Firethorn

by Sarah Micklem

  I would run if I could move.

  While I hung on the gate, the crowd grew quiet.

  I tasted salt and didn’t know if it was sweat or tears. I prayed to Rift to take Dread from me, and send instead the Warrior to make me brave. But it was dangerous to pray to Rift. I should never have sought Rift’s help to find the dwale; Dread was the price the god exacted for it.

  Rift did not relent. It was a far humbler divinity who came to my aid: Dogmaster, who was a god to his hounds, at least. I saw some promise of mercy in Dogmaster’s eyes, some pity. I believed he wouldn’t let the dogs kill me. He stood with his hand on the gate and held it steady as I leaned against it. A dog whined, legs braced, hackles raised. The man growled and the dog quieted.

  Fleetfoot and Ev were behind him. They’d come halfway across the pen to see what was happening and the rest of the dogs had come with them. They looked so small. The backs of the great manhounds came above the boys’ waists. The dogs wore their winter coats of short, thick fur; most were fawn colored, but a few were of dun brindled with black. They all had black masks and ears. The boys wore their leggings and nothing else, and their skin shone pale in the dark. They looked sleepy, puzzled, cold. Fleetfoot folded his arms over his bare chest and shivered. Ev grasped a dog’s ruff.

  Why was I so afraid? The boys had no fear.

  I remembered the war dogs let loose on Summons Day to please the crowd, how they’d torn the fallow deer to pieces on the tourney field.

  I tugged on the gate and Dogmaster let it swing open. I took one step and another, still holding the gate for support, and he stood aside. The wind dried the sweat on my brow and chilled me. I heard Galan move, the rattle of metal against metal.

  I was inside, but Galan was inside too, one step behind me, and Dogmaster closed the gate after us both. There was a sigh and a mutter from the crowd. Galan moved up on my right. He’d left his sword behind, outside the gate. He held out his shield arm and I clung to it to keep from falling to the ground. I felt the stiff, quilted linen under my hand. He kept his sword arm down in front of his body. The leather sleeve covered with metal scales was something better for the manhounds to chew on than our flesh. He gave me one glance, that was all—and, I swear, a fleeting smile—before turning his face toward the dogs.

  Reckless heart. No wonder Chance loved him. He never cared what odds.

  Then I thought: perhaps this was not of his choosing. Maybe by binding him, I’d bound him to die alongside me. Yet I wouldn’t have unbound him at that moment if I could have, not for the world.

  “Easy now, steady,” he said. He was talking to the dogs, I think.

  The lead dog, a great tawny bulk with hoarfrost on his shoulders and muzzle, was the first to try us. He lunged to within a few paces and barked and snarled and barked again, while we stood still. Other manhounds came up in turn, and then a mob of them, legs and tails and ears stiff with fury, spittle flying as if they aimed to outdo their leader, or at least impress him. The barking riled the horses in the corral next to the dog pen; some dashed here and there and some neighed, ready to do battle.

  So much bluster. It would have been laughable, if I hadn’t seen what the dogs could do when they were minded to. They did not advance or fall back. They did not tire of howling. The din battered me. My joints loosened and Galan bore me up, his arm as solid as stone. He turned his right shoulder toward the leader and let his hand hang loose. All the while, he talked. He called the dogs lads and bade them be quiet in a stern voice, like a tutor admonishing a pack of rowdy boys.

  The grizzled leader stopped barking and began to growl. The rumble sent tremors through me. The manhound was quivering too, but not with fear. He came a pace closer.

  Galan said, “Watch him. Watch him. He can’t quite make up his mind. I didn’t realize at first he was talking to me, for his voice didn’t change.

  There was foam on the dog’s blunt muzzle, on his jowls. He had a huge head, a deep and wide chest. The folds of fur around his neck and the hair standing on his hackles made him seem even more massive. He surely weighed as much as Galan. I’d heard the war dogs ate as well as any man of the Blood. They were costly to keep, which is why the pack numbered less than four hands. Which was more than enough.

  The manhound looked me in the eye and my own hair stood on end. I looked away quickly. His eyes caught the torchlight and shone pale and gold; a dog should not have such pale eyes.

