The Castle on the Hill, Ch. 6

We Tread Upon the Winding Road

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Midnight had come and gone, and the late night had drawn to the earliest hours of morning. Yet for those packed into Count Giancarlo’s drawing room, one would hardly be able to tell unless they looked outside. With his own kin in open argument with three heads of the Tarnesian family - Lord Hector, who had been; Lord William, who still was; and eldest son Alexander, who stood to inherit - the bickering was akin to the most heated of days spent at court.

The Count slumped in his high backed seat. Normally, the plush cushions of red velvet were a comfort when entertaining guests, but right now the springy texture pressed against the tension in his back in a way that felt as if they threatened to vault him from the seat at any moment. An imagined threat, but as he sat with eyes squeezed shut, rubbing the bridge of his nose in a fruitless attempt to drive off the growing ache in his head, part of him wished it would. It might offer him a welcome distraction from the bickering, then.

Lord Hector’s deep voice boomed through the chamber. “I am not some backwoods bumpkin for you to disrespect, trollop!” he said.

His wrinkled face was red with fury and spittle flew from his lips as he directed his words to the source of his ire - the Count’s ever troublesome second daughter, Myla, who stared at the old man with a proud grin stretching across her red painted lips. Though she bore the appearance of a noble lady with her belled white gown, braided tresses of dark brown, and made up features, her taunting mien suggested anything but. “Backwoods, no, but a bumpkin all the same,” she mocked, further incensing the old Lord and further worsening her father’s headache.

Lord Hector barked yet more obscenities at her, but his voice broke, cutting his words short with a sudden coughing fit. The old Lord doubled over and William, his son and the current Tarnesian patriarch, hurried to his side to support him. However, instead of accepting the aid, Lord Hector swiped at his son with a backhand swing that fell short, but stopped him in his tracks.

“Leave me be, you useless buffoon!” he spat between coughs. “If not for your incompetence, Paul wouldn’t be missing in the first place!”

“With respect, Lord Hector, Paul’s decisions were his own.”

Those words came from Count Giancarlo’s second son, Eduard, and they drew a sharp glare from the old man as he sank into his own seat. However, caught in the throes of his fit as he still was, he couldn’t word a response. Alexander could, though, and the young man was quick to lay fault at the feet of the Count’s family once more. More specifically, he laid the blame on Katrine, citing her rebellious flight as a sign of the Count’s poor qualities as a father.

Thus did the cycle of bickering begin anew. Janette and Eduard were quick to come to their father’s defense. Myla once more showed her sharpened tongue and met the Tarnesian men insult for insult in their verbal duel. Only Count Giancarlo and his beloved Annalise remained silent, the Count in an effort to hold back his slowly boiling anger, and Annalise because she recognized that speaking on his behalf would only serve to undermine his authority, a lesson lost to the heated passions of their children. However, while she looked on with an expression of quiet restraint, the good Count knew all too well the fury that was building within his wife’s svelte frame. A fury that might just break loose if he didn’t act soon.

The sign came in the form of her hands. Stately and polite as she was, she stood upright with both hands crossed in front of her at the waist. Still wearing her emerald bell dress, its fabric and golden accents reflecting the light of the candles in the chandelier and many brass pickets set about the drawing room. In that golden light she appeared to him as a faerie queen, beautiful and ethereal, but her hands gave the truth away. Seated as he was, a simple turn of the eyes was all it took to gain a perfect view of her delicate hands. Hands which were white at the backs and knuckles. Hands which trembled, just a little, for how tightly they gripped each other.

Count Giancarlo took in a long breath through his nose. As he did, his green-eyed gaze met with Annalise’s deep blue, and in them he saw steel and fire. Yes, he understood.

The Count’s hand dropped away from the bridge of his nose, and before him, the two families fought. Lord Hector gripped the lion headed ends of his armrest with withered, white-kunckled fingers, his face red as he spat condemnations at Myla’s cackling mockery. Eduard and Alexander seemed ready to come to blows. Behind them, Lord William looked impotent and lost as he searched in desperate vain for a way to break in with his own words on the matter, all whilst Janette tried with equal desperation to stop her younger sister’s antagonizing.

