. Not many do." 


"Do you?" 


"As much as anyone," the knight answered, no longer smiling. "You saw her today, I suppose." 


Tal thought about black-on-white, snow under a starless night. "Yes." 


Sir Tintauri did not reply. Perhaps another comment was called for. "I thought her very beautiful." 


"It doesn't matter what you or anyone else thinks of her," retorted the winterknight, glancing at Tal as if in surprise. "And even if it did - 'beautiful'? What's that mean?" 


"I don't know, my lord," Tal replied hesitantly. "I thought beautiful was ... beautiful. The Queen is beautiful." 


"So's Madaire, and you'd be asking for a roll down the stairs if you compared the two. And Madaire would be the one pushing you." Sir Tintauri stifled a yawn and pointed over Tal's shoulder at the fourth landing. 


"Everyone back home's always saying how much the winterknights love their Queen," said Tal after a pause. 


For some reason, that made him laugh again - loudly this time, shaking his head in helpless mirth as the echoes leaped off walls. "You're a really, really lousy flatterer, squire. I'd stop digging my hole any deeper if I were you. That's my door right there, by the way - remember what I said about the knocking."


And before Tal had a ready answer, apology or plea, the winterknight had already opened and closed the door behind him. 






Tal did not dare to sleep. The cold proved an ally there, at least. Eventual morning brought stiff misery and aches in body and soul, but light, as well. 


Can I do this? wondered Tal. I must, I must ... but can I really?


Sounds of movement had started to come from Sir Tintauri's room well before sunrise, but it was not until an hour after sunrise that the winterknight finally emerged. He still smelled like horse. 


"Oh, still there," the knight said as if in congratulations, busy with the catch of his cloak. Tal began to uncurl and rise, every limb numb or throbbing. "Well done. Can you saddle a mount?" 


"No, my lord." 


"Hm. Most of them usually can, you know. Never mind, come and I'll show you how it's done - once." 


Tal followed Sir Tintauri down the stairs, still trying to rub full life into both arms, and then cast a sharp look to the left as the third-floor door opened. 


"Tintauri," Sir Madaire greeted as he stepped onto the landing, yawning, his hair as washed and neat as Sir Tintauri's wasn't. "Oh, and young Lightning. Off with Scadamain?" 


"Be serious," replied the other. "Scadamain's at least two hours gone by now. The sun's up." 


"Then I hope you're not going to any kind of settlement looking - and smelling - like that." 


"The people I'm going to see aren't in any condition to criticise how I look or smell." 


"Ah." Sir Madaire grimaced in disgust. "You enjoy that, Corpseraker. Bet your squire will too." 


He headed on down the staircase, jogging down the steps with old practice, and was soon lost to sight. 


"You're not coming with me," said Sir Tintauri as they started moving again. "But if I were you, I really wouldn't give him cause to find that out today." 


The door opened behind them a second time, just before last sight of the third landing was lost. Tal caught only a glimpse of squire Keal's hopeless face, his eyes reddened with tears. 


Once they arrived in the stables - almost as busy with stablehands on the inside as it was busy with workmen outside - Sir Tintauri went into a lengthy description of saddle and tack, preparing his own mount as he spoke. It was a magnificent beast, a great, gleaming roan, twice as neatly groomed as its master. 


"Now," said the winterknight cheerfully towards the end, tugging out a bunched fold in the saddle-blanket as the stallion tried to sidle away, "I could go into a long spiel here about how Leth will crack your skull if you try to mount him yourself, but actually he probably won't. I will. We'll see about finding you something to ride once you've become a bit more useful - and assuming you last, too, of course - but until then, and even afterwards, you don't sit on my horse. Curiosity, cats, and so on." 


"Yes, my lord." 


"You may, however, sit in my horse's stall. That is in fact what I recommend you do today. Not very entertaining, I'm sure, but then not many people seem to like Madaire's ideas of entertainment." 


"Yes, my lord." 


"Rake it out while you're in there." 


"Yes, my lord." 


The stables reeked, but they were warm. Tal busied about with the rake as Sir Tintauri led his horse outside, stirring the hay in uncertain circles until a sarcastic stablehand demonstrated the proper meaning of 'rake it out'. Then, chore finished, Tal went and sat alone in the roan's empty stall. 


Sleep sprang in unexpectedly, brought on by the warmth and the relative comfort of the hay as compared to a stone corridor. It was the loud clanging of a fallen bucket that finally woke Tal again in a startled spray of hay. 


"Watch your hands!" a woman's voice snapped a little further down, short and breathless. "You spill anything on me and I'll remove them both for you!" 


"I'm s-"


"Damn it!" Footsteps rushed towards the stall where Tal crouched. "Tintauri's horse is gone. When did he - you! The squire!" 


The fierce, pale face of the female winterknight from dinner reared over the stall door. Her grey eyes blazed with urgency. "When did your master leave?" 


"I'm not sure ..." Tal replied meekly. "I ... I was sleeping ..." 


She thumped the stall door. "Then where did he go?" 


"I'm n-not -"


"You'll be not breathing in a moment! Think, boy!"


"He didn't say! I'm sorry! He didn't say! He only said ..." Tal broke off, realising it wasn't the most decorous remark. 


"You won't have time to regret being a fool if I open this door," the winterknight snapped. 


"He said he was going somewhere where no-one would care how he looked or s-smelled!" 


Tal expected more anger, but oddly enough the colourless woman leaned back from the door for a moment, looking relieved. "Breezes of heaven, someone's thinking." 


"Sir Tintauri left early this morning, Lady Auridine," a stablehand offered in the background. 


