The Fall of Highwatch (Chosen of Nendawen) by Mark Sehestedt

Author:Mark Sehestedt [Sehestedt, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780786956166
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Publishing
Published: 2010-01-06T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE QUEEN STEPPED TOWARD HWEILAN. THE RUSTLE of her robes reminded Hweilan of the sound of Deadwinter wind in the eaves outside her window at Highwatch. Looking into the eyes of the queen, Hweilan felt a presence rattling around in her mind, any barriers she might have had against it long since ripped away and discarded.

Kunin Gatar stopped, leaned in close and Hweilan heard a deep intake of breath. The queen pulled away, her head back and eyes closed, her nostrils flaring as she took in Hweilan’s scent. The presence in her mind did not leave but seemed to settle in. Quiet. Lurking, watching like a predator in tall grass.

“Hweilan, is it?” said the queen.

“It is … uh, Queen.” The last word ended in the tone of a question.

Kunin Gatar gave her a tight smile, showing no teeth. “Address me with only the truth,” she said. “We are not so caught up in titles as you mortals. Your petty lords … they drape themselves in titles like face paint on a whore, hoping it will make her a lady. I know who I am. What you name me says more about you than me.”

Kunin Gatar turned and walked away, and Hweilan saw that a throne now sat in the middle of the room. Had it been there before? She could not remember. It was like no chair she had ever seen, all jagged angles and sharp protrusions, save for the seat, back, and armrests, which were smooth as polished glass.

While the queen’s back was turned, Hweilan took the opportunity to risk a glance at Menduarthis. He stood several feet behind her, watching and waiting. He gave her nothing but a small raise of an eyebrow.

The queen sat and said, “Would you sit?”

Hweilan turned and saw that a chair of sorts now rested behind her. She was quite certain it had not been there a moment ago. It looked very much like an arm rising from the floor, made completely of ice, the hand bent back flat so that the palm formed a sort of seat, the fingers curling up into a backrest.

“N-no. Thank you,” said Hweilan. She could imagine those icy fingers closing into a fist all too easily.

“As you wish,” said the queen. She regarded Hweilan a moment, glanced at Menduarthis, then continued. “You are Hweilan, daughter of Ardan of the Damarans and Merah of the Vil Adanrath. Yes?”

“Yes.” Hweilan could not recall telling anyone the names of her parents. Had they beaten it out of Lendri?

“I know of Highwatch,” said the queen. “A pile of stone set on the mountains’ last grasp. Nar used to winter there like cockroaches scuttling away from the light. Then came the Damarans, hoping to rape riches from the rock. Your fathers sat in their houses of stone and scattered favor to any too weak or stupid to seize it for themselves. And for this, they fancy themselves lords. You mortals know little of true power.”

Hweilan said nothing. The queen’s words poked

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