by Terry Madden
“They’re comin’,” Elowen said, and handed the reins to Lyleth. “Fiach’s men. Comin’ down the cliff, I heard ‘em.”
“Stay with me.”
Lyleth mounted, turned, and headed back downstream, directly toward Fiach’s scouts.
“Are ye daft?”
“Just stay with me.”
Lyleth finally spotted Fiach’s men as they reached the base of the cliff. Certain they saw her, she fired an arrow, spun, and trotted back upstream, heading straight for the ice-born. But before reaching the meadow, Lyleth left the stream and flanked the ice-born camp on the west.
Elowen followed close behind.
Dense trees swallowed them, and here, Lyleth reined up. The horses were blowing plumes of hot fog, even little Brixia, wedged between them.
“We should run,” Elowen whispered.
“Not yet.”
Through the thicket, Lyleth watched the ice-born scramble for their weapons. They’d heard Fiach’s men splashing up the stream and as they burst onto the meadow, there was a heartbeat of indecision on both sides.
Spears launched from the ice-born camp and brought down half of Fiach’s dozen men. The rest fell before they could reach the safety of the woods.
No, the Bear’s men weren’t ready to be found out.
Lyleth and Elowen would crest the next ridge before the ice-born were done looting the bodies, and if Lyleth didn’t reach Nechtan soon, he’d march right into the lap of two armies.
Brixia had a nose for good oats, and after riding through that night and the next day, the little horse led them to the outer edge of Marchlew’s war camp. Warriors from the north country covered the fields from the ditchworks of the ráth all the way to the river.
It was night again. The walls of Caer Cedewain were lit by a hundred torches.
Lyleth showed her mark and they soon had an escort of five horsemen to see them to the fortress.
She found Nechtan in the forge.
“We need two hundred spearheads by morning,” he was saying to the armorer. “We have little time—”
“We have less time than you think,” she said. “And I have much to tell you.”
The room spun.
Lyleth could see nothing but the rise and fall of Nechtan’s chest. He breathed. And she wanted nothing more than to hold him, warm and alive against her own body, to feel the air move in him, to feel the flutter of his heart. When he crossed the space between them and took her in his arms, she knew she’d never heard the music of blood moving through flesh before, not until that moment, not like that.
It was all she could do to say, “He’s here.”
“Who?”
“The Bear.”
How long had it been since Lyleth had been warm? Dylan banked the fire in Nechtan’s chamber and she reached for it with numb hands.
Elowen had gone to the kitchen and fetched a tray of cold meat and cheese. With the smell of food, Lyleth realized how hungry she was.
“How many?” Nechtan asked her, filling her cup with ale.
“At least fifty. All thegns,” she said, her mouth full of greasy meat.
Nechtan paced. “They’ll try to bargain with Ava.”
“They just killed Fiach’s scouts.”
“They’re buying time. Waiting for the Bear.” He took the chair beside her and laced his fingers, his brow pinched. “Would Fiach side with the ice-born?”
Fiach would do anything to bring Nechtan down, but would he sacrifice his own land for it?
“I don’t know,” she said at last.
She took a bite of sloe cake and washed it down with ale.
“But I do know that Ava was never part of the Bear’s plan,” Lyleth said. “Ava placed her trust in Irjan and was betrayed.” Was that sympathy she heard in her own voice?
The food started to fill the void in her gut, and her body felt heavy with the meal and weariness, but Nechtan was intent on the map he had spread before them.
“You saw them here.” He placed a cup on the spot. “But leading a sizeable number of men through these mountains would be madness. They can only bring longships up the river to here.” He pointed to the falls at Balaclun, at least fifty leagues away from the glens of Cedewain.
“No. If the ice-born come in numbers, they’ll come from the sea.” His finger moved across the map, tracing a path from the broad bay known as the Gannet’s Bath to the valley that led directly to Cedewain’s back door, Maiden Pass.
“They’d beach their ships and ram the gates.”
“There’s something else.” Lyleth rubbed at her throbbing temples. “Ava watches with the eyes of the red crow.”
