The roof of the manor had fallen in, and the entire south wing was rubble.
He’d come too late.
He’d ridden his horse until it died, and then he had walked. Through mud and fens up to his chest, he’d walked. He’d shed his armor as it became too heavy. Thrown away everything but Ghostcutter. He had not slept, nor eaten, since the berserkers took away his army.
He could barely stand. Yet he walked into the forecourt, sword in hand, just in case Morgain had left behind anyone to watch the place. Anyone to pick off stragglers foolish enough to return.
Inside the house, birds lifted from a sodden floor and dashed past his face. He waved them away. Found the hearth cold. All the food gone.
He would not have eaten, even if he could. Not until he knew for sure.
In the apartments of the Baron he found blood everywhere. The wooden door to the receiving chamber was scarred by axe blows, and the lock had been hacked out of its mounting. He pushed open the door, which squeaked noisily on its hinges. Inside something moved furtively.
Croy crouched low, Ghostcutter held before him. He stepped inside, into shadows. He saw the Baron’s desk. The maps were gone, as were all the reports Easthull had gathered. Whatever the Baron had known about the defense of Skrae was old news now to the barbarians.
A beam of yellow light came through a stained-glass window at the back of the room. It fell on a scrap of cloth stained dark with blood. Croy stepped closer and picked it up. Linen. It was wrapped around a severed finger. Croy guessed the signet ring had been hacked off the Baron’s hand.
Behind him something stirred. He swung around instantly, ready for a fight.
One of the Baron’s hounds came limping toward him. The animal was unkempt and mad with fear. It bared yellow teeth and snarled.
There was fresh blood on its muzzle.
Croy pushed past the dog. It whimpered and snapped at him, but he ignored it and headed back out toward the kennels at the rear of the house. He found the Baron there. Easthull had been butchered and fed to his own pack. The dogs had not finished with the head yet, or Croy would not have been able to identify the nobleman.
He could only imagine what the barbarians had done to the king. Or Bethane, the king’s daughter. Morgain had no love for princesses. Thinking about what Bethane might have gone through before she died, Croy began to weep.
Sharp iron touched the back of his neck.
Croy wheeled about, and Ghostcutter sliced through the wooden haft of a bill hook. The blade clattered to the ground. Croy started into a second stroke, one that would cut his attacker in half.
He barely managed to stop when he saw it was no barbarian who had accosted him, but an old woman in a russet tunic. A peasant. How had she even possessed the strength to lift the polearm?
He supposed that if the need was great enough, the strength could be found.
“Are you the one they call Croy?” the woman asked. She did not seem frightened, even though he had disarmed and almost killed her. “Answer me, lad, or it’ll go hard for ye.”
Croy almost laughed. But then he bowed his head. Sheathed his sword. “I am he.”
The old woman nodded and turned away from him. She started walking, and he followed, because this felt like a dream-or an enchantment-and there were rules about such things. When a guide presented itself, you had to follow. All the stories agreed.
Stories. Malden used to laugh at the old stories of gallant knights and noble crusades. The stories that had nourished Croy in his infancy, as surely as his nurse’s milk. He had always believed the stories held a deeper truth, a layer of reality beyond the gray banalities of the mundane world. He had always thought a man with a pure heart and a good cause really could prevail, no matter the odds.
Yet here he was. Doubly masterless, a knight errant without so much as an old story to lead him onward any longer.
Perhaps… perhaps the Lady would let him see Cythera again now. Perhaps he would see his beloved again before he died at the end of a barbarian’s blade.
The old woman led him into a copse of trees not quite deep enough to be called a forest. A wood lot, really, a place for the Baron’s men to collect firewood. Deep in the shadows of the naked branches lay a cottage, a sawyer’s hut. Croy had never seen such a crude dwelling. Its roof was moldering thatch, its walls made of wooden withes smeared with horse hair and dung to keep the wind out. It had no windows and its door was a simple plank that the old woman lifted free of its frame. She couldn’t even afford hinges.
