The Protectorate force and the Hierarch mages alike, a huge snake through the icy pass, all came to a halt in the face of the music.
And there, in the pass above and ahead, maybe a hundred warriors, singing lustily, with their swords pointing a challenge at the superior force.
With towering, swinging beauty, with their ancient song, the Blade Singers issued their challenge.
Freynard's vision was coming true, and he was afraid.
Afraid of the Song of Swords.
*
Part IV.
The Witches' Covenant
Chapter Forty-Seven
Rena watched Asram's back as he walked through the undergrowth. The unlikely companions were perhaps a week's ride from Naeth. Word travelled fast to the towns and villages they passed through. There was war. There were rumours of war. Alien creatures from across the sea. The Draymen were rising. The Seafarers had made shore...
Rumours abound in the countryside.
In the dark, watching Asram and Shawford breaking their trail, she could almost forget that there was so much riding on their tiny party. Were word to get out...were people to know whose child it was she carried in her sling...
Would they make it to Naeth? Of course they would not, not even with the strangely charming Crale and the deadly Fell. And what of you, Rena? she thought.
What of the young witch, wife to the last king, mother to the last of the line of kings...
It would make for a pretty tale.
The young witch shook herself from her thoughts and tried to concentrate on the journey ahead, instead of childish fables.
Both men were sure-footed in the darkness, leaving Rena to pick her way across rocks and roots and snowfall as she followed on behind them. Little Tarn slept soundly in his sling. Her back ached from carrying him for so long. She wished they could rest up, or at least take horses for the remainder of the journey, but Asram told her a horse had a habit of rushing into danger. He was a careful man.
And something else, too. Asram did not like Shawford. That much was clear. Shawford, for his part, was gracious where Asram and Rena and even her gurgling, giggling babe were concerned. Asram was right on the border of rude when it came to Shawford Crale, although he was nothing but courteous to Rena.
The road had been hard for her and Tarn. Asram and Shawford took each night's journey easily, and did not complain about the lack of sleep, or tiredness, or aching bones.
Asram asked her time and again if he could carry Tarn for her, but she would have none of it. She, nor her babe, would be a burden on the passage north.
But she feared she might become so, because she was getting sick.
*
Chapter Forty-Eight
Rena was tired, so tired.
She was worried, too, because of her dreams.
The party of four travelled at night. Asram always made sure to take them far from the roads where the going would be easier. Travelling through the snow, each wearing heavy clothes (apart from Crale), and walked on whether the night was dark or moonlit, in snow or cold. The babe did not seem to mind, and slept most of the night through. Rena, on the other hand, felt herself sickening with something. Knew she was ill.
Though the arrow wound in her shoulder ached, it was not a sickness from that. It had healed well, with poultices that she knew the making of, even well enough to find the ingredients she needed in the frozen earth and the crisp slumbering plants that grew further north.
The flora was different the further north they went, but she still knew the plants. Mia had taught her well.
On the road one night, thinking of her mother, of husband but for a short time, Tarn, and even the old witch Tulathia, and Tarn's adoptive mother and father, Molly and Gard, she shed an unashamed tear. She was surprised to find when she wiped her eyes clear that her tear was black in the moonlight.
Blood.
She was crying blood.
Asram noticed, too, how red her eyes were.
Rena had no doubt that the illness was worsening with each passing cycle of the day.
And yes, she suffered. But not from malaise. No, she suffered from her dreams, which grew more terrifying each day.
Shawford Crale was never a part of these dreams, because when the suns rose he was gone. She knew not where. Asram was a part of her dreams, as was Tarn and Mia and Molly and Gard, though Tulathia never visited those frightening dreamscapes from which she tried to run but could not.
So she dreamed, and cried blood tears, and grew more afraid.
*
Chapter Forty-Nine
The first hint of Carious in the sky signalled that it was time for Asram and Rena to make their rough camp, and for Shawford Crale to leave them. It was always the way, or had been for the two weeks they had travelled on together.
Before the suns rose, Crale would be gone. When the last sun, Dow, set, he would turn up. Never did he give an explanation of where he had been. He never seemed to tire, though, during the long winter nights, so he must have slept.
He must have, thought Rena, though she was not sure. Nothing about Crale was a sure thing. She knew this from the warning of the lady. That said, he was always courteous. Unerringly so. Unnaturally so, perhaps.
'I bid you good day,' said the man with a disarming grin, and turned and left the camp before the suns could rise completely. Crale walked swiftly from the camp.
'I wish I knew where he went each day,' said Asram. He said so wistfully, and Rena knew that Asram thought to follow Crale, and one day soon.
She was not sure if she would let him or not.
Asram had been in poor humour all night, and in the early morning light fared no better.
'I'm not sure it matters, Asram,' said Rena with a soft, sad smile.
Asram could not help but notice the sadness in her face. He thought she looked more and more tired as they finally neared Naeth and respite from the road, if not freedom from their travails. He heard the rumours of war in the taverns they risked, and from rare fellows who braved the cold as they did.
'Maybe,' he said. 'Maybe not.'
