Blood of the Red

Chapter 17 - Ingold

"Haloooo the ship!"

"Seven buggering Blood-Lords!" Ingold cursed. He swore and spat by turns as he negotiated an extortionate return to Glorsa, and then negotiated treacherous rope ladder onto the Feckfish brothers' boat. His store of curses ran deep but he came close to running dry. The voyage back to Glorsa occasioned the minting of a dozen wholly new oaths.

Ingold shook the memory from his head. The boy got off lightly.

Cap'n Elbard stood by the tiller, a reeking pipe hanging precariously from the corner of his mouth. He was doing something complicated, involving the knotting of two bits of rope, and seemed to have Dain entranced. Lifting his wind-burned face for a moment he caught Ingold's gaze and waved cheerily,

"Aye and isn't it a luverly day for sailing, eh?"

Every third wave sent a spray of brine up over the Farland's deck as it slapped against her sides. Already salt crusted in the bard's recent growth of reddish beard. Every inch of him felt grimy.

"I hate boats."

They made landfall an hour before dawn, in the dark of the moon. The clear skies glowed with a haze of stars, and by starlight alone Elbard navigated his course along the Stannith peninsula. The black outline of the ruin, high on the next headland, signalled journey's end. For the longest time Ingold stood at the rail, eyes fixed on the dark mystery of the broken hall, seasickness forgotten.

Ingold and the 'captain' rowed ashore, with Dain curled in the prow of the little rowboat, sleeping. Lazy breakers rolled ahead of them, lit by gentle phosphorescence.

With the boy in his arms, still sleeping, Ingold waded up onto the beach. He settled up amongst the dunes, hunched under his cloak beside Dain, waiting for the light.

As the first grey fingers of day reached over the headland Ingold rose silently. Shaking off the dew, he threaded a trail up toward the ruin.

Blackened rafters, like the ribs of a whale, reached for each other above Ingold's head. They jutted from the carcass of Stannith Hall, stark against a slate grey sky.

The bard's eyes saw another hall, painting the ruin with memory.

Cherubs had frolicked in sunlit heavens. The ceiling had been a masterwork by Giovinni, painted in the time of Ingold's grandfather. Crystal chandeliers, from the glassworks of Elgia, had glittered above a thousand feasts.

Cinders and broken glass crunched beneath Ingold's boots. The stench of burned wood caught at his throat, though no fire had burned here in ten years. The wind picked up, moaning through the high windows in the west wall.

The minstrels' gallery had been a wondrous piece of carved mahogany. Though few chanced to notice the craftsmanship, so high above the dancers' heads, not an inch of it stood unworked. Often times Ingold forsook the dance to join the players. Their music, fierce and joyous, then soft, then sorrowful, had swooped and soared within the hall.

The wind sang through the ruin's high windows. It entered by the western door, tugging at Ingold's cloak. It swirled in corners, stirring up dust devils to dance and spin before the great hearth.

Karalynn had twirled before the fireplace. Her dress was taffeta and silk. Rich violet and deepest blue, her dark hair tumbling. They had all danced, Karalynn, Ingold, Sarah, Jamus. It could have been yesterday.

Ingold knelt before the hearth. Most of the far wall had fallen the previous winter but the chimney stood like a tower. There was no colour here, only old stone, stinking cinder, grey bracken dying back after the summer's advance. In the ash, a gleam drew his eye. Questing fingers found a cunning twist of gold, the artist's detail erased by fearsome heat. Karalynn's ear-ring.

"I'm here again," Ingold murmured.

They had promised.

"Every year!"

"Friends forever!"

"Never too old too dance on all Hallows Eve."

Ingold let the ear-ring fall.

"Alone again."

He remembered the fire. It had taken so rapidly. The smoke had been so thick, so blinding. King Attlus's son, Handelf, had been quick to strike. Before news of his father's murder spread, the new King of Conault sent out his personal blood guard, to silence any who might protest the manner of his inheritance. Yekrin, the traitor captain, supervised the burning of Stannith hall in person.

Tears sprang up in eyes that remembered the sting of the smoke. The wind lifted again stirring up old dust. Ingold Stannith knelt in his ancestral hall and watched the ghosts dance.

"I thought you'd left again." Dain stood on the rubble of the south wall.

"No lad. Just paying my respects. This was my home."

"What happened?"

"I wasn't strong enough to protect it."

"You were strong enough for me, back in Thelim."

"Aye. I can best a drunken lumberjack. Against some powers though . . . Well, that is something we might soon remedy.

Come, we've a journey ahead of us. There are some old acquaintances that need renewing."