“Oh, I’d be too frightened,” Ketya said.
“How about a pony, then?”
“Maybe, if its teeth weren’t so big.”
Elorien turned to a stable boy. “Go fetch our finest pony.”
“Your smallest!” Ketya peeped after him.
The stable boy disappeared and soon returned with a very small beige pony. Ketya gingerly patted it.
“Are you going to keep him?” Aeolia asked.
“I’ll need something to ride, so I can keep up with you when you’re on Acorn.”
“What are you going to call him?”
“Well, if your horse is Acorn, my pony will be Peanut.”
The two girls smiled.
“I’m glad you chose the horses you like,” Elorien said. “The rest will go to your men.”
Aeolia shook her head indignantly. “Your Majesty! All the horses? It’s too much.”
“An army should have horses, Honeycomb.”
“But I don’t have an army, Your Majesty.”
“Your men are an army, child, an army to fight Sinther.”
Aeolia wanted to remind Elorien she was just a girl, not a general. The queen seemed so convinced, however, Aeolia hated to disabuse her, so she simply said, “Thank you, Your Majesty, you are very kind.”
The queen shrugged. “I want Sinther dead as much as anybody.”
Aeolia lowered her eyes. “I guess.” I guess that is my destiny, she added silently. Spirit help me, I had promised so myself.
Elorien leaned toward Aeolia and whispered in her ear. “There’s one gift yet, one gift that can help you in your struggle. Everyone knows you can’t face Stonemark on land; their infantry has never been beaten. That is why I give you my fleet. Move your armies in my ships anytime. Take them all the way to Grayrock. That should surprise old stone-face plenty.”
Even if she was not a general, Aeolia understood the significance of this offer. It meant that Esire was no longer landlocked, and that it now had a direct path to the city of Grayrock. It also gave Esire a secret weapon, enabling it to surprise Stonemark at least once. She was thinking like a soldier already, Aeolia realized with a shudder. Had all her battles trained her? Could she truly save Esire from Sinther’s claws, like she had saved its refugees from Hyan’s?
The stable boys began saddling the horses, and before long Aeolia sat mounted outside with her followers. Hyan was given the oldest cob, which Aeolia tethered to Acorn. Ketya sat tremulously on her pony, clenching her fists to control her shaking. Aeolia looked at her, and again she felt the burden of shame. If Ketya knew who her foster-brother was, Ketya whose parents had died at Joren’s hand.... No, Aeolia would not bear it. It would be her secret. She would never tell a soul.
She was hugging herself against the cold, when Aeolia noticed a shadow stir in the rhododendrons behind Ketya. As she watched, a tall figure approached the girl, cloaked in a dark hood with a long liripipe. Ketya turned to face him, and the man removed his hood, revealing an unshaven face with a patch over one eye. Aeolia recognized him as one of the outlaws from the hideout yesterday. The man mumbled something, and Ketya answered. He tried to kiss her lips, but Ketya turned her head, and the kiss landed on her cheek. The man bowed, pulled his hood up, and disappeared back into the bushes. Ketya watched him leave, a single tear trailing down her cheek. Aeolia watched but said nothing.
Elorien returned from the stables, her skirts rustling in the wind. She gave Aeolia two wet kisses, one on each cheek. “I wish you could stay longer,” she said.
Aeolia smiled and lowered her eyes. “So do I. You’ve been very kind.”
Elorien became solemn. “But these are cruel days, child, and I foresee crueler ones ahead.”
Aeolia remembered her dream, and she remembered Eeea’s words, and she shuddered. Could she truly leave love behind to tread into the darkness? It began to drizzle again, and steam rose from the horses’ hot backs. Acorn snorted and tossed her head. Aeolia ran her fingers through the filly’s mane, and the winter rain seemed to chill her heart. No, I will never leave Talin, she thought. It was just a silly nightmare. She kneed Acorn into a light clip, and Ketya and the others followed. Elorien stood behind, waving. Aeolia waved back.
Then, although there was no breeze, the queen’s headdress flew and landed in the mud. She looked old. Aeolia turned her head away.
