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  From his position on the stage, seated between Castimir and Ebenezer, Gar’rth watched the sea of well-dressed nobility below. No women were yet present, for their entrance was kept back for the ninth hour, only minutes away now.

  “I am nervous for Kara,” Castimir said, looking warily in the direction of an older man who sat at their table some distance away, a green-tinted monocle clutched in his right eye. He was dressed in robes similar to his own, but of grey, not blue.

  He is nervous, Gar’rth mused. That man is of the Tower as well, and very senior. And Castimir has not been honest with his masters.

  He peered around the room irritably. There were too many people here, too many smells filling his senses, and far too much noise for him to think clearly.

  He felt Ebenezer’s hand rest on his arm.

  “Are you well Gar’rth?” the alchemist asked quietly. “I see you are drinking beer.”

  “Yes.” He detected the old man’s concern easily, so Ebenezer probably meant it to be obvious. “So is Theodore… and Doric, and Castimir. And so are you,” he challenged, his tone harsher than he had meant it to be.

  Ebenezer frowned and looked away, and Gar’rth felt a stab of guilt in his stomach. Castimir lowered his drink and gazed at him in concern. Doric, sitting across from them on a raised chair, did likewise. Theodore, sitting near the King himself, was too far away to notice.

  Are they so afraid of me that I cannot even celebrate with them? My friends?

  “I am sorry, Ebenezer,” he said. “I will only have one. I have been… better recently.”

  “Good-it’s not a good idea to drink too much,” the old man cautioned. “Not here. Not when you are so unfamiliar with your surroundings.”

  Gar’rth nodded and stood.

  “I need air. The smells, the noise here.” He shook his head. “Too much.”

  “I’ll come with you, I think,” Castimir said, glancing quickly at the old man in the grey robes who returned the stare with a raised eyebrow.

  They descended the steps from the stage and found themselves in among the press of people. Gar’rth felt hands and elbows brush against him as he forced his way to the door which led out onto a terrace overlooking the western bailey.

  I hate it here. These people are all so false.

  A man barred his way and for a moment Gar’rth was surrounded, pressed in from all sides. Different odours assailed him-the grim decay of a man’s breath illustrated by rotting teeth, the sweat-coated body of another, and the artificial sickly sweetness of fragrance. He heard Castimir call to him from somewhere behind, but the wizard’s words were lost as the orchestra played faster and louder than before.

  Then a woman shouted in sudden fear.

  And above it all, he could smell blood. Fresh blood.

  He couldn’t concentrate. A man pushed him in the back and as he gasped he was free of the crowd. A shape moved next to him, black and red, the scent of blood overpowering.

  The woman screamed again.

  Suddenly he was face to face with a wolf’s head on a man’s body. An obscene sight made worse by a man’s cackle from behind the wolf’s dead eye sockets.

  “Gar’rth! Come on!” Castimir was at his side. The wizard took his hand as the jester with the wolf’s head leapt into the air and cackled again and for the first time Gar’rth saw the sick pantomime in full. A young maiden, dressed in white, ran through the crowds and onto the stage, shrieking with exaggerated gestures, while the wolf pursued her in a game of chase.

  “What’s that about?” Castimir asked as the woman shrieked again, barely evading the jester’s groping hand to the laughter of the onlookers. They were near the western door now, and from the terrace beyond, their question was answered.

  “It is a tradition,” said a pale-faced man with a hooked nose. “A wolf is killed on this day every year and its head is paraded around upon the jester’s shoulders as he pursues a maiden, pretending to be a werewolf. The maiden escapes, of course. A pity real life is different, for Morytania does not lose those victims it hounds.”

  The speaker peered at them through narrow, cold eyes.

  “Ah, Lord Ruthven isn’t it?” Castimir said as he bowed.

  The man nodded. Gar’rth felt those eyes rest on him.

  “You both know something of Morytania,” he said. “And of werewolves also, I believe?”

  Gar’rth froze. He caught Castimir’s panicked eye.

  “I know that Jerrod is in Varrock, with Sulla,” Lord Ruthven continued. “Kara-Meir told the King this afternoon. You have fought the werewolf before, have you not?”