Nechtan got up and paced, dragging his hands down his face.
“Have you seen it again?” she said.
His eyebrow jumped. “Aye. Here.”
“Then she knows your numbers.”
The room began to recede, the walls closing in, as if she fell into a barrel. All she could see was Nechtan’s decaying flesh holding her fast to the ground. She realized she was staring at him, lost in the perfect, breathing replica before her.
“Lyl? You need sleep.”
“There’s no time.”
“I didn’t tell you that part,” he said, his pacing making her dizzy. “Kyndra knows I lack the mark, and she fears for Talan’s life on the open field. The boy’s never ridden to battle before. If I fail to agree to Marchlew’s siege, she’ll make certain my chieftains know I’m not who I seem.”
Lyleth eased back into the cushions of the chair. “So she’ll ruin us all to save her son. What did you tell her?”
“I won’t concede to a siege.”
“Then they’ll all know soon that the king has no mark.”
“You would have me concede to the siege? Not even these walls could hold against Fiach and the Bear.”
Every muscle in her body hurt and her mind begged for sleep. “I can’t think anymore, Nechtan.”
His arm slid around her waist and he helped her to her feet. “You smell terrible,” he said.
“You smell a sight better than last time I saw you.” He returned her smile, and helped her to the bed.
“Dylan will see to drawing a bath. Not even Marchlew could stand this stench.” He picked up the edge of her cloak like it was a dead thing, his cloak, and looked from it to her eyes. “You’ll tell me some time.”
She nodded and felt his lips on her forehead, and sank into the deep sea of the feather mattress. His last words came from the bottom of that sea.
“Sleep now,” he was saying. “I’m going to need you soon.”
She awoke to the sound of splashing water. Startled, Lyleth sat up, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. She was no longer in a tent of death, but a large chamber. Fingers of morning light spotted the floor and Dylan looked up from the hearth. He poured water into a waiting pot, and then swung it over the fire.
“Good, you’re awake,” he said. “My lord’s been asking for ye.”
She dragged her hands down her face, then examined them, brown with dried blood, her wrists crusted over with scabs.
“Aye.”
Her head began to clear as she got out of bed and looked at the wooden tub half full of steaming water.
“Lady Kyndra sent those.” Dylan pointed at a moss-green gown and chemise draped over a chair. “I took your armor and gambeson for cleaning.”
“Thank you, Dylan. Where’s Elowen?”
“Gone to see to Brixia. She feared the little horse’d run off again, seeing’s how she won’t be tied. But I think she’s looking for more food, if ye want to know.”
Lyleth smiled, but felt numb. What use would she be to Nechtan in such a state?
Dylan poured the next pot of hot water into the bath, saying, “My lord’s seen wondrous things in the Fair Lands, lady. Things I long to see for meself.”
“Don’t long for it overmuch.”
“My lord says I’m going to fight beside the archers from Arvon.” He grew a few f
ingers in the telling.
“And you’ll do as they tell you, and never leave your cover.”
He nodded and started for the door.
“Promise me,” she added.
“I promise.” He grinned and crossed his lips with his thumb to seal it.
She unlaced her dirty trousers, and saw the lad still standing by the door. “Is there something else, Dylan?”
“I just… I need to say… My lord set out to do what ye brung him back to do. He wants it more than anything, to set things right, says he. He has a great sadness on him. I’m just not certain he’d tell you hisself’s all.”
She forced a smile. “Thank you, Dylan.”
The doorlatch fell behind him.
On a table beside the hearth sat the harp of the drowned maid. Lyleth let her fingers taste the strings and from them, a lament sang out as if to echo Dylan’s words. The tune soaked into the stone walls and Lyleth stepped into the tub with its whispers still in her ears.
In the mirror, Lyleth inspected three stripes of stitching on her chest. The poultice Nechtan had applied came off easily in the bath water, and the stitches were healing cleanly with no sign of festering. He was a better seamstress than she’d thought.
