by David Keck
Durand climbed awkwardly to his feet, and the whispers swirled, voices knotted and woven beyond separation.
Unbidden, memories swam before his mind’s eye. He saw the beggars by the Banderol, naked as worms, nattering of conspiracies in the mud. He saw Ragnal the king, in his jeweled robes, his crown, his great sword. He saw the black-clad functionaries of Eldinor; it the man, Hod, who’d rushed Lamoric’s men from the slinking creatures of the court to a passageway below the city. And the passage that took them, past sealed doors, to the catacombs of the high sanctuary. The bones of kings. So many whispers. So much memory.
Durand set his hand on some idol’s pointed head—and all the whispers were abruptly silent, like a snapped bowstring.
Durand saw the image of an iron-bound door. Black with age. Webbed over. It flickered when he closed his eyes.
He was in the mountains—and elsewhere, somewhere dark and smothering.
“Who has come?” said a voice. “I hear you. Have you been to my door before?”
Durand hung in the black valley of the stone kings, suddenly unable to breathe.
“You have heard my whispers, I think. Come nearer, then.” It was a parchment rasp. “I must train my ear upon the feeblest tremblings. Come nigh.”
When Durand blinked his eyes—when his eyes flinched shut—the door was there. Rotten. Hinges of iron. Cobwebs masking it over.
Still, he could not breathe.
As the being beyond the door spoke, a voice cried out from somewhere very distant. It drew his attention from the crumbling door and the iron bands.
“You need not fear. I was once as you are.”
With his eyes wide, he was in the mountains. With his eyes shut, he stood before that door.
The door crashed against its hinges.
“Come nigh, stranger! Who are you? Come nigh!” The door shook.
The shock of the violence started Durand backward, only to discover that something tangible had slipped from around the old door. Fine threads had poured from the doorframe and the wisps now coiled around his ankles, his wrists. They groped for his mouth. But he was not really there. He was in the mountains.
Still he could not breathe.
Across the leagues, across down high mountains and shadowed land, he heard his name. “Durand!”
In an instant, he knew Deorwen’s voice. The stone kings were howling in the mountain wind, and then Durand was not distant, not underground. Deorwen had his face in her two hands and her eyes were the whole of the world. “Come back! Come now, Durand!”
Something struck him, knocking him away from the idol. Knocking his hand free of the mitered head.
Durand found himself on the gravel once more. He filled his lungs and rolled.
Ailric stood above him.
“Host of Heaven, Durand,” said Deorwen, “you cannot leave on the night we get Almora. You cannot!”
Durand shook his head, crawling to scrabble his wits together.
All at once, he thought of poor Raimer, now buried beyond the ranks of idols.
“How long was Raimer here?” he said as the kings sung their mournful harmonies. “With all this? Cold and broken? Hells.” Somehow he’d come where he could see Raimer’s mound of stones.
“I know,” said Deorwen. “The thrall may be wiser than all of us.”
Somewhere, Durand heard a rasping voice roar its frustration. Then, it seemed, the whole valley shivered. “Durand…” said a dry and distant whisper. “Durand.” And Durand felt the dread of hearing his name on the lips of the Powers of Hell.
“You were far away, Durand,” Deorwen said.
Durand shut his eyes and the Lost filtered into the canyon—the burned, the maimed, the drowned.
“Well,” he said. “They haven’t got me yet.”
20
A Bitter Glory
True dawn came late to the gorge. Durand watched under a bright Heaven as, one after another, the Lost slipped from Creation. The Hornbearer ceased his seething vigil in the early twilight, rearing up and stalking mountainsides toward Gireth and Errest the Old while the Heavens were the color of steel.
There was little to do but follow.
They descended from the pass, with Durand leading them at a pitiless pace. Though Almora likely needed easy stages, the mountains were no haven, and there was no place of sanctuary for leagues beyond. Mercy might have left them among the thralls at nightfall, and they could trust nothing but the Eye of Heaven to defend them.
