"That makes it worse."
Tom nodded. Six had readily followed Tom when he’d asked, and the guilt was a heavy burden to add to his others.
"He has offered me every comfort it was within his power to give," Kunnustenn continued. "I offer hard travel and frozen wastelands in return."
Something in Kunnustenn’s voice turned Tom’s thoughts to Katharine. Hard travel and frozen wastelands. When she deserved rest, soft pillows, good food. "At least you are together," he said.
"Yes." Kunnustenn was smiling a shy smile. "We do not have to hide here."
Tom opened his mouth, closed it, then braved the question. "Have the two of you made your peace?"
Kunnustenn’s smile vanished. "He will not speak of it. He is stubborn, that dwarf. There are some things he just will not let his mind see."
"Don’t hold onto your anger," Tom said, unsure where the words were coming from. "It will rob you of your days together." As it had robbed days from him and Katharine. He could have been there for her as soon as she’d discovered the pregnancy. Instead Six had stepped into his shoes. Now he could never get that time back.
"You are right. It is nothing in the grand tapestry of all matters." But it didn’t seem to comfort Kunnustenn. If anything, the silence that fell upon the two of them felt melancholy. So Tom fell back on a habit that had proven effective with the dwarf: he asked a question.
"What can you tell me about Cairnarim?”
Kunnustenn said nothing for a long moment, before taking a deep breath as if waking. "What would you like to know?"
Tom didn't know what he needed to know. So he said, "Everything."
"That will not take very long." The dwarf hugged himself tighter against a gust of wind. "Most of what I have read is rumours, myths and legends. The usual fare: a citadel full of treasure; a lost paradise; a dark home to a foul monster. Only one fact is known: Rimestenn disappeared, and he left behind no city."
"But you know more than that," Tom replied. "You know he was building something in the north."
"We suspect it," Kunnustenn corrected.
"If we only suspect it, why are we trying to find it?"
Kunnustenn shrugged, a gesture hard to see beneath the layers he was swaddled in. "The last known and verified fact about Rimestenn is that he was working on locking mechanisms. In secret. But all of that work vanished when he did."
Locking mechanisms. Perhaps to lock away Orlannu in his hidden city? "So we would need a key when we get to Cairnarim?"
Kunnustenn frowned, catching up with Tom’s thoughts. He shrugged again. "If the city is locked."
Gravinn’s horse slipped on something in the snow and whinnied in protest. She gave a savage yank on the reins, and Tom realised how much pressure she must be feeling. One wrong footing and she could send them all tumbling down the mountainside.
And even if they made it to the gates of Cairnarim, it could all be for nothing if they didn’t have the key.
But Ambrose would know. He’d be prepared. Wouldn’t he?
"Thank you, Kunnustenn," Tom said. “You've been very helpful."
"You’re welcome, Master Rymour."
Tom thought to tug his reins, fall back and ride alongside Ambrose and Emyr. But something in his gut made him stop and ask, "Is there anything else that we might need to know?"
But the dwarf shook his head. "I could consult my books?"
Tom nodded, though the offer felt somehow futile. In fact, when he looked at Kunnustenn he felt the beginnings of a deep despair. "Go to Jarnstenn first," he said.
"He’s busy."
Jarnstenn laughed at something Six said.
"He won’t be too busy for you."
The dwarf’s forehead creased into a deep, pensive frown.
"Trust me," Tom said. "Don’t delay it."
"No time like the present?"
The dread uncoiled, settled again. Something was coming. "No time at all."
The sky grew dark long before the sun was due to set, but Gravinn pressed on until they reached the clearing Hawne had mentioned. It was nothing but a space surrounded by sharp rock on all sides, a few tiny trees trying to eke out an existence in what crevices they could find. Something about that place felt too familiar, and Tom felt an urge to dig his heels into his horse and flee.
"We’ll stop here," Gravinn called. The wind was strong now, bringing with it the first flakes. "We need to get the tents up before the storm hits."
Tom had no desire to ride in a storm. But he couldn’t shake the dread in his belly.
"You’re pale as Ankou," Emyr murmured.
Did his hands shake from the cold? "We should unload the wagon,” he told the old king.
