Fearing the worst, we'd hastily put on some armor, just shirts of mail and chestplates, while carrying arming swords and a knife each. Inconspicuous enough to walk the streets without causing alarm while potentially crucial in a close-quarters fight.
Nothing seemed unusual when Grey and I approached the Quill and Tankard at dusk. We crossed the rickety wooden bridge over the Honeywine with firm steps, trying to appear unhurried, but I kept my hands on the pommel of my sword the whole time.
The fading sunlight threw our shadows far across the small terrace outside. Best to do this before night fell. We gave each other a final nod before we pushed inside.
That's when I realized something terribly wrong must've happened.
Hightower guardsmen, almost a dozen of them, lined the walls of the common room, all armored in plate with their faces hidden under closed helmets. A short, brown-haired woman wearing a stained apron stood nervously in the middle of the floor, her eyes sweeping between the two people in the room that also caught my immediate attention.
The first was a man. A knight, certainly, tall and dark-haired, covered in a resplendent suit of pale enamelled armor. A half-cape draped over his shoulders in the gray and white colors of House Hightower. Unless it was some cousin I did not know, then by his age, he could only be Ser Baelor Hightower, Lord Leyton's firstborn.
The other rose from her seat as soon as our eyes met. I froze for a moment. A woman. Tall, too, perhaps only an inch or two shorter than I was, her hair a thick cascade of dark tresses accented by a streak of brilliant silver. Her cool lilac eyes bore into mine with an intensity I found unsettling.
I must've been stunned for longer than I realized. Before I noticed, she had bunched up her skirts and stalked right up to me. The man, Ser Baelor, saved me the trouble and halted her before she got too close.
"Malora, wait," he said, pushing his arm in front of her.
I swallowed. Suddenly my mouth had gone dry as dust. Malora Hightower. Leyton Hightower's second child and first daughter. A woman who would one day come to be known as the Mad Maid, locked in her tower reading books of spells with her father.
My gaze left the Hightower siblings for a second in favor of Jack and Jace sitting at a table like a pair of scolded school boys, worry now clear across their faces. Had they done something to cause the wrath of one of the Hightowers?
They seemed fine, if deeply uncomfortable. I didn't blame them. For smallfolk, a highborn noble taking even the smallest offense at something they had done could spell their deaths if the nobles were cruel enough.
Sure, there were certain laws for the protection of the common people, but unless they managed to escalate the issue somehow all the way to a higher lord or the Iron Throne, a local lord ruled his demesne just like a tyrant, with near absolute power.
I turned back to the lady in front of me, tall and pale like a marble statue, her deep green dress seemed to be made of gleaming emeralds under the inn's torchlight. By the way Malora Hightower was staring, you'd think one of the twins murdered her dog or worse.
If they had, then it would spell more than a little trouble for me. For no matter what had happened, I'd be getting Jack and Jace out of here alive and well. I wouldn't leave my men behind.
"Can I help you, my lady?"
She studied me for a moment, looking me up and down like a lab rat being prepped for some terrible experimentation. Her eyebrows pinched. She must've seen something she didn't like.
"You're just a boy," she said. Her voice was throaty as if stiff with disuse.
An eyebrow rose. "Oh?" Taking a deep breath to calm my own fraying nerves, I made sure to look down at her from my perch slightly above her. "My apologies for disappointing, I suppose."
"You're being rude, Malora," her brother said.
He shot me a conciliatory smile, and I felt myself relaxing a bit. It couldn't be too bad if Ser Baelor wasn't wroth himself.
Malora ignored him. "What is your name, boy?"
She seemed to like that word a lot despite being not much older than me, seventeen or eighteen at the most.
"Galladon Tarth, my lady." I gave her an appropriate bow. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
Baelor Hightower perked up. "Tarth?" he said. "As in, Ser Galladon Tarth? The Sapphire Knight?"
I had to fight to keep a smile from showing on my face at his words.