The valley of the Banderol was empty as a bell. When they climbed to Wrothsilver on its green hilltop, they found that the whole population of Swanskin Down had slipped like a barnacle into the shell of the walled town. There was not even a dog running loose on the hillsides. But the battlements were packed with the pale faces of soldiers and plowmen. And inside, the town was crammed with people from leagues around, all kneeling in prayer. Vadir and his knights, however, had left their people. By now, they would be in Acconel.
Almora was a small joy to the people there. Many wondered to see her, alive from the mountains. Hardly thinking, people touched the particolored cloaks she wore with reverent fingertips.
They spent the night among the refugees in Wrothsilver. At dawn, those good people sent the party on its way again, mounted on horses nearly as steady as the poor brutes who had fed the maragrim at the Gowlins shrine. Where they found the beasts, Durand did not know, but it meant the party would reach the walls of Acconel before the maragrim in the valley awoke again.
The Eye was dropping in the west when they rode into cool and familiar air among the hills: reed beds and wet sand. Soon they would find broad Silvermere and old Acconel, hid beyond the hills just out of sight.
“I expect that the Great Council will have scampered home,” said Deorwen. “Even these fools will have sense enough to shy from the maragrim.”
“They’ve hard heads, those Great Council fools. A man does not easily wrest a dukedom from its heirs and charters in Errest the Old,” said Durand. “They might be slow to let it go.”
“Well,” said Deorwen, “the sight of Almora should shut their mouths. They’ll look foul enough already, picking on her poor old father. But who could strike Abravanal now, with Her Ladyship home, snatched from the Blackroots? Host of Heaven! The skalds would mock them till their grandchildren would change their names.”
Durand had to laugh. “We will see, I expect,” he said, and they rounded a last bend of the Banderol to find Acconel standing in the forked river before them, its bridges gleaming, its walls white, and the Heavens spinning with gulls from the Mere. Less welcome, however, were the tents that teemed in the field all around the city. The war hosts of ten dukedoms had populated the open ground, and banners of half the dukes of Errest swung over campfires of laughing soldiers. These were the men King Ragnal had brought to enjoy Abravanal’s hospitality, and to consider the lordship of Yrlac.
The Great Council had come ready for war.
Durand laughed. “Doubt not the pettiness of princes.”
“Where are the thralls? These halfwits should be dead, camped like this,” was Deorwen’s appraisal.
Durand shook his head. She was right.
“They are the Host of the Hornbearer. Perhaps it was for their master that they waited.”
“I’m not sure they tarried on his behalf before, and I’m not sure we caused the brute much delay,” said Deorwen.
“Something has held them back.”
“Aye. That’s clear.”
Ranks of gawkers lined the Banderol Road to Harpers Gate: sneering men-at-arms from every brothel and pigsty in Errest the Old. Leers and wolf whistles from the crowd had the women pulling their cloaks tighter. These things had Durand snarling. But, as they reached the vault of Harpers Gate, there were worse signs waiting.
Thousands of dark birds crowded the parapet. Durand remembered the carrion crows in Radomor’s days, but these were starlings again, packed like wasps in a nest. All twitching, insectile heads. It wa
s unnatural. But every pair of eyes was on them.
“The Great Council and these things,” began Deorwen. “We must bring Almora to her father, and get ourselves locked safe in Gunderic’s Tower. Then we can see about talking sense to these fools about the maragrim.”
They were passing under the gate, and at the first echoes of the horse’s hooves, a hundred thousand starlings plunged from the battlements. The things poured from the walls and exploded through the gateway tunnel. The storm tore at Durand’s cloak and maddened the horses.
Ailric caught Almora’s bridle as Durand and Deorwen mastered their own terrified animals. But it was Almora whose eyes followed the birds, her chin tilted. She was watching.
“It’s Gunderic’s Tower,” she concluded.
The dark and viscous mass was indeed surging over the citadel and wheeling then over the battlements of Gunderic’s Tower.
Durand saw other birds there. Larger, laboring under the onslaught.
“Sea eagles,” said Ailric. “The king’s bird.”