"Unload it?"
"Into the tents." Alhough the tents could burn as easily as the wagon.
"Why?" But Emyr wasn’t really asking; he already knew why. So he pointed at Draig and Dank. "Tom wants the wagon unloaded," he called. "Food and clothes first."
“Here.” Tom watched himself press Caledyr into Emyr’s hands. “Take it.”
Emyr shook his head, but didn’t say anything. Even the sword’s protests were muted. “Everyone needs a weapon.” Was the old king giving orders to the group? Or talking to him?
It didn’t feel like it mattered either way. ”Iron hurts them,” Tom replied. The cold seemed to reach right into him, like the black pebble in his heart had drawn a frozen fault line that joined with the falling snow. "But nothing can kill them."
"On the contrary." Ambrose was stood alone in the clearing, leaning on his staff like he was ready to collapse. "That’s why I’m here."
If Gravinn had hoped they would find shelter from the storm, she had been mistaken. The wind howled around them, sleep impossible. All they could do was lie in the cramped black of their tents, stare at nothing and listen to the wail of the wind. At times it almost sounded like a voice, like it was speaking, like it could be understood if only they knew the dialect. But it didn’t sound like it had anything pleasant to say.
And the snow fell. It would settle on the tents, only to slip off when the weight got too much. Tom wondered if they would be buried in it, if they had erected themselves little silk tombs. What if the snow crushed them? What if they were to die, freezing and choking, in this forsaken mountain range?
Then Katharine would shift. Take a deep breath. Squeeze his hand or place it on her belly, and he would feel Rose kick or twist underneath it. And, despite that dark pebble, Tom could smile. He was still worried, scared, he still wondered how in Emyr’s name they would survive this journey. But he smiled.
They began to talk. Katharine told him stories from all over Tir. Some were old tales that he knew from when he was a boy. Some were newer, and Katharine wouldn’t say if they were true or not. So Tom heard How The Eagle Lost His Voice, a funny story about a dwarf who was turned to stone by the sun, and the sad tale of an Easterner who accidentally broke the death mask of his father and was scared to go back home.
Tom told her stories too. He couldn’t tell her the tales, because they hadn’t happened, and he felt a pang of guilt that he would never tell his daughter Why The Tortoise Wears His Shell or What The Bee Whispers To All Flowers. So Tom told Katharine stories he had heard from Emyr, when he had sat beside the bleeding king and listened to stories of his life, stories of brave knights and foolish courtiers and how Emyr came to be king.
"He just wanted to go home," Katharine said into the dark.
"Yes."
"He had so much waiting for him. He left it all behind."
"He told me it would have all been lost if he hadn’t taken the crown." Tom squeezed her hand. "He gave it up so he could keep it safe."
For a moment all he could hear was the wind. Then she squeezed his hand, hard. "Don't do that," she whispered. "Don’t give us up. Not for anything."
Tom waited for the wind to die before he tried to leave the tent. He had to force his way out, the snowfall reaching almost his knees, a few errant flakes still fal
ling from the cloud-covered sky. The air was sharp and clear and still, and once he had struggled free of the tent he stopped and drew a few deep breaths that stung the back of his throat.
No. The air wasn’t still. There was a thick humming to it. Magic. Oozing into the clearing from the north. Was that what birthed the aching dread in his gut? The tension in his chest? He reached for a sword he wasn’t carrying and a ghost of a foresight flickered at the edge of his vision. A shadow draped over the world. A whisper of suggestion. "A fire," he muttered. Though he couldn’t imagine how they could light a fire in such deep snow.
It was impossible to tell one tent from another in the dark, so he was forced to wait for a break in the clouds in order to find Emyr’s. Just a few dozen steps away, but the depth of the snow meant it took him some minutes to cross the camp before he could lean towards the flaps, clear his throat and say, "My king?"
For a moment there was only silence. Perhaps he was asleep? Then a voice replied, "I thought you weren’t going to call me that?"
Despite the cold and his fatigue, Tom couldn’t help but grin. "May I enter?"
"Yes."
Tom stepped into a space darker and only slightly warmer. He didn’t dare take another step for fear of treading on someone.
