Winter of Ice and Iron

by Rachel Neumeier

  But she could already see he was going to refuse. He started to say something, some kind of explanation or excuse. But she didn’t care what he would say, and didn’t stay to listen.

  A doubled guard appeared outside her suite almost before she slammed the door. Heris Tageiny told her that, and told her that guards were watching all her windows too, even though her rooms were three stories up. “Not that it matters,” he told her gently. “You know he’ll have the pass trebly guarded now too.”

  Kehera nodded. She didn’t care about the guards. She knew she had to get home. Back to the precincts of familiar Powers, to lands that were hers in a way that Eäneté could never be. She would reclaim her tie, the heir’s tie, and free Tiro from it. Then her brother would wake. Then she would stand with her father, and together they would show the Wolf Duke that he wasn’t the only one with a strong Power, nor the only one who could resist Methmeir Irekaì. Then, if he wanted to ally with Harivir, let him bargain for that alliance, not issue an ultimatum. Let him ask for what he needed instead of demand whatever he wished, and if she was going to be a counter on the game board, she would play as the Harivin princess and not as anybody’s pawn.

  But to do that, she had to get through the pass.

  And there was exactly one person who could help her in her escape from the Wolf Duke: Gereth Murrel, seneschal to this house and this duke, was the man who had the authority to get her through the pass to Harivir. If he could be brought to betray his lord. And Kehera was almost certain she knew exactly how to persuade him to do it.

  Luad brought the duke’s seneschal to her. No doubt the man had been twice as busy as usual, given all these cascading crises. But whatever urgency Luad had conveyed to him, it had sufficed to bring him quickly to her side.

  Dry-eyed and quiet-voiced, Kehera explained. She must leave the duke’s house. She must not stay in Eäneté. She must go back to her father, to her brother, to her own country. She must add her strength to theirs. Then Raëh would not fall, and Harivir would stand, and Eäneté could bargain for alliance. Which Harivir would agree to, of course! But if Harivir fell, how long did he think it would be before Eäneté followed? Or did he think the king in Irekay would forgive Innisth Eänetaì’s defiance?

  And when the seneschal began, despite all her arguments, to demur, she pitilessly invoked the other weapons he had handed. “Please. Please, listen. You know I’m right. Raëh must hold. Harivir must hold. I have to go home. I have to go now, before it’s too late. Your duke will change his mind, he’ll see he must let me support Raëh, but it will be too late. You’re my only chance. But not only that. Not only that. Gereth, how many girls are you willing to see wed unwilling to the dukes in this house? Wasn’t Jeneil inè Suon already one too many?”

  The man flinched at that, losing color. He tried to interrupt.

  Kehera did not permit it. Nor did she herself flinch. She leaned forward intensely. “When is the cost of loyalty too high, Gereth? When love requires terrible things, hateful things, is it still love, or just cowardice? If you let him do this to me, and my brother dies, and my father is cast down, and your terrible Irekaïn Power rules in Raëh, then I tell you, even if your duke somehow succeeds in every part of his plan, you will see another child born of despair and rage in this house. And what will you tell that child when it asks you why?”

  “All right!” The seneschal stood up, the sharp movement of a man who must move. “All right,” he repeated more quietly. “I’ll help you, Your Highness. You had better be right, you had better be right about everything, because I’ll do it. I’ll help you get through the pass, and may the Fortunate Gods have mercy on us both: on me for the trust I will break and on you for forcing me to break it.”

  Kehera nodded. It would demean them both if she apologized, so she said instead, “The most straightforward method is best, I think. I know no one questions anything you do. I’ve sent Tageiny into the city. He’s creating a false trail. Luad will join him. I don’t know the details.” Tageiny had said mildly that it was better that she didn’t, and a second’s thought had showed her he was absolutely right. She said, “I doubt it will fool the duke long, but maybe long enough—and it will let Tageiny and Luad get away.” She wished they were with her now, but her part should be more dangerous than theirs. Tageiny insisted he could manage. She trusted it was true. She had also given him her last pearl and all her money, and promised to cover his feet and Luad’s with silver if they made it to Raëh. She hoped they would come. She hoped above almost everything that they would be safe.