Inside was a room that smelled of old fires and rotten vegetables. There was a fireplace Croy could not call a hearth. Most of the room was so thick with shadows he could see nothing. The old woman stepped inside and replaced the unhinged door, leaving him in darkness broken only by the dull light of the coals in the grate, and those illuminated nothing.
“You saw his face?” the old woman asked in the blackness. She wasn’t speaking to him. “It’s the one you wanted?”
Had he been led here by assassins? Brigands who would take his sword and trade it for a jug of wine? Croy wondered if he had the strength left to fight them.
“I saw it. Make a light, goodwife,” a new voice said. A voice Croy recognized.
Still-he could credit it not, until the old woman lit a stinking rushlight and he saw. There was no furniture in the tiny house, but a pile of straw had been shoved into one corner to make a pallet. Ulfram V lay upon it, sleeping.
And standing next to him was his daughter, Bethane, who would be queen hereafter.
Croy dropped to his knees. He had only the strength left to utter, “How?”
“When they came we had very little warning,” Bethane explained. “A man came running down the road, screaming. It was enough. I dragged Father back here. Baron Easthull sacrificed himself by staying behind. He knew Morgain would not rest until she’d found a noble who’d dared to stand up to her. He died swearing he was alone in the house, and I suppose she believed him.”
There was no passion in Bethane’s voice. Her words were as flat and uninflected as those of a parish priest reading a very dry passage of the Lady’s word.
“I saw much of what happened, though I dared not go so close as to help. I saw them die,” Bethane went on. She did not weep. “I saw my country dying. Before it was over I came back here, and knelt by my father’s side, and prayed the Lady would take him into her bosom before ever he awoke. I do not want him to know what has become of his kingdom.”
Croy lowered his head in grief.
“It was not good for him, to be dragged through mud so far, nor is the air in here fit for royal lungs. Come, Sir Croy, and listen. Tell me what this sound means, though I know it too well already.”
Croy moved to kneel over his king. Ulfram lived still, but the breath that came in and out of his lungs rattled and choked. A sound that could have been mistaken for snoring, if Croy had never heard it before.
“It is his death rattle,” he agreed.
“Sit vigil with me tonight,” Bethane said, and he obeyed. They knelt together, deep in prayer and meditation. Time went away.
In the morning the old woman rose from the pile of blankets she had instead of a bed, and she stirred the fire. “I need to get some water on, if we’re having pottage,” she said. Neither Bethane nor Croy responded. The old woman went out, letting light into the room when she moved the door.
The sunlight fell across Ulfram V’s face, and showed it pale, and the eyes empty, open, staring upward.
Croy broke his reverie long enough to place one hand against the king’s neck. There was no pulse, and the skin was cold as ice.
“The king is dead,” he whispered. “Long live the queen.”
It was only then that Bethane allowed herself to cry.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
“The king is dead,” Coruth said, plucking at long blades of yellow grass on the shore of the Isle of Horses. She said it offhandedly, as she might comment on an unusual formation of clouds ove
rhead. “Skrae is in tatters.”
Cythera shivered and pulled her cloak around her shoulders. Then she went and gathered some more driftwood and piled it on the fire.
Coruth had set up a small kettle on a tripod well clear of the house, and it was Cythera’s job to keep it hot, tending the fire beneath it as necessary. From time to time Coruth came over and threw a handful of herbs in, then replaced the thick iron cover.
“You care about Skrae,” Cythera pointed out, when her mother was silent for too long. All day Coruth had been distracted, staring endlessly out across the waters of Eastpool. Cythera knew perfectly well that her mother was not looking at the clutter of shacks and houses on the far shore. She was sending her mind out-not all of it, not as she did when she flew on the wings of birds and saw the whole of the world. Just feelers, tendrils of her consciousness, testing and probing at the flow of events. “I would have thought witches were above petty politics.”