"It seems the day my reputation precedes me has finally come," I said jovially. "You must allow me to buy you a drink or two for being the first one to bring that up. Ser Baelor Hightower, I imagine?"
"Aye, Ser Galladon." He smiled. "A raven brought word of your victory at the tournament last week. My congratulations. I only wished I'd been able to attend, but duties kept me close to home."
"Then I can only thank the Seven you are a dutiful man, ser," I said. "It would've been a most arduous task to win the tourney were it otherwise. Your own reputation as a knight is well known even to us in Tarth, too. I've heard you swept all of the tourneys in the Reach for the past two years running."
Ser Baelor's face lit up at my praise. "An exaggeration, I assure you." Then he got cheeky. "It was only most tourneys, not all. Some happened in too quick succession to arrive in time to join."
I laughed despite myself. Whatever was happening here, it was not what I expected.
"Though, from what we heard, my coming would not have made much of a difference," he went on. "Ser Tygett Lannister. Ser Arthur Dayne. Prince Rhaegar. I would count myself lucky to defeat even one of them in the field, ser."
We exchanged pleasantries back and forth, then he switched to asking me about the jousting itself, how I trained, what kind of horse I had, and I went on to inquire about his recent victories and the best riders he'd faced.
To the side, Malora seemed to grow increasingly frustrated as our conversation went on. Her cheeks had turned red, angry or embarrassed or both at being ignored. Considering she was likely the one behind this whole thing, she would have to forgive me for my lack of sympathy.
She suddenly pulled her brother by the arm. "Baelor." Her voice came out like a hiss. "What are you doing?"
"Uh, speaking with Ser Galladon?" he asked, puzzled.
Malora gave him a death glare before huffing, "Forget it."
Then she turned to me, pulled something from a hidden pocket sewn into the flowing skirts of her dress, and shoved it in front of me.
"Take this, boy," she said imperiously. She held a long, parchment-covered parcel in her hand.
I decided I was in safe enough territory to tease her.
"I'm sorry, are you speaking with me or someone else?" I asked, tilting my head.
She gritted her teeth and gripped whatever she was holding tightly. I almost expected her to swing it at me, before she exhaled, narrowing her eyes at me.
"Just take it, Galladon Tarth, and consider yourself fortunate I don't have you thrown into the Hightower's dungeon for deceiving me."
Deceiving her? The question seemed to show in my face, for when I turned to Ser Baelor, he just gave me a helpless shrug. I answered him with a similar shrug and took the parcel from her hands. Something long, thin, and heavy.
Then she stormed away, heading to the door. "Come along, Baelor, it's almost nightfall."
The knight's eyes widened in surprise. "Oh, so it seems," he said, looking toward the darkening terrace outside. "You will have to forgive us, Ser Galladon, but my lord father commanded me to return with Malora before sunset."
He made to step after his sister, then stopped. "Would you mind if I wrote to you, ser?" he asked. "We could trade tips and suggestions for upcoming tourneys."
Surprised, I inclined my head. "It would be an honor," I said. "And just Galladon, if you will."
He grinned. "Baelor, then."
Before they left, Malora Hightower halted a foot away from the threshold. She shot me one last look over her shoulder. "We shall speak later, Tarth."
Then she was gone through the doorway. Their guardsmen followed behind, all steel and discipline as they stomped away.
I stood there in their wake, steeped into the silence that had taken the inn. The innkeeper had retreated behind the bar, but she was staring at me wide-eyed as if I was some kind of ghost. The lads, too, seemed too stunned to say anything, watching me for any reaction.
Instead of speaking, I looked down at the parcel Malora Hightower left with me. Pulling at the parchment, I peaked inside. A rod of some kind. Long, maybe three feet, and black as midnight.
Frowning, I reached with my other hand into the parchment, ready to take the rod out of its parcel. Then I felt it. It was cold. As cold and crystal-like as glass.
Oh. Everything came together then.
I looked through the open door into the dusky light outside, thoughts churning. For some reason, Malora Hightower had given me a glass candle.
xxx
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