  Galan said, “I saw this ordeal once, at my father’s keep. The man broke and ran. Don’t run. If you run, he’ll know what you are. He’ll know you for prey.”

  That shamed me. I was more cowardly than that man, for I lacked the strength to run. My legs would not do my bidding. Even a beast would have more courage. It’s said the stag has a special bone next to his heart to keep him from dying of fear when he’s pursued. My own heart was not so fortified.

  And there were dogs behind us now, between the gate and us.

  “The manhounds are like soldiers,” Galan said. “They’ll kill a fleeing enemy sooner than one who stands to fight. Don’t mistake me—they’re brave enough to take on a bear at bay—but it’s the chase that heats their blood. They’re not much use in a melee, for they can’t tell friend from foe, but they serve right well in a rout. And our own foot soldiers know that if they break in the face of the enemy, they’ll have the dogs loosed upon them.”

  Would Galan tutor me now? I was not a horse or a dog or a child, to be soothed by a steady voice, no matter what was said. And yet I was steadied regardless, as if his voice made some small refuge. As if he spoke of matters that didn’t pertain to us, not now, not urgently.

  The leader commenced to bark again, a deep bronze clangor, peal after peal. Now I thought I heard confusion under his threat. Dogmaster had let us in, Dogmaster stood quietly by. The manhound didn’t know what his god required of him.

  The other dogs were strident. With every bark their warm breath smoked in the cold. They jostled flank to flank. I looked past them and saw Fleetfoot and Ev standing alone, huddled together for warmth; the dogs had left them, every one roused against us. Fleetfoot’s mouth was open, a dark circle.

  Galan said, “We mustn’t try his patience. Can you stand alone?”

  I didn’t quite understand, but I shook my head: no to whatever he meant.

  “You must,” he said. “You must stand now, else you’ll forfeit what you came for, whether you leave here whole or not.”

  I shook my head again. No.

  “If he decides to attack, crouch down and cover your throat and the back of your neck. Keep your head down. I’ll be your shield. I doubt very much my uncle will let the dogs kill me.”

  I looked sideways at him. His voice was calm, but I marked the sweat glinting on his forehead and cheeks. He smiled at me.

  “I’ll take a step back now,” he said. And when I didn’t let go of his arm, he said, “Come now. Sooner begun, sooner done. You’re a brave one, my beauty. I know you have the heart for it.” He used to say such things to Semental, I had heard him.

  My eyes stung. “Go then,” I said, but I couldn’t loosen my grip. He nodded and took his arm away.

  When Galan stepped back the chief manhound took another step forward. Now he spoke to me alone and his barking sounded hoarse, full of rumble and whine, and I knew he tired of this. One more stride and he would reach me. The other dogs surged around him, yelping, but none dared go in front. It was past enduring that Galan had left me to face them and I thought—knowing it was unjust—that I could have borne it better if he’d never come inside the gate at all.

  Death was a mere pace from me, but the dead were far away; I took no solace from the finger bones in my pouch. If I called on the Dame or Na, how could they help? Once my own journey began, I’d be alone. There’s no overtaking one who left beforehand.

  I had no prayers left. I felt how small I was, and how vast the gods. Vast and indifferent. Even Dread had abandoned me. It had filled me like a roaring wind and like a wind
had passed through, and I was hollowed out.

  I had crossed my arms over my breast. I lowered them slowly. I took care not to meet the manhound’s eye, knowing that he, like the Crux himself, would take offense at such presumption.

  There was to be no such mercy as dying of fear. I had stopped shaking. A gust of wind wrapped my skirts about my legs and brought to me, over the animal reek of the dogs and my own body, the wintry scent of the north: stones, heather, moss. I tasted dust.

  Let it be quick.

  The manhound came that last stride, not in a rush but with deliberation, and nosed my hand. His tail came upright and wagged once. He stepped back and gave a short bark to warn me not to be too familiar. And so, in that manner, he did pass judgment: he adjudged me neither prey nor enemy nor master, whatever else I might be. Whatever else was of little concern to him. Other dogs crowded close to get my scent, and by the order of their coming, I knew their rank in the pack. They too must pass judgment, for each approached warily and left appeased. Last of all, Fleetfoot and Ev came up, and one touched my arm and the other clasped my shoulder. Fleetfoot’s breath came short, as if he’d just run a long race. Ev’s eyes and nose had been leaking. His hand was cold.