  “We have,” Castimir said. “He was at the monastery, east of Ice Mountain-and before that in Falador, where Kara wounded him.”

  “Did your magic not work against him?”

  Castimir nodded grimly.

  “It did, but the werewolf took my runes. Without them I am powerless.”

  “Ah, the runes!” Lord Ruthven lowered his voice. “There are too few of them now. Too few wizards, as well.”

  Gar’rth saw a flicker of surprise pass over Castimir’s face, then the wizard and the nobleman exchanged a knowing look before Ruthven continued.

  “Nonetheless, with or without magic, Jerrod must be hunted and slain. Werewolves and creatures from Morytania are given no quarter in Misthalin.”

  Castimir glanced at Gar’rth, who remained silent, determined not to react.

  I have known that for a long time. It is the same in Asgarnia as well.

  An enticing breeze flowed in from outside, and Gar’rth breathed in deeply to clear the pollution of the hall from his senses. The bailey was populated with yew trees and grasses, an oasis of nature in the city of men. It was a relief.

  He breathed in again, and this time he sensed the newcomer before he saw him. Clean robes and soap differentiated Lord William’s scent from most others.

  “The ladies are about to enter,” the young man said. “Come. It would not do to miss them.”

  Gar’rth followed Castimir back to the stage as the double doors to the north were opened. All eyes fell on Kara-Meir as she entered the Great Hall. She walked at the front of the column of women, her dress ballooning outward from below her waist, a yellow cloak hanging from a golden chain about her throat. Her waist-length hair had been ornately styled in curled plaits, with a yellow ribbon tied at its apex.

  Behind her, Gar’rth saw Lady Anne, whose jaw was firmly set.

  “I would have thought it would have been Lady Anne leading the girls,” Lord William mumbled to Castimir, who gave a smile. “It is so unlike her to follow in second place.”

  A red rose leaf caught in Kara’s hair, thrown by one of the many young children of noble birth who were too young to participate in the dances. They lined the way to the stage, carrying small buckets and raining red and white leaves upon the women.

  “Why do they do that, with the rose petals?” Castimir asked.

  “It’s a symbol of summer, and with it, fertility, I imagine,” Lord William replied. “Ah! There is Lady Caroline, standing behind Lady Anne and next to your friend Arisha.”

  “You should go and throw a rose petal over her,” Castimir advised.

  Lord William laughed.

  “I will do just that, Castimir,” he said. “Excuse me.” The nobleman gave a last grin as he hastened down the steps.

  Their happiness is strange to me, Gar’rth thought as they arrived at their table.

  “Arisha looks nice, Castimir.” He heard Doric say. Gar’rth looked to their barbarian friend. Among all the women, Arisha stood out, for she was dressed according to the customs of her people, and not the court of Varrock. Her arms, legs and midriff were exposed, for she wore a leather brassiere and short brown skirt. Her wrists and neck displayed elegant jewellery, and as ever she wore her silver tiara in her now-straightened black hair.

  “But have you seen what Kara-Meir is wearing, Lord Despaard?” Gar’rth heard someone say not far away. The speaker was a shrivell
ed old man in a great black-bearskin fur. “The yellow cloak and ribbon? I am not sure if the King will be amused.”

  “It has been over a year since she died, Papelford,” came the response. “It is important for the realm that he moves on. A Queen must be found, an heir needs to be born. If Kara-Meir has acted knowingly, then I applaud her boldness. If not, then it is a fortunate reminder.”

  Gar’rth saw now that many people spoke to one another, their eyes all on Kara, some in puzzlement, one or two in open disbelief. And the King himself stared also, his face impassive.

  Kara-Meir approached the stage as the orchestra ended their play. In the silence, the King stood.

  “Kara-Meir, you will be seated at my side,” he said. “Your dress is an appropriate one for this time of year, and yet it bears a familiarity that is painful to me. You are aware of this, are you not?”

  What game is this, Kara?

  She climbed the steps, holding her dress carefully. Behind her, Lady Anne followed, her eyes burning wildly, a smile ill-disguised on her lips.