  But that part was out of her hands now. So she said only, “You do have the authority to get past the guards on my door? And at the pass?”

  “Of course,” Gereth said bitterly. “I speak with the duke’s own voice. Am I not the most trusted of all his servants? Get dressed and we’ll go straight down to the stables.” He closed the door of her private bedchamber behind him with a gentleness so calculated it made plain the strength of his desire to slam it.

  Kehera changed quickly, dressing herself in the simplest, warmest clothing she had. She packed almost nothing but her tiahel set.

  The Eänetén guards questioned nothing. Nor did the stablemen. Gereth chose plain, sturdy animals that would not tire in the hard conditions of the pass. Kehera didn’t let herself look around anxiously to see who might be watching. She was glad the stables were on the windowless, windward side of the house—far less likely the wrong person might glance out and happen to see her here where she had, saving Gereth’s presence, no right to be.

  She mounted the gelding Gereth held for her without a word and they rode silently, side by side, across the courtyard and through the gates. The guards there saluted Gereth with grave respect, a salute he returned tensely—he was not a man given to subterfuge. But no one showed the slightest suspicion.

  “Surely someone will send a messenger to the duke?” Kehera asked nervously.

  “Maybe,” Gereth answered shortly. But a moment later he said more gently, “Probably not right away. They’re not accustomed to questioning me.”

  Kehera nodded.

  “It’s about five miles to the mouth of the pass. There’s a guard post there, of course. We’ll get a change of horses there, and then there’ll be only the winter itself to fight through. If we ride fast and don’t stop for anything . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence. She knew it was two days to the other end of the pass, for people in a desperate hurry.

  Kehera nodded again. The duke would pursue them, of course. Everything depended on the head start they could gain now, at the beginning. She followed Gereth as he urged his horse to a canter.

  Under other conditions, she might have loved that ride: the flying speed across the packed snow of the road, past the deep green and black of the winter forest, through the slow, heavy flakes of snow falling from an iron-gray sky. Over all, the mountains, taking up all the sky before them, with the road curving up along their flanks. The forest whispered to her, the mountains did, their beauty caught at her; but the voice was the voice of Eäneté, and she tried not to listen to it, lest it notice her and her foreign tie and whisper to the duke.

  The guard post was set in a beautifully defensive position; Kehera could see that, even in the short glance she had at it. She could never have got past the men there on her own, but they accepted Gereth’s orders without question. They handed up packets of journey rations and bags of watered wine, brought up fresh horses, and swung open the heavy gate for the travelers to pass through.

  They went on, but more slowly. An exhausted animal in the winter pass was an invitation to disaster, and the road ran all uphill now. So it was trot and walk and brief, swift canter. Snow was not a problem; the duke’s power kept the pass free of any deep accumulation even through the months of deep cold. The mountains loomed to either side: sometimes powerful gray walls towering to the sky, sometimes gentler, thickly forested slopes, but always impassable. They simplified life, removed options: ahead or back were the
only possible directions.

  Dusk came early and fast in the pass. Gereth lit lanterns, and they rode on. The horses were no longer eager, but they were in good condition and went on steadily. Kehera passed from pleasantly weary to frankly tired, and her legs and back and rear began to ache. They went on. The moon rose, and the snow and stone picked up the moonlight and threw it back. They blew out the lanterns, no longer needing them to keep to the road.

  By now, Kehera thought, the duke would most likely have missed her. Perhaps at this moment he was following Tageiny’s false trail. Or perhaps he had already discovered the ruse. Very soon, he might be racing up the pass after them. Perhaps he was already coming.

  She did not speak of these fears to Gereth. Whatever personal fears he had, he likewise kept them to himself.

  The seneschal’s voice came out of the dark to her. “How are you doing? Can you go on?”