"Better! Even better!" She pulled away from the stall door, rattling it on loose hinges for a moment. "Since you're obviously so busy, squire, come to my room and let me know the moment he returns. It shouldn't be long if he left so early." 


"Which -?" Tal began, but the winterknight was already striding away, her firm steps rasping off through the thinner stable hay. 


Tal sat back down in the stall, stomach snarling with hunger. Where did squires go to eat during the day? Did they eat during the day? The idea of ringing a bell or calling a servant seemed like imagination now. It was all so hard, and only the second day ... 


As Lady Auridine had said, there was not long to wait before Sir Tintauri's return. One of the stablehands came running up to the stall and rattled the door to get Tal's attention. "He's here! Go get Lady Auridine!" 


"Which floor's her room?" 


"The sixth! Quick!" 


Tal ran out of the stables, spotting Sir Tintauri's roan riding up from the gatehouse, and hurried back towards the South Tower again, churning up the empty flights - second floor, third floor, fourth floor, fifth floor ... 


And stopped there, breathless and bewildered. There was no sixth floor. 


Was there a mistake? Had they meant the fifth floor? Tal hesitated a moment, then rushed to knock on the fifth floor door. There was no reply. Tal even screwed up enough courage to open the door and look around inside, but it was empty. Was it Lady Auridine's? Was she simply not there? Was it not her room? Had the stablehand played a trick on Tal as well? 


Tal waited outside the door a little while, then finally gave up, turning to descend at almost the same speed, one hand on the wall. The sound of Tal's footsteps danced and echoed alone in the stairwell only as far as the fourth landing, when another door opened and closed somewhere lower down. This time, recognising the subtle difference in the clean soldier's gait that followed, Tal realised very well who it was. 


"That you rushing around up there, Lightning?" Sir Madaire called up lazily from below. "Is Tintauri back? The bi- Auridine's looking for him." 


"Yes, my lord, he's back," replied Tal readily. "I just let Lady Auridine know." 


"Let her know?" The winterknight's voice quirked, puzzled. "What, just now?" 


"Yes, my lord." 


"Hm. I know you're fast, boy, but Heavenly Marhaya himself might be impressed if you just ran to the sixth floor of the keep and back." 


The keep? "No, that was before this, my lord ... I just took something back to Sir Tintauri's room for him ..." 


A little laugh echoed down below. "Funny you should knock, then." 


Tal remained silent a moment - then broke into a run again, leaping down the steps two and three at a time. After his own brief pause for surprise, Sir Madaire started to laugh again, emerging on the third-floor landing just in time to shout "Boo!" as Tal hurtled past. 


The winterknight didn't give chase, though. Tal kept running anyway, clattering back down the third and second flights in a virulent rush of panic ... then paused halfway down the first flight, throat seizing. 


The ground floor was a skittering, seething mass of white spiders, their bulbous, milky bodies gleaming like pearls. Fist-sized pearls. 


"Pretty impressive, eh?" Sir Madaire called down from above, descending at a leisurely pace now. "Bet you didn't know I could do that." 


Tal descended another two steps, teeth set, and then retreated one step again as a pair of spiders crawled onto the lowermost, their thin stick-legs tap-tap-tapping and feeling the way. 


"Fear not, dear boy! I'll protect you! Come stand behind me!" 


The winterknight's laughter thrummed in the stairwell, agitating the seething swarm of spiders. Tal cried out as another half-dozen, another dozen came tap-tap-tapping their way onto the stair, retreating another step. 


Sir Madaire continued to descend, pausing three or four steps behind Tal as the wave of spiders flooded higher. Tal held out as long as possible, clothes turning clammy with cold sweat, until the first spider lifted its two forelegs, touch-touch-touching, and crawled onto Tal's boot. 


Tal lurched back with another cry, and then another as the winterknight's arms forestalled the fall. 


"There we go," Sir Madaire murmured into Tal's ear. "Did I really need a horde of spiders? That's a bit sad, really. Stand up and be brave, now." 


The knight stood Tal up himself, one hand still resting on one shoulder, and descended another step with his free hand outstretched. His young face knit in concentration as he looked down at the spiders, and low, sonorous words in a patternless-sounding language began to spill from his lips. 


Tal took a long succession of deep breaths, trying to find the courage to face this. 


Then, with a half-cry, half-scream, Tal leaped down the last steps and lunged across the seething floor for the door, shedding spiders like hideous snowflakes in flight. 


Each step on the floor was like trampling eggs - milky, resinous remains splattered under and over both boots as they pounded down on spider and stone alike. Clinging spiders darted here and there in agitation, mostly over Tal's legs, scuttling and stinging until they were slapped or struck away. 


Tal burst back out into the daylight still slapping and sobbing in panic, continuing long after the last spider was gone. The bites burned with a cold pain, like ice pressed to bare skin, and already Tal's lips felt thick and numb. Will I die? Am I dying? I can't do this!


It was an odd choice for conscious brain or hindbrain to make, but before Tal was quite aware of it, there was the stable again. Stablehands stared in alarm as the squire stumbled in, still flailing at imagined spider-whispers, face wet with tears. 


"Sir Tintauri," Tal blurted out. 


"He's gone to see Lady Auridine, obviously," one of the hands replied slowly, looking Tal over. "You should have passed him on the way back." 


"Didn't ... find her." 


"Make sure she doesn't find you, then," another sighed. "She'll be very put out if she thinks you didn't do as you were told." 


"And what does she do?" shouted Tal. "Snakes?" 


Half-uncomfortable, half-apprehensive silence piled in as Tal slid down the wall and curled into a ball, clutching handfuls of dirty brown hair, twitching for every hay-prickle that imitated a creeping spider-leg. 


"I can't do this. I thought I could. I can't. I can't."