* * * * *
They journeyed south through Heland’s countryside, over undulating hills, through shadowy copses, along wide rivers, and across cropped fields. The sky brewed with winter, and its winds carried word of Aeolia’s advance before her. From every town she passed, Esiren refugees emerged to join her. All told the same story: they had fled war in Esire, but wanted to return under her leadership to fight back. By the time Aeolia passed through Greenhill lands, she had hundreds of loyal Esirens at her side.
Hyan’s cob tethered to her filly, Aeolia led her army through Greenhill’s fields, now cropped. Just last moon, she had walked with Talin through tall stalks. The shaved land now looked desolate, grim under the gray sky. As she approached Castle Greenhill, she could see from afar its battle scars: burnt houses in the village, heaps of rubble, black stains on bare castle walls.
“Spirit,” Aeolia said to Ketya. “Look at that.”
A crimson army was marching toward them.
“There must be a thousand of them!” Ketya said.
Aeolia trotted on, leading her followers forward. The two crowds stopped and stood facing each other across the village bridge. On one side stood armored soldiers. On the other—ragged refugees.
Aeolia trotted forward on Acorn, dragging Hyan behind her. Ketya hurried to follow on her pony. The Redfort army watched, silent. The only sound was the whispering wind, the only movement the swirling gray clouds. Aeolia quelled her nervousness and took a deep breath. She tugged Hyan forward, for all to see.
“The Esiren people have no quarrel with you,” she announced loudly. “Enough have died already. I shall return you your duke, and you shall return us this castle and its prisoners.”
The Redfort army rumbled with laughter.
“We shall not exchange so much,” their commander cried, “for just one man!”
Aeolia frowned. She had not expected this. Her followers muttered behind her.
“Then we’ll take your castle by force!” Ketya called, and the other Esirens echoed her call, shaking their fists.
Aeolia spoke loudly over her shoulder. “No! We have not gathered to fight a civil war in Heland. Our only enemy is Sinther of Stonemark.”
The Redfort army leered.
“You craven Esirens!” their commander said. “This time we won’t just throw you into prison. We’ll squash you like the bugs you are.”
Aeolia’s followers seethed, and those who had weapons drew them. The Redfort army jeered and drew their own swords. Horses neighed and armor chinked. They were going to fight, Aeolia realized in dismay. She couldn’t let that happen. She had caused too many battles already.
She yanked Hyan closer to her.
“Order the exchange,” she whispered in his ear. “Do it or I’ll cut off your private parts.”
Hyan paled, and Aeolia was shocked at her own viciousness; truly, this war was hardening her.
“Men!” Hyan cried out. “This is your duke speaking.”
The Redfort army fell silent and turned to watch him.
“What’s wrong with you?!” the fat man said. “What’s this rubbish, you’re not willing to exchange many men for one? Am I not worth a thousand men?”
The reds shifted uneasily, muttering agreements.
“Then by the Spirit, get out of that castle!” Hyan sputtered.
The Redfort officer lowered his head and mumbled an apology. He barked some orders over his shoulder, and the red army began marching out of the village.
Aeolia breathed out in relief and noticed she was shaking. She and her followers moved aside to let the reds pass. She fidgeted on Acorn, twisting her toes. So
on I’ll see Talin, she told herself, heart thumping. She couldn’t wait to wrap her arms around him.
When the last red soldier stood outside in the cropped fields, Hyan demanded, “Release me now!”
“Soon,” Aeolia said. She approached Ketya. “Ket, this might be a trap. Take a group of men into the castle and see that it’s truly empty, and that its prisoners live.”
Ketya nodded and selected a dozen armed Esirens from the group. They rode over the bridge into the burnt village.
Time passed slowly as Aeolia waited. Snow glided into her hair. Both armies rustled uneasily. Still Ketya did not return, and Aeolia’s nervousness mounted. She wrung her hands restlessly. Where were Ketya and the others? Had they fallen into a trap? The thought was too dreadful to bear. If anything happened to Ketya or Talin, she’d never forgive herself.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Ketya and the others came riding back.
“The castle is clear,” Ketya announced.
“And... the prisoners?” Aeolia asked.
“Their shackles are being opened as we speak.”
