Winter of Ice and Iron

by Rachel Neumeier

  Then, hardly more than a bowshot away, Lord Laören got to his feet and leveled a hard stare across the abandoned field where the lithe black-barked trees grew amid the dead. He looked very different, somehow. He stood straighter or something, and he inspected the scene with a strange kind of indifference that sent cold prickling down Verè’s spine.

  Then Laören turned and took one step back toward the east, toward Irekay. The light around him grew brilliant with prickling cold, and he vanished. And all the Irekaïn soldiers vanished with him, all the remaining living men and a good handful of the dead that had fallen farthest from the border of Eäneté.

  Verè took a hard breath.

  Beside him, one of his sergeants said, in a resigned tone, “Well, better to have fed the whole lot to the wolves, but if the Fortunate Gods are kind we won’t see them again anyway.”

  “They may have retreated in order to regroup,” Verè pointed out. “We’d better lay plans to face them again, just in case. Though I don’t imagine any normal man would be overeager to challenge Eänetaìsarè after that.” He hesitated, wanting to ask, Did you see something strange about Laören? Do you think he is a normal man, still? But in the end he didn’t ask, perhaps because he didn’t want to hear his sergeant’s answer.

  The man who had killed the Irekaïn sorcerer . . . That man was a more immediate concern. He was still alive, and still right here, still on Eänetén ground. He did not seem inclined to fight, but simply knelt, holding out his empty hands to the first Eänetén soldiers who approached him.

  The man had been slightly injured in the fighting, a shallow cut that marked his right arm at the elbow, but he did not appear to have suffered any serious wound. He showed no wariness of the new young trees that now crowded what had been a road, and for whatever reason, Eänetaìsarè did not seem to resent his presence.

  He looked perfectly ordinary. He had hair that was darker than average, but not so dark as to catch the eye. The cast of his face and the paleness of his skin spoke more of northern ancestry, but many people of Enchar had similar features. On the other hand, he did not seem particularly disturbed by his position, even when one of the soldiers, answering Verè’s gesture, pulled him to his feet, bound his hands roughly behind his back, and brought him over.

  “Well?” Verè asked him. “Explain yourself.”

  The bound man bowed his head, appearing unafraid. He said, “I am not Irekaïn, but rather a servant of the Fortunate Gods and an enemy of Irekay.”

  “Oh?” Verè said with careful neutrality. “A servant of the Fortunate Gods. I see.” He had never heard of such a thing, but perhaps it meant this man was something like a sorcerer. Or that fortune and chance bent around him. For the moment, he asked merely, “Where are you from, then, if not Irekay?”

  “I am Harivin. Originally.”

  “Indeed. Harivin.” Verè looked the man over with open skepticism. All of his clothing and equipment seemed standard issue for an Irekaïn soldier.

  “I suppose he was riding with the Irekaïns for his personal amusement, or for the exercise, perhaps,” commented the sergeant, a level-headed man named Tegen.

  The man shrugged as well as he could with his arms bound. “It seemed the likeliest way for a man to get into Eäneté with reasonable speed. Also, you will forgive me if I observe that even your impressive defense could not have protected your land from a man such as Gheroïn Nomoris. I needed to be sure I was in a position to intervene.”

  Verè could not deny this man’s intervention had been important. Even decisive. He had clearly seen the look of triumph on the sorcerer’s face at that last moment. He’d had one flashing moment to think that he had failed, they had failed, Methmeir Irekaì’s sorcerer would force the Immanent Power of Eäneté to submit to Irekay, and the king’s men would roll over their defense, and Lord Laören would do as he pleased with the province and its people. He had had one sharp instant to be grateful the Harivin princess had taken his little Eöté with her, because of all the folk of Eäneté, Verè wanted least to see Eöté at Laören’s mercy. . . .

  And then this man had driven his blade through the Irekaïn sorcerer’s skull and handed Eäneté the victory after all.

  He said, “It’s plain you served Eäneté by your actions. I will admit, a dagger is not the weapon I expect to strike down a sorcerer. I’ve seen blades rebound from that man before.”

  “My knife carried the blessing of the Fortunate Gods. Sometimes it does.”

  Verè considered this. The prisoner merely waited. It did not seem to occur to him he should attempt to argue further in his own defense. At last Verè asked him, “Did the Irekaïn Power take Lord Laören, there at the end? Will he return and try to do what Nomoris failed to do?”

  The prisoner tilted his head, considering. “The tie went somewhere,” he said after a moment. “Into Laören? It might be so. Will he return? He may. But I think not here. When it took Gheroïn Nomoris, Eänetaìsarè also took up some of Irekaìmaiäd’s strength. Irekaìmaiäd will not wish to risk facing Eänetaìsarè directly upon its own precincts again. It is far more likely to strike against the Eänetén Power elsewhere, upon foreign lands it has claimed, and not here.”

  “Well, that’s something,” muttered Sergeant Tegen.

  If it were true. But Verè thought it probably was. He glanced around, thinking. The aftermath of the battle surrounded them. There were the wounded to tend. The bodies of the Irekaïn soldiers could be left to the trees and the wolves, but their horses would have to be cared for, or put down if too badly injured. All the tasks that followed battle would take time.