  “I can manage.” Perhaps better than he could, she thought. A night of sleepless travel through the winter had to be harder for a man in his fifties than for a woman of twenty. A night and a day and another night might see them to the other side. Somewhere in the middle, she knew she would step from Pohorir to Harivir. She longed for that.

  She said aloud, “I think I have forgotten how it feels to be safe.” Then a thought occurred to her, and she added, “You’ll be safe, too, Gereth. My father will be very grateful to you for helping me come back to him.”

  There was a short silence. Gereth answered finally, “I don’t doubt he has your generosity. Harivir is fortunate in its royal house. But I won’t be going with you past the Coär guard post.”

  Kehera could not, after the first second, understand why she was surprised. Of course Gereth would return to face his duke. She said after a moment, “I understand why you feel you must go back. But I would change your mind if I could.”

  “You can’t.”

  “I know.” After a moment, she asked awkwardly, “What do you think he’ll do to you, for helping me?”

  “I have no idea.” He added, tone just a little stiff, “Do you mind if we talk about something else?”

  Kehera began to tell him about Raëh, about her father’s house, about anything she could think of in that moment. But what she was thinking was, if she got the chance, she might have Gereth held by the Coär guards rather than allow him to return to the duke he had betrayed. She could not decide whether this would be the right thing to do.

  She was still occupied with this question half an hour later, when the first of the wolves appeared.

  It was one of the great silver-pale winter wolves that haunted the mountains, almost as white as the fresh-fallen snow. For a moment she even thought it might be nothing but a trick of memory and light. But the wolf was real. The moonlight caught in its golden eyes and glinted off its white, white teeth.

  The horses halted of themselves, heads thrown back and ears flat. Kehera grabbed for a better hold of her reins, thanking the Fortunate Gods that the horses were well trained and did not bolt. She had no weapon but her little knife. Gereth, swearing under his breath, dragged at the crossbow tied behind his saddle. He got it free just as a second wolf, and a third, followed the first out of the forest. There were a dozen by the time he had a bolt in place. The wolves completely blocked the road ahead. More were still arriving, white and pale ash-gray and an occasional charcoal-colored animal, all with the same wild golden eyes as the Eänetén duke.

  Gereth held the bow indecisively, glancing from one wolf to the next. The horses sweated and sidled uneasily, trying to back up.

  Kehera held hers on a short rein and said tightly to Gereth, “Why don’t they attack?”

  The seneschal answered quietly, “They’re his. I’m sorry. I should have known he could call the wolves.”

  Kehera shot him an amazed glance and then stared back at the wolves. An enormous gray male yawned elaborately at her, tongue curling, and closed its mouth again with a sharp click of fangs. “We can’t stay here,” she protested. “We can’t just wait for him to come upon us.” In any tale, she or Gereth would think of something brilliant and subtle and clever and get past the wolves.

  “What do you suggest?” Gereth asked her. “I have only a few bolts, and I’m not that good a shot.”

  “If they’re his, they won’t kill us,” Kehera said, with a perfect certainty she could not have justified logically. “The horses are a problem, I grant you, but can we just—walk past them, perhaps?”

  “I very much doubt it.” The seneschal saw her expression and added, “I’ll try it. Just wait here.” Dismounting, he gave her his rein and walked straight up the road, directly toward the wolves. They closed in. Gereth braced himself, took a swift breath, and stepped deliberately forward.

  A slim white female slashed at him, cutting the tough cloth of his cloak as though it had been cobweb. Gereth daringly lifted his crossbow to strike her out of his way. Another wolf lunged like a playful dog, snatching the bow out of his hands. The great gray male knocked him down; Gereth threw back his head and disappeared without a sound below the powerful, shaggy backs of the wolves.

  Kehera, shouting wordlessly, ran forward. The wolves drew back, leaving Gereth to crawl to his feet. Trembling with relief, she gave the seneschal her hand to help him stand, and he got slowly to his feet. He was unhurt, though sweating and wide-eyed.