  I heard Galan behind me. “I think we might go now,” he said, and his voice was thick. “Slowly. Don’t turn around.” I felt his hand on my back and I leaned against him. I was trembling again.

  We backed two steps, three, four, and the lead manhound sat on his haunches and yawned, showing every tooth. But his eye was watchful.

  Dogmaster whistled, the gate opened behind us, and we were out.

  The Crux was standing just outside the pen with a torchbearer beside him. The ruddy light picked out the pale scar that ran across his brow and next to his left eye, close enough to pucker the eyelid. The lines beside his mouth were graved deep. He spared me a glance, a look that considered and perhaps reconsidered, and made me rue he ever had cause to notice me.

  He fixed his eyes on Galan next, and did not let go. “Well, Galan,” he said.

  “Well, Sire Adhara dam Pictor by Falco of Crux,” said Galan. “Or may I call you uncle again?”

  “That will be up to your father, when I tell him what he sired. A dirtlover.”

  Galan’s smile never changed. “You don’t need my father’s leave to disown me, First of Crux.”

  “Don’t you think you’ve tempted me enough for one night? You’ve always been willful and spoilt, though not for lack of chastisement—but this was, of all your follies, the most foolhardy—to make this ordeal your own, and thereby make it false.”

  “Why, Uncle, it was to keep it true that I entered the pen—lest you be overly tempted to pluck out a certain troublesome thorn. And can you dispute she faced the dogs alone and they let her live?”

  “I would you hadn’t said that, boy,” the Crux said balefully. “For the fondness I once bore you, I’ll let you outlive the insult. But you’d best stay out of my sight until you recollect that I don’t need some green sprig to teach me not to cheat. I taught you. Next time you try me, you might well be lopped off.”

  Galan knelt and put his forehead to the ground, but it was too late. The Crux turned his back and stalked away. I knelt beside Galan and put my hand on his back, on the stiff brigandine, and felt him shake. He was a long time with his face to the ground. Some stayed to stare, then wandered off to their gossip or their pallets.

  When Galan straightened up his cheeks were wet. “My tongue is cursed,” he said.

  CHAPTER 13

  Auguries

  hat night I trembled and Galan soothed me, and when I turned, restless on the cot, he turned with me and would not let go. The heat of his skin drove some of the chill from me. I was beholden to him; he’ d given me a gift beyond recompense, beyond acknowledgment. I had nothing to give in return, not even my purest gratitude. For Sire Rodela had tainted even that, when he cut me with his blade and his lies, and marred me so I hardly recognized myself.

  I wanted what was stolen from me. After Galan slept I thought of nothing else. Pains kept me awake, a burning at my cleft where I’ d been skinned, the scraping of every breath. I don’ t know when I first thought of poison. It was in my mind as if it had always been there, how I’d kept the rest of the dwale; how the Dame had said the black berries tasted sweet and wholesome.

  In the morning my voice was gone. My throat was barred with a dark bruise.

  The Crux sent his three Auspices over at first light. They wore their regalia of green robes and peaked hats, and by that we guessed their purpose. There had been too many wounded in our tent, too much sickness; there had been hatred let loose and blood spilled—worse, a woman’s blood, and worse yet, a mudwoman’s. The priests came to cleanse us of this defilement and to make sure that ill will and ill fortune did not escape our tent to endanger others.

  We were all awake, having risen before dawn as usual. Galan was in his underarmor, breakfasting on dry bread and mincemeat while his jacks fastened up his laces. He’d not been forewarned of the Auspices’visit and he was offended, or so I thought when I saw the lines gather between his brows. He took it as a rebuke from the Crux, and well he might, after the way they’d parted; yet there was no denying the Crux was within his powers to protect the clan—and his errant nephew—from further harm.

  So he welcomed the priests courteously, each by their full name, and set us all to do their bidding. They had scant courtesy for him. Divine Hamus had us bustling until the tent was arranged to his liking, telling us there was no time to dither. Noggin ran to fetch Flykiller and the horseboy Uly, for they said all of Galan’s men save his foot soldiers should be present; his women too. The curtains about Consort Vulpeja’s chamber were tied back. She lay with the blanket pulled up to her chin, her head turned on the pillow, her eyes following the priests.