Coruth snickered. “Do you mean, am I heartbroken that we’ve lost Ulfram V? Hardly. The man was better than his father, but not overmuch. He had a habit of speaking to everyone as equals rather than subjects. I liked that.”
Cythera remembered meeting the king, back before the barbarians came. Back when she had thought she knew what the future would hold. That seemed a long time ago. “He seemed a straightforward man.”
“But a fool. Too concerned with small matters, the daily accounts and business of running a kingdom. He could not see the larger picture. No, there will come better kings. If there will be any kings at all.” Coruth rose to her feet and came over to tend to the kettle. When the lid came off it let loose a stink that made Cythera’s head reel, a must of old graves. The liquid in the pot had thickened to a gelid consistency with a crust of foulness at its top. It had the color a fish’s eyes get after it sat too long in a vendor’s cart. With another few hours of heat it would congeal even further, until it became as stiff as wax.
Cythera thought she knew exactly what this substance was for. And it made her so cold she couldn’t bear to look at it.
“You’ll be interested to know,” Coruth said, “that Croy is still alive.”
“I-” Cythera said, but the thought she’d had, the immediate emotional reaction, died inside her as soon as it was born. “Croy,” she said. “Is he in danger?”
“Always,” Coruth cackled. “He’s an Ancient Blade. He lives to fight. How could a man like that ever be safe? But for now he’s still on two feet. If that still matters to you.”
“It does,” Cythera said, looking down at her feet. It always would, she knew. No matter how her love for Malden grew, there would always be a little room in her heart where Croy would live. A room with a door that could not be locked.
Coruth came and stood next to her, looking down into the kettle of ointment. “Almost ready,” she said. She had changed, become more present-more fully integrated with her own body. “You know what this is, don’t you?”
Cythera went to get some more wood for the fire before she answered. “It’s witch’s unguent. It opens up the inner eye. Brings on the second sight.”
“Yes,” Coruth said. “When it’s ready-when all the preparations are ready-we’ll begin your initiation.”
Cythera closed her eyes and tried not to weep.
Chapter Seventy
A thousand barbarians marched north, pulling wagons full of books from Redweir. They grumbled at the load, wondering what the Great Chieftain could possibly want with words. Morget ignored their complaints and ordered a doubling of the pace. He was anxious to see his father again. He had something to say to the old man.
“Slow down, you bastard. We’ve been walking so long I’ve got blisters all the way up my legs. For fuck’s sake, I’ve got blisters so far up my arse I can taste them.”
Morget hauled in Balint’s chain. The dwarf staggered toward him, her eyes wide with terror. He was in a good mood for once, so he didn’t hurt her. Just grinned down into her hairy face and laughed his dark and booming laugh.
Morget in a good mood was still a frightening thing.
Ahead he could see the walls of Helstrow. He’d been walking for days to return to the fortress, leaving his horses behind. There were so few of them left that every mount was needed for the dwindling number of scouts Morget could command. The scattered men of Skrae had been busy killing his outriders. No matter-if that was the best they could do, then victory was assured.
There was a nagging doubt in the back of Morget’s mind, a curiosity about what he would do once he had conquered the West. What would satisfy his bloodlust then, when every man on the continent was his thrall? The barbarian put such pointless wonderings behind him. There was always the Old Empire, across the sea to the south. There were always more lands to crush.
At the gate of Helstrow, Morgain received him with honors. She placed a wreath of dry roses upon his head in mockery of western pomp. She’d even pruned off all the thorns-which he thought might be a subtle jab at his toughness. He was used to her disdain, however. He thrived on it.
“I hear you laid low a baron,” he told her. “A silly little man in linen and fur.”
She bowed like a western courtier. “Milord, you are too kind to remember my paltry accomplishments. Though I see you’ve forgotten I also defeated Sir Croy.”
“I forgot nothing. He still lives.”