The gown Kyndra had left felt bulky, but warm. It had been a long time since Lyleth had worn anything but leather hunting trousers and a surcoat of homespun. She braided her hair quickly and took one last look at the druí in the hand mirror: not exactly a courtly lady, with a row of neat stitches above her bodice. It would have to do, but she hoped she wouldn’t put anyone off their meal.
Starting down a narrow spiral of stairs, she nearly collided with Dunla.
“Oh, ‘tis true!” Dunla took Lyleth in a bosomy embrace. “My lord says you were here. But I had to see ye with me own eyes, lass.”
“I thought you taken,” Lyleth said. “How—”
“Oh aye, I told that ice queen nothing, then flew away.” Her hands fluttered before her round face. Another embrace and a squeeze of the cheeks. “Your lord awaits you. There’s much haste, lass. I’ll take ye to him.”
Dunla led her through a maze of halls and rooms, gossiping the entire way about the workings of the fortress and, in hushed tones, Marchlew’s capriciousness and the sorrow of Kyndra. It sounded like the lyrics of a weepy ballad.
“A slave to that man, she is,” Dunla whispered. “My heart feels it.”
Kyndra wasn’t the only one to suffer a loveless marriage for the good of her kingdom, nor would she be the last. At least Marchlew hadn’t murdered her. Yet.
Before they reached the council chamber, Dunla took Lyleth’s arm and stopped her.
“You’ll fit the pieces one to another. He’s a broken jug. ‘Tis what you called him back for, is it not?”
Lyleth’s mouth hung open stupidly. “What?”
“He’s the only man’s been called from the land of the dead. And why’d you think the green gods granted ye such a favor, eh?”
“I’m needed within,” Lyleth managed to say, and after a long look at Dunla’s resolute red face, opened the council chamber door.
A long table was crowded with men. Marchlew sat at one end and Nechtan at the other. Just the arrangement itself meant discord. They couldn’t afford a battle here at the table.
“We could move tonight to Morcant’s Roost,” Nechtan was saying. He put a stone on the map that lay before them. “And Marchlew would wait across the river here.” Another stone marked Marchlew’s position.
“This is utter suicide,” Marchlew bellowed. “You’re dead already, Nechtan. We have no desire to join you. I say we wait for them here, with archers, scorpions and burning pitch. Let them try to come through these walls.”
The clamor quieted when they saw Lyleth. Pyrs rose and took her hands, and leaving a kiss on her cheek, he whispered, “Please help.”
Pyrs would die for Nechtan in any lifetime and the look in his eyes confirmed it. He made room for her on the bench beside Nechtan. But Marchlew’s fish eyes said something very different.
“Sister greenleaf lives,” Marchlew grinned. “Nechtan claims you’ve seen ice-born in the mountains.”
“If you think to cower in this fortress,” Lyleth said, “you’ll have Ava beating at your gates while the Bear breaks through Maiden Pass.”
“None’s ever fucked that maiden.” Marchlew chuckled.
Kyndra appeared in the doorway. Her eyes met Lyleth’s, and it was clear what she’d come for. Kyndra would settle this now. But Lyleth got up and met her in the doorway, whispering, “Your boy must become a man, Kyndra.”
“What do you know of a mother’s love?” She pushed past Lyleth and lay a hand on her husband’s shoulder. But as Kyndra moved to whisper in his ear, Lyleth said, “Marchlew, I must speak with you. It’s of some urgency.”
“As must I,” Kyndra countered.
“Alone,” Lyleth added.
“Sister greenleaf has a proposal.” Marchlew winked at the men, tugged at his belt, then hoisted his bulk to his feet. “Kyndra, love,” he said, “see to their cups.”
Kyndra looked as if she would spill what she had to say that moment, then her eyes met Nechtan’s, and something passed between them, the truth, perhaps.
Lyleth followed Marchlew down a narrow corridor to a small anteroom. The door closed and she looked at this man who held the fate of the highland tribes. He’d wasted himself even further since Lyleth had last seen him.
“Speak,” he demanded.
“When Nechtan returned to this world,” she said flatly, “he bore no mark of the king.”
