Tom stood before Devilsbluff Hall’s gatehouse.
Behind the wall, the hall rose like a pale mountain, menacing in the light of the winter moon. Behind him stretched nearly half a mile of snowy tree-lined avenue, miles of frigid windswept coastline and leagues of twisting forest trails, all of which he had traversed in the last few days to reach this rocky promontory. So why was it so hard to knock on that gate?
The armless nymphs and fractured heroes to either side of the path mocked him with their snow-swept, stony eyes. He straightened, turned his back on them, and forced himself forward. His adopted son, Tarkin, was missing; kidnapped from their home. And Werner Stephron, the Lord of Devilsbluff, was the only man Tom knew he could trust to help him get him back.
Gritting his teeth, he gripped the worn brass ring bolted to the gates. It was fashioned in the shape of a grinning bat, its wings curled back from an open, fang-filled mouth to form a circle. He rapped six times, each more rapid and urgent than the last. Finally, after what felt like an age, a tiny window set in the door opened and a guard’s face appeared.
“Who goes abroad on this ghoul’s night?”
“Tomwyn Balkray. I’ve come to see Lord Stephron.”
The guard looked him up and down. His lip curled in distaste.
Tom knew his request must sound absurd. Blood and grime stained his clothes. Mud, lice and the gods knew what else inhabited the nest that was his hair, but panic had not let him rest even one day. He couldn't take the chance that while he was busy bathing, Tarkin wasn't being harmed by those who had stolen him away.
“The news I bear cannot wait,” Tom said.
“News from where?”
“Seagate,” Tom said, giving the name of the king’s castle and his point of departure. “I bear news of the prince. And more. You must tell his lordship I am here.” He hesitated. That information alone might not be enough to convince Stephron to see him, especially after Stephron had made it clear that his ties to Severnhelm were no more. But twenty years was a long time. Wasn’t it worth a try? “Tell him…tell him I have come to share the truth.” Saying the words set free some of the panic he had compressed into the pit of his stomach. How would Stephron react?
“Seagate,” repeated the guard. “That’s quite a journey.” He looked past Tom into the night, then back, eyes narrow.
“Please open your gates,” Tom said. He did his best to keep impatience from inflecting his tone. “Lord Stephron would want to hear me out, even at this hour.”
“Come back on the morrow and tell him yourself. Our lord makes time to see all manner of folk,” the guard said in a voice that seemed to imply that he thought the policy absurd. “Perhaps after a bath or two,” the guard added. “You reek. I let you in here like that and we’d be scrubbing the smell out for days.”
The hatch slammed shut. In the sudden silence Tom thought his heart unnaturally loud. His anger flared, and he bashed at the weathered timbers, not caring that such an action was all but guaranteed to ensure he would not be admitted. All those weeks of worry, all those days of travel, of deprivation… He slammed the knocker again. After a while it became clear that the guard was not coming back.
So this was to be it? He was supposed to just walk away? To give up? He’d given up everything once and headed deep into the mountains where finding the boy was supposed to have been harder than finding a virgin in Tanxi. That cursed forest. Those unfriendly hills. He’d lived free of the trappings of civilization like a bloody hermit all these years while others feasted nightly on the spoils of his sacrifice. And now he was supposed to walk away and wait on Stephron's convenience?
Tom felt the eyes of the alabaster statues upon him. Devilsbluff’s bitter sea wind numbed him, but he did not pull his coat tighter around his shoulders. He sniffed at his armpit and moved his head away in disgust. I wouldn’t have let me in either.
What was the more foolish? That he had braved the winter sea and Devilsbluff’s jagged rocks on a fool’s errand to see a man who owed him no favors and hated him with a vengeance, or that after doing so he was now considering walking away like a cowed dog?
Snow swirled, landing in his eyelashes and settling on his shoulders. The fingers of his left hand closed on the pommel of his sword. The scabbard still felt strange against his right hip instead of his left, where he had worn it for so many years. He clenched his jaw, swallowed his pride, and walked back along the path towards the warm glow of the main street with its taverns, bars, musicians and shoe-shine boys. There was nothing more that could be accomplished here.
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