Screams. Spit. Red faces. Pointed fingers. Vile insults and cacophonous laughter. Sight and sound swirled into a miasmatic maelstrom of bitterness that grew and grew and grew until it stood poised to overtake them all.

“Enough, you damnable fools!”

Rising from his seat, Count Giancarlo’s voice cut as swift and true as a duelist’s sabre. Kindly and polite by nature and upbringing, shows of anger were always a rarity from him. That being the case, such displays were quick to command the attention of all around, even prideful and belligerent men like Lord Hector. Now all eyes were on him - including his wife’s, which came with a slight but satisfied smile besides - and after a soft breath, he stood upright, as the very image of a proper Count, and continued with composure restored.

“This senseless bickering only wastes precious time. Fault and insults alike can be answered for later, after we’ve resolved the issue of our missing children,” he said, giving Lord Hector and Myla both a pointed look. Then he turned to face Lord William. “My good Lord, I’m sure you’d agree that the safety of your son and my daughter is of the most paramount importance, would you not?”

“I would,” he said, marking his assent with a curt nod

“Then let us place our energy there and solve for the rest later,” Count Giancarlo said. “As I recall, you brought some thirty men in your retinue, yes?”

“Thirtyfive,” Lord Hector corrected, his already stony voice even more hoarse and gravelly after all his coughing and yelling.

“Very good,” the Count said. “I can spare twenty of my own guard, as well. They'll be mustered and ready to conduct the search anew in the next quarter hour.”  He looked between the three Tarnesians. “Since my own men have already scoured the Blackwood’s southern border, we can move immediately into the forest itself to begin our search, agreed?”

Notably, despite William’s official position as the patriarch of the Tarnesian family, both he and his son looked to Lord Hector for approval, rather than Lord Hector and Alexander looking to him. It disturbed the Count seeing just how much sway that volatile old man still held over his family. Command of the Tarnesian house had officially been passed to William some twenty years prior, but tonight’s emotionally tense meeting had laid bare the truth of who really controlled their family’s affairs. Fortunately, the largely disagreeable old Lord found the Count’s suggestion amenable, showcasing as much with a curt nod.

“Highfather be praised for small mercies,” Count Giancarlo sighed once the Tarnesian men moved from the drawing room to the great hall. They were making their way outside to meet with their men, who had been left to wait outside the gates of the Bertoli-Dunajoux estate, and inform them of the pending search.

Weary and heavy hearted, he turned to face those present from his family - his eldest daughters, Janette and Myla; his second son, Eduard; and of course, his beloved wife. All present appeared as he felt, with dark rings of tiredness forming about their troubled, downcast eyes. All save for Myla, who’d always been more lively at night than she had been during the day. That particular quirk proved anything but a mercy when it came to raising the rambunctious girl, and the count wondered if it might somehow relate to her interminable attitude of rebelliousness?

That was a worry for another time. Slowly, he crossed the drawing room to stand by one of the north facing windows. By day it would’ve shown him much of the valley’s southwest bank, including the edge of the Blackwood, the misty cascade from the Castle in the Clouds, and the incomparable glory of that floating palace, forever suspended over the Misty Valley’s southwestern edge. Night displayed a very different picture. The moon was out, bright and full, and it illuminated much of the valley in its pale blue glow. However, the Blackwood was rendered invisible, its edge black against the bank’s equally black slopes. Not even a silhouette of its canopy could be seen, for like the tops of the mountains and hills behind it, they were hidden beneath the shadow of the Castle’s low hanging skirt of silver sheened mist.

