The House of Sept

Chapter 20

Farrell stepped out the inviting warmth of Harrow's room and into the dark of night, barely illuminated by randomly bracketed oil lamps affixed to walls or braziers out in the courtyard beyond.

    Flipping up the collar of his wool coat, Farrell turned back to face Harrow waiting in the brightly lit doorway. Sacha watched them closely, but Silvan and Kian were deep in conversation by the bed.

     It was like a weight got lifted from his mind once he told all he knew about the murder of Abiah, but now, when faced with the possibility of future consequences, Farrell chose to mask his true feelings.  

     'I'd better get going,' he suggested, shuddering as a gust of wind forced its way down the corridor.

     The older warrior jerked a nod. 'Be careful, boy.' He glanced along the deserted walkway, before fixing Farrell with a hard stare. 'Don't let me wake tomorrow and find your corpse stuffed down a well.'

     Farrell grimaced. 'I'll try not to get murdered, but I'm hoping such precautions won't be necassary.' He held up a gloved hand. 'I know.' He sighed loudly. 'I'm being optimistic again. It's a terrible flaw.'

     'One that may see you dead.' Harrow shook his head. 'I never thought...' Words trailed away.

     'I don't think any of us considered the possibility of fakery,' offered Farrell.

     'Damn it,' Harrow barked. 'I didn't believe we could be so gullible. What's Kama even thinking?'

     'I don't think she's even aware,' Ferrall said. 'Remember Kian said there was a possibility Kama is suffering under a similar Glamour that affected my senses and memory.'

     'I have to say, boy.' Harrow smiled and under the flickering lamps the expression warped his scars, but the warmth reached his eyes. He clamped a hand on Ferrall's shoulder. 'You're the best of us.'

     As Harrow's hand slipped away, Ferrall simply shrugged. 'Just doing what was right, even if what I originally saw was all wrong, but at least Kian cleared all that up and we got what we needed.'

     'You want me to send Silvan with you?' Harrow asked.

     'I'll be fine,' Ferral answered, buttoning the front of his grey wool coat. 'I'm more likely to get a cold than attacked in the middle of the Stronghold. Besides.' He grinned. 'I'm a warrior, I should be tough.'

     'Just be careful,' Harrow repeated his earlier warning and stayed in the doorway to watch Ferrall as he strode along the covered path that wound it's way around and sometimes through buildings.

     A few moments before he rounded the corner and went out of sight the sliver of yellow light went out as Harrow finally shut the door, leaving Ferrall with smoky braziers and the few copper lamps on the posts which held up the walkway roof. They emitted an irregular sulphuric glow that spread across walls like ghosts stalking his every move, shivering across plaster, growing tall and then shrinking.

     Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Ferrall's gloved fingers closed around a small sheathed blade he kept hidden for emergencies. It wasn't much, but it eased his conscience just to have it there.

     Turning off the path, Ferrall went down three steps leading into a wide open yard where they kept the horses. Stables lined the far side of unworked rock that rose up and vanished into darkness.

     The stamp of hooves and occassional snort of breath reveberated oddly in the general quiet, but Ferrall was used to that by now. The Stronghold could be very eerrie in daylight never mind at night.