  “I am aware of it, my King,” Kara replied. “Lady Anne was kind enough to explain to me how the last young lady who wore yellow was a favourite of yours. But she also explained how such a dress would serve to remind you of happier times, and she insisted that I wear it.”

  Kara turned back to Lady Anne and gave a polite curtsey as the other woman looked on in amazement.

  “I would not dare to presume-” Lady Anne stammered.

  “Lady Anne,” Kara interrupted, “I arrived in Varrock this morning with no sense of style or fashion. Everything I wear today is entirely to your credit.” Her eyes flashed angrily. “And to yours alone.”

  Someone laughed suddenly from below, and the tension relaxed. King Roald extended his hand and Kara took her seat at his side. Above, the orchestra commenced with a new tune.

  She is angry, Gar’rth observed. Lady Anne hides it well but she is burning now.

  The wolf-headed jester appeared at the base of the stairs. He gave a howl and charged up, where he danced around the simmering woman, assaulting with comical gestures as if intent on devouring her.

  But Lady Anne remained still.

  “It will take more than a wolf to humiliate me, Gleeman,” she said caustically.

  “Ah, no doubt!” he responded. “But at least my ugliness is only skin deep.” There were gasps, and the room rippled with laughter as Lady Anne took a half-hearted swipe at him as he ducked nimbly aside. Then, with a suddenly delicious smile, she found her seat near Theodore.

  As the music changed, a dance began on the floor in front of the platform. A circle of women stepped to the open area, joined hands, and danced in a round, while Gideon Gleeman disposed of the wolf’s severed head, then tumbled and jumped and leapt in their midsts, encouraging them with his acrobatics. Lord William successfully ambushed Lady Caroline, drenching her in a rain of rose petals while lutes and harps and voices provided a merry accompaniment.

  Doric drank and talked with Lowe, the King’s fletcher, Castimir spent his time talking to Arisha, and Ebenezer fell into animated conversation with the merchant Draul Leptoc, explaining his steam engine and the role it had played following the war.

  After the circle dances came the private ones. Gar’rth noticed Lady Anne’s look of triumph as she lifted Theodore’s hand in hers and led him to the floor. Kara shared a brief dance with King Roald.

  Only I remain alone.

  Gar’rth left the table and found his way into the crowd below the stage. At one point a young woman fell against him with a delightful cry, peering up at him, only to turn aside quickly when she saw his face.

  Fear, he thought. They fear me. Even my friends. They all fear me. Do these people secretly know that I am different?

  Gar’rth moved to the terrace door again, and this time continued outside. The sky was dark now. He took a deep breath at the terrace’s edge. The scent of nature, imprisoned in the walls of the palace, comforted him. He heard a voice behind, and he knew his privacy would not last.

  I don’t want to talk now.

  Not to anyone. Not even Kara.

  He stepped back into the shadows, against the wall. Only a yard away a young man ran out, leading a woman by the hand. Quickly they ran down the terrace steps and disappeared into the darkness of the bailey.

  But the night held no secrets from Gar’rth. He watched them find a spot below a yew tree, far enough from the hall to be private in their eyes. He tried to look away, but could not.

  Suddenly his anger grew. There could never be anyone like that for him, not here.

  He turned to the door as the old man Papelford appeared before him. The man’s scent was of old books. Behind him came Lord Despaard.

  “Excuse me,” the old librarian muttered as both men passed him and walked some distance away, talking in low voices. “Not much farther Lord Despaard. I am not so young any more.”

  “I just want to be sure we cannot be heard, Papelford.”

  Gar’rth turned back to the balustrade, deliberately moving away from the two men who now stood at the farthest end of the terrace, out of the reach of the torchlight.

  “Don’t be so paranoid Lord Despaard,” the old man whispered, though his voice was still clear to Gar’rth. “He can’t hear us. Not from that distance. No one could.”

  Gar’rth smiled.

  “This heroine, Kara-Meir,” Papelford said cautiously. “Do you think she knew to wear that dress? She risked the King’s wrath to do so.”