"It’s dark, Tom." Ambrose, somewhere in the darkness.
"It is."
"And you come to countenance that we stay."
"Do I?"
"We all stay a time." Ambrose sighed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. It was like he had resigned himself to something. "Time. I’ve had so much and yet have so little," he muttered.
"What is it?" Emyr asked.
“The culmination of my life’s work. I think.”
It was clear that Emyr didn’t understand Ambrose’s cryptic mutterings either. “What do we do?”
"Let the boy set up camp." Boy? But before Tom could say anything, Ambrose added, "When you’re as old as I am, Tom, everyone is ‘boy’ or ‘girl’."
Tom nodded, though they probably couldn’t see him. "Can I fetch you anything, my king?"
Emyr sounded tired. "I will be out in a moment."
A dismissal. Tom nodded and stepped back outside. Roused Gravinn and Jarnstenn and told them to start a fire. He’d expected protests, but they did as they were asked. Draig helped to clear away snow, Jarnstenn fetched something from his pack, and soon they had somehow started the fire Tom had foreseen.
Emyr stepped out of the tent, stretching gingerly and groaning as he did so. The king had grown old. There was much more grey in his hair and beard, and he seemed slimmer, as if he carried muscle through sheer will rather than any inherent strength. When he gave Tom his hearty smile, there was something of a wince to it, as if something pained him.
“What’s worrying you, son?”
Tom shook his head. "I’m not sure. I was hoping Ambrose could counsel me."
Emyr nodded. "He’s tired. He said he would come out soon."
"I’ll see him now, if you’ll permit it?"
"Of course." He stepped aside and said, “I'll speak to Gravinn and Katharine about our path." As Tom moved to enter the tent, Emyr added, "How is Katharine?"
"Tired. Hungry. Cold. She misses riding."
"She said so?"
"No. I just know she does." His chest tightened and he said, "Would you make sure she has a weapon? Iron. She favours a short sword or a long knife."
"Do you think we’ll be attacked?"
The dread crystallised. Had he seen this clearing before? Had he seen a dead dwarf lying near that fire? "Possibly."
Emyr’s expression turned grim. "Weapons for everyone.” But he said it almost as a question, and turned to Tom for confirmation. Still refusing to take the lead. And, Tom noticed, holding out Caledyr to him.
So Tom said, “You are the King of Tir.”
“I have no throne.”
“We follow you.”
“No,” Emyr countered. “This is your quest. The quest of Sir Thomas Rymour, Knight of Tir. Don’t shake your head,” he said as Tom began to deny it. “You were made so by a princess.”
“That was just an act. Something for those people.”
But Emyr shook his head. “It was an act. But it was real.” He clapped a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “If you insist on calling me your king, then you cannot deny me when I call you a Knight of Tir. Or deny that it is a title and a duty bestowed by those around you.” He took in their snow-beleaguered camp with a sweep of a sheathed Caledyr. “They are all here because of you. Just like me. They follow your conviction. Your example.” He nodded towards the tent behind them with a wry smile. “So go confer with the wise man. And I’ll pass on your orders.” He pushed Caledyr into Tom’s hands and, without waiting a response, bowed his head and stamped his way over to the fire.
Perhaps the old king thought his work was done. But Tom felt more uncertain than ever. Was he truly a knight? Could he possibly live up to that? He looked at the sheathed sword in his hands, and felt guilty for being glad to have it. Ready, it thought. Emyr had seemed happy to drop a heavy duty on his shoulders and walk away. Tom wasn’t sure he was ready for it.
A tiny light blinked into existence as Tom stepped into the tent. Dank’s sprite? Had it escaped? No, the light was wrong. It was too white and too sharp. As his eyes adjusted, Tom could see it was in the palm of Ambrose’s hand. Magic.
"You look tired, Tom." Ambrose’s soft words were almost swallowed by the wind outside. Deep, dark circles lay beneath his eyes, and his skin was almost grey.
"You look worse." Tom tried to force a smile, and was surprised when the other man’s lips quirked. Not quite a smile. But the ghost of one.
"I suspect that is true." Ambrose took a deep, rattling breath. "But then I am so much older than you are."