“We never want for auguries,” said Deorwen. “Is everyone all right? Almora, have our little friends left you two eyes?” There were other varied nods all around. “Then I suggest we make haste for the Painted Hall!”
When they reached the castle, they found Sir Kieren the Fox shouting, “Almora! Almora!”
Even Durand could not suppress an exultant grin. Just within the gate, the girl climbed from her saddle, and the old knight clasped her in his arms. “What a thing this is! Host of Heaven, you were dead, child! As dead as old Duke Gunderic. They must have been looking for you at the Bright Gates.”
“Do they know the hills are full of maragrim, Sir Kieren?” said Almora. “Do they understand?”
“Child, there is little enough they understand.” Kieren shook his head. “But we must get you to His Grace, your father. You will save the old man, I think. And then we can work on their understanding. Come!”
The tiltyard between the walls was packed with people. Hundreds of knights milled, and Durand heard shouts.
“There is a thing or two you should know, I suppose,” Kieren began. Then he had to grin at Almora. “It is such a wonder! The wonder of our age, child!” And he shook his head once more.
“But to business. The Council, first. You know they are here? Well, they will cast their vote at the setting of the sun.” The shadows were already long. “It has been hurried. Some word of the thralls has reached us here, but some will think they’re an excuse of Abravanal’s, a Girethi trick. Maud of Saerdana has said as much, under her breath. Moryn Mornaway looked like he would slap her. He’s your brother, is he not, Lady Deorwen?” At her nod, he pushed on. “Sunset’s not long now.” The man dodged past a group of outland knights, giving them a frown. “The king is set against us, and the Council’s only too happy to pluck a man’s wings, the devils. I’m not sure what will be left for the maragrim.”
They broke through into an open space.
“And here, look.” The Fox gestured. Across the yard stood Red Leovere in a knot of knights and captains. His man, Lord Morcar, blinked at Durand. Neither had expected the other. Durand wondered what it meant for the maragrim. If their master was here in Acconel—if he was waiting on the Council’s vote—would the maragrim wait? If Leovere got what he wanted, would the maragrim return to Fellwood?
Durand wondered.
“Abravanal will be ahead. Come, come,” said Kieren.
“The vote,” said Deorwen. “What of Mornaway? Garelyn?”
“Ladyship,” Kieren said, “your brother will vote with Abravanal, of course. And Garelyn. But, together, we are four votes—even if our friend here could conjure the Lady of Lost Hesperand once more, we must lose. The shadows are long. The Eye of Heaven will leave us and the Great Council will vote Abravanal down.”
Yet still he smiled, despite the grim way of things. “But, Almora, it is worth a great deal to find you.”
Now, Durand heard the unmistakable grunt and shuffle of single combat. It explained the mob.
“There!” said Kieren. Durand saw Abravanal through a few rows of onlookers.
Durand shoved a few of the noble audience aside, but stopped.
He’d got a good look at the swordsmen.
First was grim-faced Coensar. The other was Ragnal, King of Errest, lean and broad-shouldered under a cloak like a jeweled book. A fierce grimace split the man’s black beard as he wheeled in the wake of a huge High Kingdom sword.
“Again, you dance!” King Ragnal was saying. “You are like the queen and her son. Always where I cannot lay hands on them.” The king roared, launching another two-handed swing. Coensar could only skip away, letting the king lurch past. A man could not stick a blade into his king.
Ragnal smiled. He raised his eyebrows at a noblewoman and dark-haired boy at the edge of the ring. This would be Queen Engeled and Prince Reilan, Durand suspected. The boy could not be more than five years old. “This is how they all face me. They see there are teeth still in the wolf’s jaw.”
The king would have returned his attention to Coensar, but already people around the circle were talking. They had noticed Almora. They saw Durand.
“What’s this?” said Ragnal. The crowd turned now, and every eye was upon Durand and the girl.