He sat and took some provisions from his pack. A few apples, a haunch of dry meat, some stale bread. Poor fare, but the road was always hard. Asram wondered how hard it could be on the babe, but Rena steadfastly refused to let him take a turn carrying the child, though it was obvious to a man with Asram's remarkable eyes just how much pain Rena was in at the end of each day.
They ate their mean meal in silence. Finally Rena yawned and stretched. Little Tarn, well wrapped, was out of his sling and moving around. The child slept all night, and they took turns watching the crawling baby during the day. Rena would sleep first.
She yawned again just as the first true rays of the sun Carious broke the horizon. It was a crisp, clear day. Thankfully there would be no fresh snowfall to contend with that night. Just icy hard old snow, breaking underfoot. But Asram thought that would be easier on the poor girl.
And she was just a girl. No more than twenty years, for sure.
She pulled her pack over to lay her head down upon it.
'I must sleep, Asram. I'm sorry.'
'Don't be, my Lady. Me and Tarn will be just fine, won't we, Tarn?'
The baby made a satisfied noise as Asram fed the child small chunks of salted meat. Probably not ideal fare for a babe, but the road was hard on all of them and they could not coddle the child. He was a hearty boy - he would be fine.
Rena nodded and granted Asram a small, thoughtful smile.
'What is it?' he asked.
'You're a good man, Asram,' she said. She nodded before he could say anything in return, then closed her eyes and dreamed.
*
Chapter Fifty
Mist flowed around Rena as she walked. It was not cold, nor warm...it was just mist. There was no feeling in the dream.
The mist did not enliven, but deadened. And at the thought of death, she realised she could feel. She could feel him. The only man she'd ever l
oved. The only man she ever would. She knew where she walked. She was sicker than she thought, because this could only be the road to Madal's Gate.
Yet he would not be here. He would be beyond the gate, because he was dead. He had died before her son was born. At the thought, she felt a sob build in her throat, but nothing would come out. This place, it seemed, deadened emotion, too.
But then, something...sound? The sound of a breath being drawn...here in this dead land. Startled, she jumped.
He's coming back, said a voice.
She knew that voice well.
Tulathia. The most powerful witch she'd ever known. And there she was, Tulathia, walking through the mist, looking just like her old self. Her back was bent, her hands like claws. The skin on her face held deep wrinkles with dirt so ingrained that no amount of washing would ever remove the stains. Her wrinkles were like a map, each one showing a road that she had travelled through her long life.
And yet when she smiled and those wrinkles around her eyes deepened, there was something undeniably beautiful about the old witch.
'Rena,' she said. Simple greeting, like they'd only parted yesterday, or like they'd just awoken and greeted each other over their morning brew.
'Old mother,' said Rena, and walked toward her dead friend with her arms held wide, wanting her touch and her comfort. She hadn't realised how alone she felt since losing Tulathia, Mia...Tarn. So much that had been solid in her life was now gone to dust.
Damn, she thought...she was so alone...
'Oh, he'll come again,' said Tulathia, as though Rena had spoken aloud.
'You can hear my thoughts?'
'Here? Maybe,' said the old witch. 'This is a strange place. I've been waiting. I know not how long. Sometimes it seems an eternity. Others, mere moments.'
'What of Tarn? Has he passed...has he passed Madal's Gates?'
Tulathia's answer was a sad smile and a small nod.
Rena thought maybe she would cry all over again, though she thought she'd left her tears behind, and yet in this land of mist tears would not come. At best, she could only think about shedding tears. It was like the mist held her down and stopped her from floating off the path beneath her feet.
'Am I dead?' she asked.
'Dying,' said Tulathia, and she didn't sound sad, nor angry. It was just a statement of fact.
'Then that is good,' said Rena, 'Because I will see him beyond the gates.'
'Not yet, you won't, girl.' Tulathia's words were like a slap, because they were delivered with a sudden harshness that Rena remembered well from the years Tulathia had shared Rena's childhood home. Together with her mother, Mia - three witches under one roof.
'Then I'm not dead?'
'Pfft,' said Tulathia. 'Child, dying, I said. Don't give up so easily. You'll see him again, the right side of the Gates, if you fight. But you must fight.'
'I'm tired, old mother...'
This time Rena did jump, because Tulathia's old, crooked hand lashed out and slapped her across the face. There was strength there in the spirit witch's hand, and despite the strange mist Rena's face stung and she blinked back tears, real tears.
She wiped her face on her sleeve - somewhere deep down she noted that here, in this place of the dead, her tears were no longer the red of blood.
'You've a baby, girl. You're a mother. You have no room for despair.'
'It's hard,' said Rena, and then clamped her jaw shut. She was aware she was whining, and didn't want to feel Tulathia's ire again.
'Life's hard,' said Tulathia, but not unkindly. 'Death's hard, too. I'll tell you that. I met him, here. Don't know how long ago. I met him before the Gates.'
Rena didn't think Tulathia was talking about Death himself. She spoke of Tarn, and Rena's heart beat faster at the thought. Denied him so long...and now...so close she could feel him.