  “They didn’t hurt you,” she said, vastly thankful. And then, realizing this, “They gave way for me.” Then she shook her head. “Oh, but I can’t possibly . . .” She stopped.

  Gereth rubbed his hands across his face. But he had already understood, just as she had. After a moment he said, “You’re right. You can walk past them. You can. They did give way for you. They’re his . . . and they know I’m his as well. And that you belong to Raëhemaiëth.”

  Kehera shook her head again, more vehemently. “I can’t leave you here.”

  “I told you. I would have gone back anyway. You can’t walk all that way, but if you lead your horse . . . If it were blindfolded, you could lead it past the wolves. I’ll be all right. I’ll wait here. I don’t imagine it will take him so very long to find me.”

  He was right. That would work. Kehera knew as well as he did that it would work. When she stepped experimentally toward the largest of the wolves, it looked ostentatiously away, yawning. She knew it wouldn’t stop her. She belonged to Raëh, not to Eäneté.

  She would only have to walk away through the pass and leave the seneschal to face his duke alone. As he had already said he meant to do anyway. She could lead her horse past the wolves and then mount and ride on. Somewhere in the night she would ride out of Eäneté and into Coär, ride out of Pohorir and into Harivir. Raëhemaiëth would rise for her. She was nearly certain Raëhemaiëth would rise. And then it wouldn’t matter what the Eänetén duke wanted or planned or needed; he could not set his Immanent against Raëhemaiëth. He needed Raëhemaiëth’s support too much.

  He needed her support.

  Kehera stared into the golden eyes of the big gray wolf and told herself that she should blindfold her horse, that there was no time to dither, that her father needed her, that Tiro needed her. She knew it was true. And yet the wolf held her, though it offered no threat. Its yellow eyes, so much like the Eänetén duke’s, looked into hers.

  “You have to go,” the seneschal said quietly. “Nothing has changed. Think of your brother.”

  Kehera took a breath and let it out. “I know.” She turned, met his eyes.

  But before she could say anything further, a sharp half-familiar cry cut through the night, and almost at once a falcon flew straight past them, low, winging fast. A white mountain falcon, a bird of daylight, flying now through the dark like an owl. It turned on a wingtip, circled sharply around, and landed on an outcropping of stone hardly ten feet away.

  The falcon’s head and breast were pure white, its eyes black, the white feathers of its mantling wings tipped with black. It looked for all the world as though it had just t
hat moment been birthed from moonlight and snow and the dark.

  “A falcon,” the seneschal said out loud, his voice blank.

  “Raëh’s falcon is red,” Kehera said, but she knew it didn’t matter. This white mountain falcon was certainly Raëhemaiëth’s. The wolves knew it too. They had turned their heads away, pretending not to see the falcon. Except the great gray male, who rose and paced to stand beneath the falcon’s perch, then turned and looked deliberately into Kehera’s face.

  The falcon shifted its talons, dropped its head, and cried once more, the sharp wild cry of the hunt. Then sprang into the moonlit night, climbed in a tight circle, and flashed away. Not back toward Coär and Harivir, but the other way, cutting through the pass toward Eäneté.

  “I—” Kehera said. She felt stunned and blank and witless. “Raëhemaiëth—”

  “It might have made itself more plain earlier,” Gereth said wearily. “Do you trust your Raëhemaiëth?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Kehera answered, still rather blankly. “I swore I’d never again let myself be used as a pawn in another man’s game. I should have included Immanent Powers and all Gods Fortunate and Unfortunate.” She paused. Then she said, “I’m a fool. I’m sorry. If I—if we—” She didn’t know how to finish that sentence and sat down on a rock. After a moment, the seneschal sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders, both of them watching the wolves, which showed no inclination to follow the falcon.

  Kehera did not know whether it was worse to be trapped though she made every effort to escape, or to make an actual decision not to escape. She felt too weary even to weep. This was the difference between tales and the real world: In the real world, sometimes every choice meant betraying someone.