A scant few hours ago, when the golden rays of the afternoon sun painted the slopes and forest, a flicker of hope still burned in Count Giancarlo’s chest. Now that the night had reached its zenith, the place where Katrine vanished appeared as a passage to the Underworld itself. Black and mist laden, the terrors which hid within that shadowy pitch couldn’t be seen. Would Katrine and Paul have to face them? Could they? The Count did not know. All he could say with certainty at this moment was that he must return to the Blackwood, no matter what his own tiredness or fears told him.

Annalise understood this. She showed it not with words, but with the silent gesture of standing beside him and taking his hand in her own. They stood alongside each other like that for a short time - the Count steeling himself for the work to come, and his beloved wife supporting him with her love and strength.

“I must go,” Count Giancarlo said, finally breaking the silence after just a couple minutes. Holding tight to Annalise’s hand, he placed a kiss upon her cheek and her brow, then let her go. “Eduard, help me muster the men and join in the search. Your mother and sisters can handle the home.”

“Forgive me for questioning, Father, but I’m not so sure that’s wise,” Janette said. When the Count turned to face her, he saw she was giving Myla a pointed look. A look which Myla met with an angry glare.

“How dare you!” the younger woman barked, rising so forcefully from the seat she’d taken that the chair toppled backwards and clattered against the floor. Her face had grown red, enough to be brightly visible even through her makeup, and a fresh argument swiftly ensued.

Until, that is, the good Count crossed over to where his younger daughter stood and promptly struck her across the cheek.

Silence, this time preceded by gasps of shock, once more settled in the drawing room. The Count let out a long breath and pressed his striking hand to his chest, while Janette and Eduard looked on in surprise. Only Annalise maintained her composure, though Count Giancarlo harbored no doubts that the action he’d taken surprised her, too. Of course, none were as surprised as Myla, who stared wide-eyed at her father with a hand placed against her reddening cheek.

“You hit me,” was all she could manage to say.

“And may the Highfather forgive me for it, but it’s naught less than you deserve.” Normally, Count Giancarlo spoke in jovial tones. His Bergosian accent, with its rolled R’s and the gentle inflection it carried in vowels, lent itself well to the joyfulness he tried to maintain. Yet as he addressed his second daughter, that normal aspect was utterly gone from his voice, just as it was from this accursed night.

“Perhaps I’m the one at fault for your wretched behavior,” he continued. “I believed myself to be setting an example in my leniency, that hands gentle and firm alike were required to guide children to goodliness and rectitude. Too late do I see that my hand should’ve been far firmer with you.”

Myla gaped. Her mouth moved to form words, but produced only incoherent noises. She looked to her siblings for support, and when she found none she even dared turn to her mother, with whom she quarreled constantly. There was none to be found, and the Count knew precisely why. For many years, Myla’s family bore witness to her poor behavior, and often they suffered the consequences for it. Before tonight, her own flight upon being scheduled to meet with a prospective suitor had been the greatest embarrassment she’d caused them.

However, the mocking words she directed at Lord Hector Tarnesian proved far more offensive to the Count’s sensibilities. He could understand childish rebelliousness, for he’d experienced its draw himself. He could forgive it as well, as he had many times with Myla. Too many, he now realized, and he regretted that it took an incident such as this for that understanding to set in. He’d hoped, as had his other children, that the situation with Katrine and Paul would be enough for Myla to understand that this was no time to give into those base and prideful impulses; that her nasty, lashing tongue was to be kept tucked away for the sake of her own kin’s safety. Alas, it was not to be, and with every insult flung she not only tarnished the good name of the House of Bertoli-Dunajoux, she jeopardized the life of her very own sister and a Tarnesian son. To the Count’s mind, few offenses could be greater.

No more words were exchanged from that point. Myla’s stunned expression morphed to one of anger and hurt. Without making argument, she hurried out of the drawing room, the hem of her pearl white dress trailing behind her as she slammed the door shut.

Count Giancarlo winced as the door boomed in its frame. He shook his head, placed his hands on his hips, and exhaled an exhausted sigh. “A truly Hells cursed night this house has seen,” he exclaimed as he retrieved his rouge cloak from the wall mounted rack on which it hung. Like the other furnishings in the drawing room, it also was fashioned from dark mahogany.

