1.2: The Keep

The Furl’s Keep, like so many of the other great structures of the city, was an addition, and had been built after the war had ended. It stood at the end of the great ivory plaza we simply called the ‘Ring’, its front doors meeting the white stones as if Ring and Keep had been built at the same time like interlocking puzzle pieces.

That wasn’t the case of course. The Ring was much older and of Herald-make. Its stones were subtly decorated and etched with tiny lines and miniscule spirals but otherwise they were perfectly smooth, white as bone, and hard as glass. Our horses’ hooves rang metallically against them almost as if we rode over the flat of a giant sword blade and inscriptions aside, these stones were also perfectly reflective so that on a clear day it was like walking across the surface of massive mirror, your image beneath your boots. I remembered how brightly it shone when the sun was out and how painful it was on the eyes.

               Behind it the Furl’s Keep squatted in the rain. Eight years ago a second Eyrie had stood here and the Furl had been forced to hold court inside it, even as it was dismantled piece by piece to make way for her new seat of power. Supposedly, sometime after I had left, they had tried to tear up the Ring too to put in some war monument only to have the stones resist all attempts at removal. But because the location was directly at the city’s heart and probably more so because Grenja wanted to make a point, the Eyrie was torn down, the Keep stuck in its place, and the Ring left to sit in front and reflect everyone that came and went.

               At the massive pine doors in the front, more men in the Furl’s dark blue came forward to take our horses. Ezra swung blithely down, handing her gelding’s reins over to the waiting guardsman, only to realize that neither Seerhus nor I had dismounted.

               “The Furl is expecting you,” Seerhus said.

               “Let her wait a few.”

               He raised an eyebrow again.

               “Marcus inside?” I hated to ask but I’d be damned if I walked in blind.
               “No. He’s at Blackwater, scouting. The rumors have made everyone jumpy.” He shrugged noncommittally, no easy feat in full armor. “Now every village and every farmers’s post from here to Asherton swears they see Heralds in every shadow and rogue Dell’an behind every tree.” He met my eyes. “You know how it is.”

               I swung myself out of my saddle and dropped to the wet, hard ground of the Ring, my boots ringing against the stone. I handed my reins over to the helmeted soldier at my elbow, met Ezra’s eyes and jerked my head in the direction of the Keep, and was turning to go when Seerhus stopped me.

               “Valis.”

               I glanced back.

               “There’s a tavern not far from here called Otter’s. Right by the-” He started to say something, caught sight of Ezra watching us with a curious expression, and thought better of it. “We should talk,” was all he said instead.

               I looked at him, sitting straight as the damn banner in his saddle, unflinchingly meeting my eyes, trying as he had once to always do the bigger, better thing. Even if the bigger, better thing was intensely painful. For everyone involved.

               “We’ll see,” I said. It was the best I could do right then.

                Seerhus nodded. He gestured for his small escort group to move again and wheeled his horse around, probably heading back to collect the scattered remnants of my caravan. I didn’t watch him go, was already moving to the doors. I knew what it had cost him to offer but I also know what it would cost me to accept.