There seemed little to say to that. “Kunnustenn thinks we might need a key to get into Cairnarim."
"We do. But do not worry about that."
"You have the key?"
Ambrose’s eyes blinked in a slow assent.
Tom hadn’t expected that. It seemed almost too easy. In the absence of any struggle or argument, his fear poured forth before he could stop it. "I can’t shake this feeling that something bad is going to happen. It’s not a foresight. Not really. But it feels like one."
"I have been thinking of a memory," Ambrose replied. "Trying to remember exactly what it is I will do and how I will do it. It is a complex piece of magic."
"Is that what this is?" Tom asked. "Is that what’s making me feel this way?"
"No." It was blunt and hard, but he continued, "You are experiencing the nagging feeling you have forgotten something, only your forgetfulness faces forward rather than back."
"I’m forgetting a foresight?"
Ambrose grunted. No. Not that. "Your foresight is like an echo of mine," he said. A flurry of wind made the sides of the tent shake. "You remember the future, just like you remember the past. But memory changes. What you remember today is not what you will remember tomorrow."
Tom felt a cruel leap of hope in his heart. "Does that mean my foresight can be wrong?" Had he misunderstood what he had seen of Katharine? "Can the future change?"
"No." Ambrose made no attempt to hide his bitterness. "Just our understanding of it."
It was a cruel snatching of the foolish hope Tom had built in mere heartbeats, and he felt a rush of despair. No. There was still Orlannu. That could save her, he told himself. It could.
"What happens now?" he asked.
"I need to rest."
"For this piece of magic?"
"Yes." Ambrose turned his head, met Tom’s eyes with his own. "Look after him, Tom."
He knew exactly what the old sorcerer was asking. "I will do everything I can."
And a full, unburdened smile blossomed on Ambrose’s lips. "Hearing that has made the last thousand years so much easier to bear." The smile soured. "And now, when I need that comfort more than ever, it is taken from me."
It was cr
uel, that any fond memory was taken from Ambrose as soon as the event took place. Which meant that, in his final moments, Ambrose wouldn’t recognise anyone at his side. All he would remember was death and darkness. Tom made a vow to himself: he would make sure Ambrose would always have something good to remember.
The old man closed his eyes. His smile was gone. And he drew breath like the effort cost him dear. "Do not blame yourself, Tom."
But before Tom could ask what he meant, there was a scream from outside. Katharine? Tom rushed out of the tent, Ambrose’s last words following him into the roaring wind: "No more time."
The wind was up, kicking up flurries of fallen snow. The world was still dark, but there was enough moonlight to see why Gravinn had screamed: Herne and four Faerie hounds were gathered around Katharine’s tent.
Chapter 15
The summer face of a Faerie hound was that of a man, albeit a scruffy, hairy, mute man that acted more like Midhir’s loyal pup, wrestling with his brothers and growling and yapping at his king’s feet for scraps. But come Calgraef, they became monstrous, skinless beasts, prowling on all four splayed claws, snapping at anyone and anything with enormous jaws filled with serrated teeth. Their eyes were milky, and the fay whispered that they were blind, led only by their bloodscent. When Melwas led the Wild Hunt, it was these creatures that chased the kill. They were untiring, strong, savage. And they surrounded Katharine’s tent, skinless muscles steaming in the cold night air, waiting for Herne to give them the command to attack.
"What are you doing here?" Tom couldn’t keep the tremor from his voice. Even Caledyr was silent and still. He wished he hadn’t left Katharine by herself. He wished he had never been to Faerie.
Herne tossed his hart-skull head. "It is our turn, Thomas Rymour."
"Your turn to do what?" Keep him talking. If they were talking, they weren’t maiming.
"You bite us." Herne snapped his jaws. "We bite you."
"I bit you?"
"You killed Thought." Herne had always been fond of stalking around Tom’s heels as he spoke. But now he was still. It was unnerving. As if the time for toying with his prey was over. As if it was time for the kill. "Our king is filled with a mindless rage. We are to bring you back to him. In as few pieces as possible." The fay’s jaws gaped wide in his approximation of a smile. "We couldn’t promise not to take a limb for ourselves."
The Realm Rift Saga Box Set Page 93