“Father, if I may,” Eduard began as the Count draped his cloak about his shoulders. The older man turned to face his stately second son. At nineteen years, Eduard was the youngest in this room, and he bore the same golden hair, fair skin, and blue eyes of his mother. Like the Count, he wore breeches of deep maroon and a ruffled shirt, though where the Count’s was a crisp white, Eduard’s was a soft cream color. He wore no cloak, but instead donned a green doublet with buttons of polished brass over his shirt. He also kept his golden hair combed back and lightly greased, though it wasn’t so long that he needed to tie it off at the base of his neck the way Count Giancarlo had.

Eduard cleared his throat and continued. “I pray you don’t take what I’m going to suggest as a shirking of my duties,” he said, “but I believe that it may be best if I remain here to help Mother and Janette mind our home. It would help them to keep an eye on Myla and ensure she causes no trouble, at least for a time.”

The Count smiled, but shook his head. “I appreciate your thinking, Eduard, but I need your help in this. With all that’s happened we must present a sense of unity going forward and do our utmost to comport ourselves with grace and valiance.” He placed both hands upon his son’s shoulders. His smile widened, and he gave them a firm squeeze and a gentle shake. “You make me proud, my son, and I laud your devotion to our family. Would that circumstances were different, then I’d accept your suggestion with no qualms. Alas, I cannot navigate this situation alone. I need you by me, both for your support and your sharp eyes.”

Eduard nodded. “I understand, Father.”

“Good. Now, go to the southern guardhouse and muster the men, but only the fresh ones. Let those who searched into the night get some rest,” Count Giancarlo said.

Again, Eduard nodded, and then was quickly off to gather the men. As he left, the Count gave an apologetic look to both his eldest daughter and his wife. He started to speak, forming the early words of an apology, but his beautiful Annalise would not have it. She crossed to him in three steps, took both his hands in hers, and kissed him softly on the lips.

“Find her, Gianni,” she said, unable to hide the quaver in her voice. “Bring her home.”

He nodded, then kissed her back. “I’ll bring them both back,” he replied. Then he turned to Janette and said, “Care for your mother for me, while Eduard and I are away.”

“Of course, Papa,” she said. “Whatever you need.”

Then he left the drawing room and made for the northern guardhouse.

In the fields behind the Bertoli-Dunajoux estate, a creak of wood and unoiled metal echoed into the quiet night. Two guards stationed by the east-facing rear of the estate heard the strange sound. At first, they thought nothing of it, assuming it to be a loose door on one of the storage sheds among the many rows of grapevines. However, when they heard it again a few moments later, followed by the thunder of hooves upon damp soil, they knew something was awry.

They arrived at the Count’s stables a couple minutes later. The door hung half open, slowly swaying as it was pushed by the breeze. Inside, their master’s horses grunted and grumbled as they looked with animal curiosity at the two torch bearing guardsmen. Every horse was accounted for save one, a cream colored mare with black spots. Hoof and footprints alike could be seen in a path that led from her stable out the front door, where the rider that took her had stolen off into the darkness.

A switchback trail wound its way up the cliffs like the curving coils of a slowly crawling snake. The path was narrow and steep, and Katrine was thankful that she had Stelios to ride on. With her ankle injured as it was, she doubted she’d have been able to limp her way past the first bend before the throbbing aches and burning stings of the bite wound overcame the numbing effects of the huntsman’s cataplasm.

Her doubt turned to certainty the further up the path they traveled. Between the long ride through the night and his scare by those wolves earlier, Stelios had begun to tire. He huffed and grunted as he walked along, his pace slowed as his hooves scraped and clopped against the rough and winding road.