Morgain laughed. “I left him in a welter of berserkers. We’ve heard nothing of him since. Though, if he is alive-I want him. He’s beautiful, in a decadent way. I want him stripped and staked in my tent. I want to see what soft western skin feels like under my lips. I want to know the secrets of courtly love.”
“Him you may not have. I must slay him myself.”
“You give me orders now, Chieftain?” Morgain’s eyes flashed dangerously. The two of them had never fought a true blood duel. Never had their Ancient Blades met when the intention was to draw heart’s blood. Morget wondered briefly how long it would take to kill his sister. Whether she would be a satisfactory opponent, the foe he’d been looking to meet for so long.
She was still useful to him, though. He grabbed her by the throat-she did not try to stop him. Her eyes danced and she smiled as he squeezed.
“What do you really want, Morgain? I need your aid today. Tell me your price and I’ll pay it.”
“I want,” she said, picking her words carefully, “to serve my clans. To obey and enforce the decisions they make. I want nothing for myself. I am their chieftess, and what they want is all that matters.”
It was a variation on the oath every chieftain took when he won his clan. She would deny him the true secret of her heart’s desire by parroting words he’d spoken himself so many times. Words their father had composed.
He let go of her. For a moment he expected her to draw Fangbreaker and try to cut him down, but she merely laughed.
“Ah, this tender scene explains quite a bit,” Balint said. She had sat down on the grass outside the gate to capture this stray moment’s rest. “I was wondering how you lot got so pig stupid. If all brothers and sisters in the east act like this, it’s no more a fucking mystery. You know what they say about the get of incest.”
Morgain slapped the dwarf hard across the face. “We kill sibling-fuckers! And we kill anyone who makes false accusations as well, tiny bitch.”
Morget considered letting his sister kill Balint. It might be briefly entertaining. Yet he still needed the dwarf. He knew what to say to save her life. “A scold can speak thus with impunity,” he told Morgain.
Morgain screamed in defiance. “She’s no scold! Scolds are warriors who have earned the right to speak truth to their betters. Who has she killed?”
“Hundreds-at the Vincularium, and at Redweir,” Morget pointed out.
Morgain wouldn’t have it. “She’s never held a blade in her life.”
“She may not have the training of a scold either, or know the kennings and the couplets, but she can speak oaths and curses better than Hurlin
d.” He hauled Balint to her feet by the chain. “And every chieftain may appoint his own scold, as he chooses.”
He had Morgain there, and she could not gainsay him.
“Come, scold. Morgain, you come with me as well. I take it your thralls can see to my men?”
“It will be done.” Morgain fumed darkly and stalked inside the gate ahead of him. Morget followed behind her.
“Listen,” Balint said, “my feet-”
Morget picked the dwarf up and tucked her under his massive arm. He thought that would be enough to silence Balint, but it was not.
“So I’m your scold now, as well as your engineer? I want no more responsibilities from you, you daft giant prick. I don’t even know what a scold is supposed to do!”
“Oh, you know it all too well. But I did not give you this honor without reason. What you said to my sister-it was unforgivable. She was well within her rights to cut off your head, then and there.”
“Because I said she was inbred?”
“That’s our way. Slander is not permitted. Except when spoken by a scold. Scolds are expected to mock one and all, and no man may seek revenge for their jeering. Scolds alone are allowed to speak the truth-and by so doing, keep the chieftains from believing their own boasts. By making you my scold I have saved your life. Now you must find a way to repay me.”
“Lovely,” Balint said. “Where are we going now?”
“I go to see the Great Chieftain. You will wait for me, until I choose to return for you.” He tied her chain around a post standing before the gate to Helstrow’s inner bailey. The rotting head of a Skraeling knight still sat atop the post, dripping black fluids. Morget laughed to see Balint strain against her spiked collar, trying to avoid getting any of the putrescence on her clothes.
When he felt he’d been amused enough-that, after all, was another responsibility of a chieftain’s scold, to keep him entertained-he headed into the inner bailey with Morgain at his side.
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