  “I sense the hand of Lady Anne involved here, Papelford. Perhaps she sought to embarrass Kara-Meir, but it appears the King was more tolerant than she believed.” He glanced in Gar’rth’s direction. “But tell me, what did you really want to speak about out here?”

  “It is my apprentice.”

  “Reldo?” There was genuine surprise in the nobleman’s voice. “He is perfectly suited for this work, surely. His memory is incredible, he can recall anything he’s ever read. He is from a good and trusted family. He’s-”

  “All of that and more Lord Despaard. Yes, I know. But he asks too many questions about what we do. He’s guessed half the truth, I am sure of it.”

  “That is not an issue. In fact, it was an inevitability, if he was doing the job properly. You are an old man, Papelford. We need someone in the archives who can be trusted. Reldo is good at what he does.”

  Papelford made a noise that reminded Gar’rth of a bird choking.

  “He’s not good. I want him moved.”

  Lord Despaard sighed.

  “I will talk to Lord Ruthven about it,” he said. “The Society of the Owl needs a good and trusted archivist, more now than ever- with these killings and the approach of the prophecy.”

  The two men fell silent for a moment.

  “Tell me, old friend, do you really believe it will come true?” Lord Despaard sounded weary.

  “I don’t know,” Papelford responded. “But who could claim to be a truer king than King Roald? His line goes back at least a thousand years.”

  “I hope you are right.”

  A new tune started from inside the hall, and a poet began to speak.

  “Ah, the ‘Ballad of Tenebra and Ailane’,” Papelford muttered. “Come, this tragedy is a favourite of King Roald’s, for it reminds him-as well as the rest of us-of what his family have suffered at the hands of Morytania. Although he needs no reminding, not after this creature murdered his fiancee.”

  Murdered his fiancee?

  “The kingdom need not know that,” Lord Despaard warned as the two men walked back into the light of the torches. Gar’rth turned, feigning surprise.

  They said nothing as they vanished into the hall, and Gar’rth was left alone.

  He stood on the terrace for several minutes, half-listening to the ballad, before he caught a familiar scent behind him.

  “Arisha,” he said without turning.

  The barbarian priestess approached him, her booted feet crunching the gra
vel.

  “I saw you leave,” she said. “You’ve been gone some time.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you all right, Gar’rth?”

  “I don’t like it here, Arisha. I am afraid.”

  “You?” She didn’t attempt to mask her surprise. “Afraid of what? Jerrod won’t…”

  Gar’rth gave a harsh laugh.

  “Not Jerrod, Arisha. I am afraid of…” He paused and shook his head. “I have run from one place to another, then another. I can’t keep running.”

  He looked at her, and felt a sudden anger when he saw her eyes widen in sympathy.

  “Then speak to Kara, Gar’rth,” she said. “Tell her how you feel.”

  “She knows, Arisha.”

  “No she doesn’t,” the barbarian replied. “She suspects, but she does not know.”

  Gar’rth shook his head again.

  “She would say no,” he said grimly. “She knows what I am.”

  “And she knows who you are, as well. She knows the good you’ve done at her side.” Arisha fell silent, and Gar’rth saw her shiver. “It is cold out here,” she said after a moment. “Will you come inside with me?”

  “Yes,” he said. He looked her straight in the eye, and he thought he saw her blink nervously. “But not because I feel the cold. I rarely do.”

  Inside the hall, the ballad was ending and had given way to more raucous behaviour. From his position near the door Gar’rth saw a small crowd gathered around a table, cheering. He noted Lady Anne looking on, watching from the stage.

  The crowd around the table jostled slightly, revealing two men engaged in an arm wrestle.

  “It’s Theodore,” Arisha murmured with a slight smile.

  Gar’rth watched the contest with interest before the crowd hid the contestants from view. Someone gave a cry and then another man shouted in victory as half the crowd cheered and the rest groaned.

  “Sir Theodore loses! It seems not even the finest warrior in Varrock can beat Sir Frey.” The crowd parted and Gar’rth saw Theodore stagger up and massage his right hand. The knight’s opponent was a much larger and older man, with arms thick and powerful like a blacksmith’s.