The huntsman also showed signs of tiredness, though they were harder to pick up on. It was only when they took a right turn around a bend further away from the waterfall that she could hear the way he huffed out through his nose. It seemed even one as experienced in trekking through the wilds as he found the steep climb to be a bit difficult, though he voiced no active complaints to that effect. Still, Katrine couldn’t help wondering how much further they could go. Their ascent had been slow, or it felt that way at least, but with sight and sound obscured by the mist and the roar of the nearby waterfall, it was difficult to tell how long they’d been climbing up the trail.

It was difficult to tell much of anything, really. The obfuscation caused by the falls and the mist were easily the worst she’d experienced, masking much more than just how far they’d come or how much more trail remained to be climbed. All signs of life around them seemed to have vanished. The chiming, wisp-like light she’d discovered near the waterfall had long since disappeared, along with the individual who bore it. The dirt path of the switchback was hard packed and full of stones, leaving no visible footprints behind for them to find, not that those in their number would’ve been able to see them since ascending into the misty skirt that hung beneath the Castle in the Clouds.

Katrine supposed the huntsman might’ve been able to track the light bearer, but she had her doubts. The fog formed by the mists was so thick that had it not been for the silhouette cast by the huntsman’s lantern, she likely wouldn’t have been able to see her own outstretched hand. There wouldn’t be much point in tracking the stranger anyway. As far as any of them could tell this was the only trail, so short of vanishing like a spectre into the cliffs themselves, where else could the lightbearer have gone but up?

Paul groaned behind her. His chest pressed against her back as he gently arched his own in a quivering stretch.

“Everything alright?” she asked him, glancing back over her shoulder. His face was twisted into a slight sneer as he splayed his arms wide and slowly rolled his neck.

“Just a bit saddle sore. It’s nothing to worry about,” he replied.

“You could hop down and stretch your legs if you like,” she suggested, but he shook his head.

“I’ll be fine. Besides, I wouldn’t want to make the ride any more difficult for you than it already is,” he said, referring to how she’d propped herself against him so that she could sit in a way that wouldn’t jostle her injured leg much.

Katrine smiled sheepishly. “I appreciate the thought, but I’ll be alright if you want to step down for a little while. The cataplasm has dulled most of the pain in my ankle anyway,” she said.

“Are you sure?” Paul asked before grimacing and rolling his neck again.

Katrine nodded. “Quite sure.”

“Very well, then. Thank you, Miss Katrine,” he said.

Paul slid himself off of Stelios’ saddle. The soles of his doe skin boots scraped against a stone embedded in the dirt as he landed on the hard packed path. When his soles scraped, Katrine gave a yelp. She’d nearly slipped off Stelios’ saddle as she attempted to right herself. Luckily, two strong hands caught her about the waist. Staring down at Paul, Katrine’s mouth felt suddenly dry, her heart briefly aflutter. He’d been holding her at the waist for much of their ride, but always with his arm crossed over her to help her stay aloft. If he gripped with a hand it was only with the one, and only to help her adjust to a more stable position. Never with both hands. Never held at the waist. Never in a manner that felt so…

Familiar.

He pulled away a moment later, after helping her back into a more balanced position on the saddle. “Perhaps I should just keep riding,” he’d started to say, but she quickly interrupted him.

“No, no, you walk and ease those aches. I’ll manage,” she insisted, praying to the Highfather that he wouldn’t notice the fluster she heard in her own voice. “I’ll be fine, truly.”

Even with the obscuring thickness of the fog she could see the uncertainty on his face. In truth, she would’ve welcomed continuing the ride with him seated behind her. While she was confident the pain suppressing effects of the cataplasm would enable her to ride a proper side saddle, there was an undeniable element of comfort to be had in leaning against the young man. Warm. Welcoming. Dare she say, thrilling?

The mere passing of that idea through her mind made the heat rise in Katrine’s cheeks. It made her briefly thankful for the dense fog, especially since it seemed that, for a moment anyway, Paul would rejoin her.

But Paul didn’t remount Stelios after all. Instead, he looked to his right, to the huntsman who stood with arms crossed, impatiently waiting for them both.

“Are you two finished?” the older man grumbled.