  Turning back to his prisoner, Verè ordered, “Put this man on a horse. He’ll go back to the duke’s house with me right now. Sergeant, you and your squad will ride with me. Lieutenant Tejef, deal with things here.”

  The prisoner made no comment to any of this, not when a horse was brought for him, not when he was helped to mount, not when a soldier took the lead rope and fell in behind Verè. Verè kept an eye on him, but the prisoner seemed disinclined to cause trouble.

  Four days to the city. Three, if they pressed hard and none of the horses went lame and no other disasters got in their way. The prisoner had better be right about Laören not coming against the border here a second time. But the man was surely right that the Irekaïn Power had gotten its arrogance trimmed today. He hoped that such a great magic had not dragged the duke’s attention from anything important . . . wherever he was this moment and whatever he might be doing.

  Three days to the town of Eäneté, nearly, and hard on the horses to hold that pace, but they made the distance in very good time for all that. The wolves paced them the whole way, gray shadows glimpsed now and then when the woods opened up to cleared land. The prisoner gave no trouble, but no helpful answers either. He answered whatever questions were put to him, but elliptically, and Verè could not tell whether every word off his tongue was a lie. It would be different, Verè was determined, when they came to the duke’s house.

  Once they had finally arrived, he had the man taken at once to the cells downstairs, below the main floors of the house, while he went to his own quarters to hear reports and make his own to Geran Lhiyré, senior among Gereth Murrel’s factors and now, since Gereth was gone, standing the seneschal’s place. It was a hard place to fill, but Lhiyré was a quiet, thorough man who seemed to know his job. Verè would have very much preferred to have Gereth in charge, but he liked Lhiyré well enough.

  The house seemed empty and quiet with so many of the staff gone with His Grace; and Verè missed Eöté’s quiet little presence more than he had expected. She effaced herself so thoroughly you could forget she was even there, poor timid little Eöté, yet she was always doing little things to see to a man’s comfort. The Raëhema girl was kind, at least. He could trust that the Harivin princess would protect Eöté. He thought he could trust her to do that. Or if not her, then His Grace, who took such strict pains to be . . . not kind. But careful.

 
Verè took a breath, let it out, and disciplined his thoughts to consider his own duty. In an hour or two, the prisoner, having been led past the racks of torture implements and then left in a cell to think about them, would probably be very uncomfortable. Here in this house where the Eänetén Power seemed to inhabit every stone and linger in the very air . . . this was the place to get answers from a man who thought himself too clever to be caught in a lie. Verè was certain he could get the truth from his prisoner here.

  And if the truth was that the man truly was a servant of the Fortunate Gods . . . well. He could already imagine the report he would have to write. He hoped he would not sound too much a fool, writing about servants of the Gods.

  So, downstairs. It could have been worse. The cells at the back were dark and cold, but the big room at the bottom of the stairs was well lit, with heavy, ornate brass lanterns set along the walls, three fireplaces set into the near wall, and candles lining the huge oaken table that took up a large part of the room. The lamps and candles were all lit, and there were fires burning in all three fireplaces to take the edge off the chill in the room. The oil the lanterns burned was scented with clove oil, and the wood in the fireplaces was cedar, so that the air was fragrant with their smoke. The other smells, below the smoke, were nothing more sinister than those of hot wax and the sweet lemony scent of the oil used to polish the long table.

  But lining the long wall nearest the table were pegs and racks where whips and knives and irons, and other less-identifiable implements, were neatly hung and arranged. There were several sets of metal and leather clamps set into one end of the heavy table. And in the polished stones of the floor, channels had been incised, to make it easy to wash the blood away.

  Geran Lhiyré had—rather bravely, in Verè’s opinion—accompanied Verè to observe the interrogation. Now Lhiyré looked at those implements and paled slightly. Verè didn’t count that against him at all. “I hear it was a great deal worse when the old duke ruled here,” he commented.

  “Oh, it was,” Lhiyré agreed, in a voice pitched slightly too high. “I kept clear of him, fortunately, but I heard tales of this place. And saw a man once, after he’d been released. You can’t imagine.”

  “I prefer not to imagine it, thank you.” There was only the one chair, but Lhiyré glanced at it and then gingerly leaned his hip against the table, so Verè took it, not to seem intimidated. It was a very comfortable chair, but he had to admit he was not very comfortable in it.

  At a gesture, the two men-at-arms set to guard the prisoner went to bring him out.

  He came blinking into the light, by which Verè gathered that no one had troubled to provide him with a lantern of his own. He was shaking all over, slight tremors that racked his body. But he did not actually appear to be afraid. When the soldiers led him toward the table with its nearby fires, he showed no hesitation about accompanying them. His eyes passed over the neatly arranged implements without obvious concern, or even much apparent interest. Verè had to admire his nerve.

  The soldiers fastened the set of manacles closest to the end of the table around the prisoner’s wrists, leaving the man held uncomfortably half bent over the end of the table, with his arms spread wide to either side.