“No mark?” He huffed in clear satisfaction. “So, the man is a wraith, just as I’ve said.”
“He’s no wraith.”
“But he’s no king, either.” Those jaundiced eyes held hers for a long moment. Perhaps that was exactly what she was saying.
Marchlew paced a circle around her.
“A siege will bring certain death,” Lyleth said. “To you. To Talan. To the Five Quarters.”
Stepping in front of him, she brought his pacing to a halt and met his eyes. “Tell me, Marchlew, what is it you want?”
Chapter 29
Connor begged the nurse for more time with Dish, but she threatened to call security if he didn’t leave. He couldn’t bring himself to let go of Dish’s hand, feeling the warm pulse of life between them, the green fire that arced from his wrist to Dish’s.
“It’s 2 a.m.,” the nurse said. With a fierce grip on Connor’s arm, she dragged him toward the exit of I.C.U.
“But he moved his hand!”
“Young man, patients with injuries such as Mr. Cavendish will show unconscious reflexes. It’s normal.”
“Not this. He heard me!”
The nurse slapped the button and the automatic doors swung open.
“I’ll make a note of it on his chart.” With a wooden soldier wave and a hand on Connor’s back, she gave him a push through the doors.
Connor’s hand was still on fire, and when he looked at the water horse drawn in ballpoint pen on his wrist, he could see random flashes, like fireflies dancing from his veins. He sucked in a lungful of air as if he’d forgotten to breathe.
In the corner of the waiting room, Iris was asleep, curled like a cat in a corner chair.
“C’mon.” He shook her awake. “Let’s go.”
She gathered her patchwork hippy bag and stumbled after him.
“Go where?”
“Bronwyn told me where she was staying. She’s probably still there.” He checked the time on his phone. 2:53 a.m.
Shit.
Connor stalled the car again as he pulled into the entrance circle of the Marriott, but finally got the thing parked. As he expected, you needed a passkey to get into the hotel at this hour. He put his face up to the window. Nobody at the front desk. He rapped on the glass. The manager was probably asleep in the back room, sandbagger.
He got back in the car, his body heat steaming the windows. You’d have thought
he and Iris had been going at it in here. But his body was a furnace. He cranked the window down (too old for power windows), pulled off his sweatshirt, and glanced at his wrist again.
In the electric cold of a streetlight, the drawing of the water horse smoldered. Static images flashed before his eyes. He saw the stone with the water horse carving rising from the center of a pool in a dense forest. Moss softened its edges and the exposed roots of ancient trees wove a bowl to contain water so clear he could see through it to the other side. Clouds raced across the sky there. A crow cocked its head to look at him, there on the other shore, then dipped its beak into the still water and fractured the vision.
“What’s the matter?” Iris was staring at him again.
He balled up his sweatshirt and wiped the inside of the windshield with it. “Nothing.”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m just tired.” The voice that came out of him wasn’t his own. He’d lost his somewhere. “They have to come out sometime,” he said.
“Who?”
“Bronwyn and Merryn.”
“You mean you’re going to stalk them?” Iris said. “And when they do, you’re going to do what exactly?”
“I need to talk to Bronwyn.”
“Why don’t you just call her? You have her cell number, right?”
“Why would she answer a call from me?”
“Maybe to scream at you for waking her up at 3 a.m., dumbass.”
Connor dug his phone out of his pocket, scrolled to the number, and hit “send.” It rang and went to voicemail. “It’s Connor.” The pause was way too long. “You have to listen to me. Dish moved his hand. He could hear me. Just let me talk to you.” He shut the phone.
“Dish moved his hand?” Iris’ face was too close.
He gave her the abbreviated version, without the crazy talk, and moved the car to a parking place that offered a strategic view of the entrance. Iris was talking about how some psychic healers feel hot after they do whatever it is they do to make people well. But Connor had stopped listening. He was trying to reconstruct the scene of the pool in the woods, trying to hang on to the overwhelming urge he’d felt to step into that water and fall through to that other sky.