Ragnal seemed to have noticed Kieren. “What is it, Fox? Always the bow and the scrape. Always the sidelong look with you. Another story about bogles in the Blackroots? Boggarts in the hills? Your schemes cannot save this dukedom of yours.” The king waggled the heavy sword toward the western sky. “The vote comes with nightfall, and this game is nearly finished.”
“As you say, Highness,” began Kieren. But the king had found Durand.
“What is this now?”
Another man joined Ragnal in the circle. “Durand Col, I think, brother. He fought at Tern Gyre, though several years have passed.” Slim and bearded, Prince Biedin gave Durand an apologetic glance. “This is Abravanal’s Champion, sent to the Blackroots after poor Almora was taken in the mountains.”
“That story. A lovely one, I thought,” said Ragnal.
Abravanal groped forward. “Durand?”
He had not yet seen the girl. There were so many people.
“She is safe,” Durand said. And Almora, cowled in a soldiers’ cloak, stepped forward.
Gasps shivered through the crowd. “I had not dared to hope,” breathed Abravanal.
“This is the girl?” said Ragnal.
Almora rushed forward, catching hold of her father.
“Almora!” he gasped. He looked into her face. “We are alive once more.”
“What is this, Abravanal of Gireth?” the king demanded. “What are you scheming at?” He looked to Kieren. To Almora and Durand. “What tricks have you planned?”
The king still had the bare blade in his hand, and now took a step toward the old man and his daughter. Seeing the blade twitch with the king’s anger, Durand shoved himself forward until they were chest to chest. They were nearly of a height, Ragnal and Durand Col. But, somehow, Durand did not doubt that the king could slay him in a moment. Something sickly flickered in the man’s eyes.
Prince Biedin set his hand on his eldest brother’s shoulder.
“Now, here, Brother. Good Sir Durand. This is a wonder! We must be careful, I think. The Powers are to be praised at such a time. Thanks are due. I wonder, should we be churlish with the gifts of Heaven? Such a thing should be feasted.”
Tall Kandemar, the Herald of Errest, looked on, gray as marble. The king’s eye found the man before he turned to his brother.
“The Council pronounces its judgment at the setting of the sun,” growled Ragnal.
“Yes. But the vote might be delayed to allow for the celebration. You need but ask. No man who hopes for Heaven would say you nay. And you are king, after all, Your Highness, eh?”
Ragnal raised his bearded chin. There was something of the lion in Ragnal, but Biedin was a thoughtful man, tall and balanced.
> “There are plenty who do not jump at my word, Brother,” said Ragnal, “but what you say of Heaven is true: Few men are fool enough to deny the Powers what is theirs.” Ragnal turned to address the company. “A feast in lieu of judgment?”
By their looks and muttering, the crowd granted a grudging approval.
Ragnal bared his teeth. “Good! Good! Then let us have our feast, you gallows birds! Let us show the Heavens that we are grateful! Go, my lords and ladies, go!
“And you, my girl,” he said to Almora, setting thick fingers on her shoulder, “you will come with me.”
In a storm of fluttering lackeys, the company crammed the stairs into Gunderic’s Tower and poured into the Painted Hall. Starlings, too, tumbled up the stairway.
The storm bowled into the Painted Hall like a gale of leaves, with the king braying out commands for lords and serving men alike as he made his way to the high table. The starlings peered in at the windows, they flew down the hall, and Ragnal flapped his hands. “I’ve had my fill of these damned birds! Block up the windows, damn you!”
Abravanal scarcely noticed all of the jostling. “I have hardly seen this hall these ten winters. It is black still from the fires in the siege, and we have lived here every day. No longer, I tell you.” And he smiled at his daughter.
Biedin stopped before Abravanal’s high table and called together the serving men. “Here, the hall you made ready for judgment must now serve as a feasting place. The daughter of your master has returned. There must be food and wine. Wine first, I suppose. And we must make room at the high table for Her Ladyship, of course.” He gave a smiling bow toward the benches at the king’s right hand. “I will yield my own place at the king’s side.”
Ragnal scowled and planted himself in Abravanal’s chair. “Bring her, but her father must keep his place. We will vote tomorrow, and I can have no favorites.”