“Not quite,” Paul said. Stepping away from Stelios, he stopped before the taller, older man and held out his hand. “Give me your lantern.”

The huntsman frowned and stared down at the young Tarnesian with unfiltered bewilderment. “What?” he asked, bemused.

“You’ve been leading us on foot for hours. You’re tired, whereas I’m fresh and need to stretch my legs,” Paul said.

“No,” the huntsman replied curtly. “Walk alongside or get back on your horse, I don’t care which, but you’re not taking the lead.”

“We’ve both heard the heaviness of your breaths,” Paul said, his voice now carrying a sense of sternness in it. “You need time off your feet. Besides, it’s not as though you need to lead for us right now. We’re following a trail, not pathfinding through the forest. Despite what you may think of me, I’m quite capable of doing that much.”

The huntsman muttered something else under his breath, an insult or a complaint, most likely. Katrine couldn’t hear it either way, and if it was an insult then Paul was doing a fine job of not letting it get under his skin this time. Then, much to her amazement, the older man relented and passed the small lantern over to Paul.

“Thank you,” the younger man said. When he came back to Katrine and Stelios, he bent down to take the horse's dangling reins. However, as his fingers closed around the long leather strap, he paused and grimaced.

“Bloody fool,” he said as he rose up, quiet enough that only he and Katrine could hear. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked if you’d be willing to share the saddle with him first.”

Katrine couldn’t help her smile, nor the little snicker that slipped out. That’s what he was so concerned about? She started to speak, planned to tell him that he’d done nothing wrong, but she was interrupted by the huntsman climbing his way onto the horse behind her. Impressively, he did so without brushing more than a knee against her back.

“Can you still manage on your own, dear lady? Or will you be leaning on me as you did him?”

The huntsman’s tone matched his usual demeanor, gruff and unwelcoming. She hadn’t spared it much thought before now, largely because she couldn’t afford to, but Katrine was starting to realize how much less pleasant this ride would be without Paul sitting behind her. She wouldn’t begrudge his choice to walk, though, nor would she complain about the situation she put herself into. Instead, she simply scooted herself a little further forward and straightened up her posture.

“I can manage just fine,” she said.

“Good,” the huntsman replied. “I’m not one for touching unfamiliar ladies in familiar ways, and I’d rather not involve myself in such business now.”

“I appreciate your discretion and your candor,” she said, though her tone stated otherwise.

Once more their slow pace journey carried on in relative silence. The roar of the waterfall remained a constant fixture, but it seemed to grow quieter as they climbed further up that zagging trail. That changed once they rounded the fourth bend after their stop, a rightward turn that took them down a long and particularly narrow stretch of the trail. The further down that segment they walked, the louder the waterfall became, until at last they could see and feel why.

Above their heads, illuminated in wobbling ribbons of glossy orange by the lantern, was an overhang in the cliff. Water sheened that natural awning, as well as the cliff wall and the trail below them, because the path cut right behind the fall itself. Cool mist sprayed them as they passed through it and fat, chilly drops splattered against their heads, shoulders, arms, legs, and so on. Katrine brought their trek behind the damp and noisy fall to a sudden halt when she exclaimed a yelp of shock, only to apologize and reveal that one of those cold drips from the rocks overhead had landed on the nape of her neck and rolled down her back.

Wind met them on the opposite side of the fall. It was gentle enough to be breezy, but strong enough to make the dampness that now clung to their bodies feel unpleasantly cold. Katrine hunched into herself, squeezing her arms about her torso as she started to shiver. Gooseflesh started to pimple her arms when she felt something heavy drape over her shoulders. She looked, and her eyes widened in surprise when she saw the red of the huntsman’s cloak.

As was so often the case with him on this night, when Katrine started to protest his actions, the huntsman was quick to interrupt her. “You’ve heard the saying, ‘don’t look gift horses in the mouth,’ yes?”

She nodded.

“Then don’t do it,” he said.