With shaky fingers, Aeolia untied Hyan’s cob and sent the fat duke on his way. Aeolia knew he would besiege the castle again, but this time she would defend it properly, and stay safe behind the walls until help arrived.
“Come,” she said to her followers. “Into the castle.”
She kneed Acorn and galloped onto the bridge. With a great rumble, the other Esirens followed. They crossed the bridge and thumped across the village, between ruined houses and heaps of cinder. They entered the castle walls and lowered the portcullis behind them. Aeolia scanned the courtyard anxiously, her heart thumping.
“Lia!”
The call came from the castle, and Aeolia looked toward it. Tears sprung into her eyes. Exiting the castle doors, trudging toward her, were three scores of disheveled but beaming prisoners.
“Talin!” Aeolia whimpered. She hopped off her horse, ran forward, and crashed into his embrace.
“I love you, I love you,” she said, and her followers cheered.
Talin smiled. “Who are these people?”
Ketya leapt off her pony to answer him.
“We’re her loyal followers!” she piped, her chin raised proudly. “She is taking us back home.”
“I’m going to Esire,” Aeolia explained.
“And you,” said Ketya, jabbing her finger against Talin’s chest, “are coming with us.”
* * * * *
She rode into Esire with winter’s first snows, leading her followers. For days they climbed the kingdom’s craggy mountains, where grew the fabled Big Browns, great conifers wide and tall as towers. At every village the commoners came to cheer, simple loggers dressed in coarse goat wool, their faces rugged like their mountainous home. Home.... This was her home, Aeolia thought, these mountaineers were her kin, the family she had never known. This was who she was, a mountain dweller and logger, born in the shade of the Big Browns, this was her. She would never leave this land, she swore, for it was her own, and she loved it like her life.
All the Island, men said, was a great mountain protruding from the sea. And in that mountain’s center was a wide shallow, whence once all earth had been spewed. In this deep, white valley nestled the city of Woodwall, capital of Esire. Her walls were built of Big Browns, the huge logs bonded with iron straps. Inside the walls, snow silvered sturdy houses and wide, crisscrossing streets. The palace sat in the city’s center, a stout rectangle, its corners made of Big Browns fashioned into towers, its walls built of stone white as snow. The city was beautiful, Aeolia thought, so neat and clean, smaller than other cities, simpler than other cities, but prettier. It fits me, it is like me, it feels right.
People thronged the streets to greet her, the palace knights paraded, trumpets trumpeted, flowers were tossed, doves were sent into flight. While war waged on her northwestern border, Esire rose in song and celebration, blazing with hope, burning the cold from her heart. Aeolia had finally come home.
Chapter Fourteen
Winter
Taya took a deep breath, raised the opened skull to her lips, and drained it. The drunkards hooted so loudly, the dingy house shook and threatened to fall off its branches.
The House of Spirits was crowded that evening, smelling of sweat and drink and vomit. This was not a holy place as its name implied. No shamans prayed in this house to the souls of dead ancestors. This was not a House of Bones. In this house, the only spirits were in the drunkards’ cups.
While those drunkards now cheered her, Taya’s opponent—a dour, bearded warrior called Bug—did not join the revelry. His eyes were red and bleary, but he managed to fix Taya with a loathing glare as he raised his own cup—a painted human skull—to his lips. He drained it with a single swig and wiped his mouth with satisfaction.
“Give it up,” he said. “I’ve beaten men twice your size.”
Taya spat onto the floor. “And I’ve drunk barrels twice yours.” She filled her own skull-cup with more greenroot and gulped it down.
Bug laughed. “Ah! You’re so drunk, you’ll be bedding the entire Stonish army when they arrive.” He quaffed another drink.
Taya followed with her own, wiped her lips and said, “You’re drunker than a fish, if you’re imagining an invading Stonish horde.”
“I’ve seen them with my own eyes, swarming in from the west.” Bug slammed his newly emptied skull onto the table.
“Bah! Eyes full of greenroot.”
“Nay, eyes full of fear.”
Taya swallowed another drink. “Always thought you was too stupid to be ascared, Bug.”