  First they sought to know the cause of the trouble in Galan’s tent, what shades or gods had been offended. They’d brought four birds in cages: two white doves, two black crows. Inside the tent, on the space we cleared for him, Divine Hamus unrolled a length of white cloth. He was the smallest priest, the roundest, the mildest in seeming, but he was the Sun’s Auspex and led the way in all sacrifices. He took a dove and a crow from the cages and wrung their necks without spilling blood, and the priests watched gravely as the birds staggered and jerked and flapped until their deaths caught up with them.

  He skinned the birds and laid the empty, feathered husks to one side, wings and heads and feet still attached. The rest was divided into parts, even down to the bones, each part belonging to a god and having three signs to be read, one for each avatar. These little clots of flesh were laid out on the white cloth and the priests bent over them, poking and pointing, and as they consulted, their tall hats nodded and bumped together.

  A hush had settled on all of us, all the watchers. Galan sat upon a stool and looked on with a pinched face; Spiller’s jaw hung slack and Noggin sniffled and Rowney crouched in a corner as far from the priests as he could get; Flykiller sat motionless, but if he’d been a horse, I’m sure we’d have seen his tail switch and his hide twitch, for his unease showed in his staring eyes.

  I felt that prickling on my neck that comes when the gods have been invoked. Just then I feared the Auspices more than the gods, for I thought they’d come to lay blame and I’d get more than my due.

  Before yesterday I was Galan’s sheath and nothing uncommon. Today I was Galan’s folly. Unlike his other folly, the wager, he’d get no glory of it. The Crux had called his nephew a dirtlover because of me. He had said it and others would repeat it, and the next time it was thrown in Galan’s face, he’d not be able to let it pass, and there’d be more bloodshed.

  If the priests pointed to me, if the signs pointed to me, I wouldn’t be able to make an answer, for the swelling in my throat had stoppered up my voice. I couldn’t even whisper.

  When the priests had done conferring, Divine Hamus beckoned Galan over and showed him a thin gray worm he’d f
ound in the entrails of the crow. The Auspices had no difficulty interpreting this sign. As the crow was the male body of the household, the tripes pertained to Rift, and gut worms belonged in the domain of the Queen of the Dead, this could only mean that the malice of a male shade was at work, and who could this shade be but Sire Bizco? Since last night the whole troop knew how Sire Rodela had courted affliction by defiling a corpse, stealing a scrap of scalp and leaving the rest to rot instead of burn; he’d not been satisfied by taking a life, he must rob the man of his peace as well. It wasn’t the least of his offenses, though the requital for it had been left to the gods and the dead and not undertaken by the Crux.

  It could easily be seen—said Divine Hamus—that the shade had not only made Sire Rodela’s wound fester, he’d made his mind fester too. Clearly the shade had moved him to skin me and make a false accusation against me; in his right mind he’d never have done it. Now Sire Rodela was shunned. Sire Alcoba, his new master, had refused him shelter last night. He bade him sleep across the threshold, outside the tent, that he might be stepped on more conveniently as Sire Alcoba went in and out. Sire Bizco was avenged: the armiger’s downfall was neatly accomplished.

  There should be no trace of the dead man left in the tent to haunt us. His scalp had been burned days ago and Sire Rodela’s belongings tossed outside into a mud puddle last night, and with them any stray hairs; and his living malice by rights should have followed Sire Rodela, his tormentor, and not clung to us.

  But the worm said otherwise.

  To drive Sire Bizco’s shade from the tent and to cleanse us of the blood and enmity with which he’d befouled us, Divine Hamus and Divine Tam—bac each took a wing of the crow and swept everywhere, from floor to ceiling, over chests and pallets and sacks, over Consort Vulpeja’s cot and blanket, over the rest of us too, from head to toe. I shivered when the feathers brushed my face. They sang all the while, an eerie song with words in some secret tongue. Divine Xyster droned low while Divine Hamus keened, and Divine Tambac’s voice, a quavering thin thread, stitched between them.