She turned away, tightening the garment around herself. It was weather beaten and a little scratchy, but warm. Woolen, judging by the feel of the fabric, and though the outside glittered in the spots where droplets from the waterfall clung to it, the inside was pleasantly dry. She sat upright again, then glanced back at him over her shoulder. Once. Twice. Thrice.

“What is it now?” he muttered.

“Oh, I just…nevermind, it’s nothing important.”

She turned away from him again, sitting in silence as she watched Paul lead Stelios further up this lengthy stretch of the switchback. She planned to leave it be, to ride on in silence and let what she was going to say slip by the wayside, comfortably forgotten. However, leaving it be wasn’t comfortable at all, not with that familiar feeling tugging at the back of her mind. No, she couldn’t let this be, she had to do right.

“Thank you!” she suddenly barked, once more giving their journey pause.

Awkwardly, she cleared her throat, then looked back over her shoulder at the grizzled older man dressed in black leather and linen. “That is, I realize we never properly thanked you for all the aid you’ve given us tonight. So, thank you, sir, for everything you’ve done.”

Katrine wasn’t sure what kind of response she expected. A curt, “you’re welcome,” perhaps, or maybe just a shrug and a grunt. She hadn’t expected him to just stare at her, though, to not react at all. Evidently, neither did Paul and, being the well mannered young man he was, he made to chastise the older man for not acknowledging Katrine’s gratitude. He was quickly shushed by the older man, who’s eyes were now upcast and scanning the mists above them.

“Do you hear that?” he whispered.

“Hear what?” Paul asked.

The huntsman held up a finger, a signal for them both to remain quiet. “Listen hard,” he said quietly, “Cup your ears if you need to. It’s coming from above.”

Katrine did as he suggested. Cocking her head to her right so that her left ear would be tilted upwards, she cupped her hand about it and listened.

“Heave, ho! Heave, ho! Load the wagon! Load it so!
With fresh hewn logs stacked to a peak,
The Tradesman treads the winding road.”

“Is that a song?” Katrine whispered.

The huntsman nodded. “A workman’s song, older even than the lad’s grandfather,” he said.

“I know the one,” Paul said. “I’ve heard the fieldhands sing it while reaping the summer wheat before.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s a staple among the Riverran peasantry,” the huntsman replied. “Listen, he continues.”

“He cracks the reins, he trains his ear,
Toward the river’s gentle croon.
Lay down the logs along the banks,
Beneath the brilliant light of Noon.

Great hooves clop and wood wheels creek,
As he guides his horse down breezy way.
Where wave the fields of barley and wheat,
Bundled in sheafs and sacks of grain.

Heave, ho! Heave, ho! Load the wagon! Load it so!
Sheafs of gold and sacks of brown,
They tread upon the winding road.”

The huntsman was right. Though there was a lilting lightness to it, the voice which carried the song was undoubtedly masculine. Not just masculine, but well spoken, too. As a child, Katrine spent much of her time studying the art of proper speaking, the same as her siblings before her. Clear and deliberate pronunciation was key, and she quickly proved herself adept enough in that regard that Mother would sometimes ask her to help instruct little Delilah, teaching her how to properly enunciate her consonants and vowels.

Katrine could hear the very same hallmarks of well trained speech in the words of that song, and she wagered Paul could as well. Every syllable was uttered with deliberate clarity, just as every note was clearly picked to carry the tune in the most pleasant way possible. Whoever their mysterious troubadour was, he was trained in more than the art of speaking.

“Do you think he could be from the castle?” Katrine asked.

“It’s possible,” Paul said. “He certainly sounds like a man of the aristocracy.”

So he had noticed! Katrine beamed, another sign at last! Surely it wouldn’t be much further now!

However, her excitement was soon to fade as the huntsman dismounted Stelios. When his feet hit the ground, he slipped his bow from his shoulder and nocked an arrow.

“What are you doing?” Katrine demanded.

He looked at her and frowned. “Ensuring our safety,” he said.