She expected him to redden with the taunt, but instead Bug shook his head gravely. He sounded eerily sober when he spoke. “Twenty years I’ve been a warrior, woman, and I don’t have enough hairs in my beard for all the braids I’ve earned. I must have eaten more hearts than roasted grubs. But three days ago, when I saw those demons destroy us like a bird picking bugs from a log, well, I ran like a beardless boy. Only time I ever ran from battle, and I’m not ashamed of it. I’d do it again anytime.”
The drunkards had fallen silent during the speech and now muttered amongst themselves. Through the greenroot mists befogging her mind, Taya felt fear’s icy breath. She shuddered. Could it be that Bug was speaking truth, that Stonesons were truly arriving? No, it was the greenroot speaking through his lips.
“You was dreaming, Bug. They were only greenroot spirits you sawed.”
Bug imbibed another skull. “I tell you I saw them coming from the Beastlands. They own them now. Soon will own us too.”
Taya wiped another drink’s remnants off her lips. The room was spinning. “I ain’t afraid of them Stonesons! Ha! They won’t dare come back here, not after what I did to Lale.”
“What did you do?” Bug asked. His speech was slurred. “Pass out drunk at his feet?”
Taya shook her head. “I nearly killed him, I did. Stabbed him in the belly, right here.”
Bug and his fellows roared with laughter. They all spun around her.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” Taya demanded. She rocked closer to him and squinted, trying to bring him into focus. “I did nearly kill him, I did! An’ if he ever again shows his scarred face here again, I’ll do it again!”
Bug drained another drink. His eyes swam, his face flushed, and he wobbled on his log. “By the spirits,” he said, “I hope you do.”
With that he crashed unconscious onto the table.
Taya tossed back her head and laughed with victory. Then she noticed that the House of Spirits was unnaturally quiet. The drunkards were not cheering or grumbling or paying off their bets. Instead, they were staring out the window. The only sound was a dim thump thump coming from outside.
Taya wanted to ask the matter, but her tongue felt too thick. She rose to her wobbly feet. Leaning on the tabletops, she made her way to the window. The drunkards made room and Taya stared outside.
Below on the forest floor,
spread evenly under the airborne village, an army of Stonesons was chopping down the trees. As Taya watched, two of the armored soldiers began chopping at the House of Spirit’s foundations.
The inebriates began fleeing out the door, but Taya stood frozen, unable to move. The whole building creaked and tilted, and Taya’s head whirled. She blundered several paces backwards, tripped over a stool, and fell to the floor. She tried to rise but was too dizzy. She started crawling toward the door, but the floor tilted, and she slid into the far corner.
She heard the deafening sound of wood cracking, and then the House of Spirits began to plummet. Taya screamed. The building crashed through branches. Furniture flew. The building bounced and flipped, tossing Taya around like dice in a giant hand. Her head hit the ceiling, and everything went black.
* * * * *
She dreamed of a man with yellow curls.
Somehow she knew they were yellow, and that his eyes were blue, even though the darkness was complete. She lay in a coffin, and he lay beside her, but she could hear him breathing and so knew he was alive. Her hands sought his in the darkness, and she drew comfort from their warmth. They were soft hands, lacking the calluses of a fighter or hunter or worker. Long fingers. An artist’s hand.
But slowly as she held them, his hands hardened and chilled. Taya squeezed them tighter, and it was like squeezing the hands of a statue. Urgently she touched his face, and found that his beard had frozen and was now cold and hard. His curls were like ripples of stone. It frightened her, and she tried to draw her hand away but could not. It too was frozen. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out, and her mouth remained frozen and open. She was turned to stone. She could not move. She struggled and strained, and at last—
Her eyes snapped open.
Slowly she let out her breath. Just a dream, she told herself. Just a dream.
Or was it? It was dark where she lay, and when she tried to move she could not. Where was she? She tried to remember, but her head ached too badly. Her body also hurt. Something heavy was pushing against her chest, and her legs were numb. In the darkness she could discern only the outlines of furniture and broken wood all jumbled above her. She was trapped beneath the wreckage of a building, she realized. No wonder she had dreamed she was buried in a coffin.
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