'He did go through, then?'
'Aye, he did. But you've got to call him back.'
'What?'
'Call him back, you heard me. Sit, sit a while. I think we can sit, here.'
And so they sat.
Once, back in the world, Tulathia would have uttered a curse, taking the cold floor with her old bones. Apparently here she felt the cold, too, for she did curse. For Rena's part, she felt just the hard path beneath her as she sat, and discovered, too, that she was grateful for the seat.
On the misty plains of death, their breath swirled around them as they spoke on many things. They talked long.
Talked about Mia, Rena's murdered mother. They talked about old times and new times and other things.
Tulathia spoke long and hard with Rena about The Outlaw King, and Rena's undying love for him. The conversation burned Rena's soul, because for so long she had held it inside. Finally, unaware of how long they had spoken, Rena found that she could cry in this place after all. It was not the mist that deadened her, but her own broken heart.
She sobbed and held her old, old friend. She sobbed and her heart broke all over again, but this time there was healing, too.
Time passed. Perhaps it was years, perhaps hours. Rena did not know, and Tulathia could not tell her.
She cried, and Tulathia held her.
'How do I get back?' she said, after the tears were spent.
Tulathia smiled her ancient, gap-toothed smile. It was a great smile. Rena felt buoyed in its power.
'Got to be called back,' said the old witch. 'It's not easy. You've got to want it, too. Do you want it, girl?'
Rena nodded without hesitation.
'I do, old mother. I do.'
'Good and good,' said Tulathia. 'I know not if our time is short or long. We must talk more, before you go. We must talk about the future.'
'You know the future?' asked Rena.
'No, not precisely, girl...and you know this, for we spoke on it once before, remember?'
'I do,' said Rena with a sad smile. 'You told me Tarn and I would be wed. And we were, no matter what happened afterward.'
'Then you know well enough that even here, in this place of power, I cannot know everything. But I know much. I know of the Hierophant and the Queen of Thieves. Of the Witches' Covenant.
'It is the Covenant that will lead you back, but we need to talk on a more important matter,' said Tulathia, and her expression this time was grim.
'Rena...' the old witch hesitated. It was not like her, and suddenly Rena feared what would come next.
'We need to talk of the Lich King.'
And Rena's heart stuttered, because from Tulathia's expression, she knew exactly what the woman meant, and for the first time in this place she felt cold...cold with dread.
*
Chapter Fifty-One
Snow fell lightly around the makeshift camp and Dow slid below the horizon. Rena slept all day, and Asram had let her. He had not wished to wake her, because he could see just how tired she was.
Her eyes were permanently bloodshot, and she knuckled her back, carrying the child all day, never complaining. But sometimes, Asram knew, strong men didn't complain and they were the ones that broke.
There had to be some release.
But the end of their journey was in sight now. A week, perhaps, on the road, and then respite. Tarn, the babe, was becoming bored and tired and starting to complain in that way that babes often had - a wordless kind of irritability.
'You'll have your mother soon,' said Asram to the babe, who was crawling around in the snow, in his fur mittens and tiny coat.
It was time to move on.
Shawford would return soon, as he always did come nightfall. Then they would be moving on once again. Asram did not like the man at all, but he could not decide why. Crale was unerringly polite, to the point of being unctuous, perhaps, but there was no reason for his animosity.
Still, Crale was a stout travelling companion. He could have broken camp, but not without Crale to help shoulder the burdens of their packs. For such a slender man, Crale was strong enough to carry his burden without complaint.
; Asram sighed. Crale was a problem for another day, and if the Queen Selana had decreed him a worthy travelling companion, then he could weather him.
He stood over the other woman who would have been Queen of Sturma, had things worked out differently for her and Tarn. Just for a moment he stared at her, peaceful in sleep, and he imagined the pain she must feel from her loses and her aches forgotten in sleep.
He sighed again, and began breaking their rude camp for the night's travels.
He let her sleep for as long as he could, but then he needed to pack up her bedroll. 'Rena,' said Asram, leaning over the sleeping woman. The babe began crying. It was time for his feed - long overdue - but she had needed to sleep so badly. He knew the signs of exhaustion better than most.
Asram Fell had learned much, too, about the different country that was a baby in the weeks he'd spent on the journey north with Rena and baby Tarn, and lately Shawford Crale.
He had grown attached to the child. He picked the child up before he could crawl into the remains of the camp fire. Tarn smiled and burped at him as he put the child down again and shook Rena gently to wake her.
But she did not wake. Her breathing did not change. The steady rhythm did not change at all. He shook her and called her name again. Nothing. When he pulled her eyelids open, trying to wake her like that, he jumped back in shock.
Her eyes were like pools of blood.
*
Chapter Fifty-Two
Her eyes were completely red - even her pupils and iris, once a beautiful blue, were red. When Asram pulled her eyes open, desperately trying to wake her, she did not make a murmur. She could have been dead but from the shallow fluttering of her breath.
'Asram?'
Shawford Crale was there, suddenly, and Asram hadn't even heard the man approach.
The Queen of Thieves: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three Page 10