A Plague of Giants (Seven Kennings #1) - Kevin Hearne Page 0,35

constant reminders that I am the lesser son.

There were only occasional Hathrim firelamps in the streets, and so we traveled in near darkness, much of Linlauen’s beauty shrouded in black, thin clouds obscuring the stars. But the gentle and omnipresent wind from the ocean kissed our faces, freshness with an aftertaste of salt, and the distant crash of waves on the base of the cliffs was a soothing counterpoint to the clack and rattle of the chariot on the cobbled street.

Descending from the summit of the university grounds, we followed the winding trail of the coastal road through an expensive merchants’ district and then past the soaring spires of noble houses before ascending again to Windsong, Kauria’s seat of power and monument to the glory of Reinei.

Once we arrived and the cyclone transferred care of the chariot to the palace hostler, I thanked him for his escort. The young man examined my face for signs of sarcasm but found none. “It’s only my duty,” he mumbled. Then, remembering his mission, he spoke briskly. “Come. The mistral bade me hurry.” He led me through a labyrinth of passages and narrow guarded doors until we entered the Calm from a small niche to the west of the mistral’s dais, which stood in the center of the circular room. The legendary tones and chimes of the wind hummed and tinkled as currents of air were circulated through the traps and tunnels of Windsong, but at present the Calm did not live up to its name. There were at least a score of people in the room, all bunched to the north of the dais, most of them talking over one another, but all conversation ceased when the mistral’s attention slid to our entrance. And with her attention came everyone else’s.

I recognized the mistral’s chamberlain, Teela Parr, and a Priest of the Gale named Borden Clagg, but the others were strangers. Nobles and merchants speak the languages of money, fashion, and power, and those are the only three languages with which I have little acquaintance.

The cyclone bowed before her, and I looked down until she deigned to recognize me.

“Mistral Kira,” the cyclone said in a rich, full tone he’d never used with me, “Scholar Gondel Vedd, as you requested.”

“Thank you, Carlen,” she said as I was wishing I’d taken more care in dressing. Unlike my poor cell at the university, the Calm was very brightly lit, and it cast into sharp relief the many wrinkles in my tunic and highlighted the spectacular mustard stain on my right breast. “It seems we caught you at a bad time, Scholar. We would not have disturbed your rest had there not been great need.”

“Please excuse my disheveled clothes. I was given to understand that haste was at a premium. How may I serve the mistral?”

I’d only ever seen portraits of her before, hanging in the university library; in person she was stunning. Tall and slim, Mistral Kira wore the traditional sky blue color of Kaurian leaders, a length of light cotton fabric wrapped cleverly about her body and chased about the edges with strips of soft yellow and sharp orange. It was fastened with silver brooches at her right shoulder and left hip. The silver sapphire crown shone at the top of her forehead; from this towered a magnificent headdress in blue, yellow, and orange, adding another half meter to her height. Eight thin silver torcs circled her neck, but she wore no other jewelry, not even rings. Her skin was as dark as mine but unblemished as yet by time.

“Begin by speaking plainly,” she said. “I need not be reminded constantly of my title. I am told you are a linguist.”

“Yes, Mis—ahem. I am. Fluent in all six modern languages.”

“That is all? I was told you know the ancient tongue as well.”

“I do, yes. Uzstašanas is a mother tongue to the modern languages spoken today.”

“Excellent. I’m glad to be so well informed. Nobody told me of your fondness for mustard, though.” She arched an eyebrow at my tunic, and the assembled courtiers laughed on cue. That was okay, I thought. I still had no idea what I was doing there, but I was willing to suffer some official ridicule and the laughter of fools if it meant I could avoid the dungeons.

“Scholar, I’m afraid I must send you to the dungeons,” the mistral said.

My face fell, and I think I aged past my life expectancy in the second before she continued.

“But not as a prisoner, you’ll