  The prisoner shifted his weight a little, turning his wrists in the manacles, testing the limits of his confinement. Then he went to one knee on the stone floor. It was a more comfortable position for him, allowing him to straighten his back and lift his head.

  He still wore the uniform of an Irekaïn soldier. The uniform shirt was thin; threadbare in places. It was no wonder he’d been cold in the unheated cells. He still trembled a little, but less now, with the heat of the fires against his back. For a long moment he met Captain Deconniy’s eyes directly, and then, as though it went against his nature, bowed his head. There was no fear in his face or manner.

  “Your name?” Verè asked him quietly.

  The man lifted his head again. “Quòn,” he said.

  Lhiyré said sharply, “Indeed?”

  The man shrugged and turned his hands palm-up where they rested on the table. “It’s the only name I have. If it does not content you, I would be glad to invent a better name for your pleasure. You would then be pleased by a lie, but that is your affair.”

  Lhiyré was clearly taken aback by this answer, and Verè leaned forward. “I would suggest a more careful courtesy would be wise for a man in your position.”

  The man bowed his head at once. “I ask your pardon, if I have been impolite,” he said, without emphasis or expression. “I meant no offense.”

  “Quòn.” Verè tasted the word on his tongue, glancing at Lhiyré.

  “Burned,” said Lhiyré, who was, naturally, an educated man. “Charred black. Burned to ash and char.”

  “Hmm.” Verè raised his eyebrows at the man.

  “I have gone by other names as well, but that one is as true as any.”

  Verè rested his arms on the oaken table and looked steadily at him for a long moment. Then he said, “Quòn, then. Quòn of Harivir. Who are you, exactly? How did you kill the sorcerer, if you are not a sorcerer yourself? Why did you? I’ve no interest in pulling your story from you piece by tiny piece. This is your chance—your last chance—to simply tell me. If I don’t believe you, we can go on from there.”

  “An admirable strategy,” the man agreed, so completely without expression that it seemed like deliberate mockery. Verè found his hands closing into fists, and opened them, taking a breath. Quòn, looking consideringly at him, added, “I beg your pardon, if I have been impolite.”

  “Just go on,” Verè told him.

  The man said in his cool unconcerned tone, “I intended to find and protect Kehera Raëhema from any enemy. The King of Harivir gave me this trust, as he believed that I was his man.”

  “Fooled him, did you?”

  “For that time, I served the Fortunate Gods by serving Torrolay Elin Raëhema. Now I serve the Gods in seeking Kehera Elin Raëhema. I lost her in Suriytè, but I caught up to her on the road and assisted her to break free of her captors outside of Enchar. I was unable to follow her at that time, however, as Nomoris proved an . . . unusually capable enemy. I killed him, but unfortunately the Irekaïn Power raised him up again. Most disconcerting. Perhaps you were aware he was already dead? That the Irekaïn Power moved him and spoke with his voice?”

  “He didn’t seem dead there at the border. Until you killed him.”

  “He is certainly more dead, now,” Quòn agreed with cool satisfaction. “Entirely dead. Unfortunately, this is unlikely to prove more than a minor inconvenience to the Power of Irekay. Irekaìmaiäd has become far too strong, far too capable of investing itself in persons it should not be able to touch.”

  Verè said, sticking to the main point, “So you have killed Gheroïn Nomoris twice, and now he is truly dead.”

  “Indeed. But the first time, he took me by surprise.” Quòn did not seem particularly embarrassed or ashamed to admit this. He simply said it, as though it were one unimportant fact among many. “He took me prisoner. Or Methmeir Irekaì did. Or Irekaìmaiäd, to speak more precisely, for the Power itself has become master of the tie and the man.”

  Lhiyré leaned forward. “Wait. The Power of Irekay has mastered the king? Is that what you’d have us believe?”

  Quòn lifted an eyebrow. “I believe that is what I said, yes.”

  Verè looked at Lhiyré, who explained rapidly, “When a Great Power masters its tie and its line and the man who ought to hold it . . . It’s dangerous when any Immanent Power breaks the bonds that hold it to its land and its people; sometimes it goes on to apotheosis. That’s always dangerous, but a Great Power . . . something just like that is said to have led to the destruction of the southlands and the creation of the Wall of Winds.”

  “That is not quite correct,” Quòn said calmly. “The Great Power became a God, it’s true. A number of Immanences followed suit. Unfortunate Gods, of course, or they would not have done quit
e so much damage. The southlands were indeed destroyed by the ensuing . . . tumult. The Wall of Eternal Storms was then raised up by the Fortunate Gods to prevent the destruction from consuming all the north as well.”

  “Oh, this sounds splendid,” Verè muttered, not quite under his breath. He didn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it. Except what this bastard said made sense of so much. The trouble in the north, in Emmer and Harivir . . . the sudden swift fall of Kosiran Immaör, perhaps all of Kosir . . . Gheroïn Nomoris, whom His Grace had struck down though Her Highness had said he was already dead; certainly Her Highness had declared Nomoris dead and hollow after that. He might not trust this prisoner, but surely Her Highness would not have been misled herself, nor misled His Grace.

  The prisoner had paused for a moment inquiringly, but when no one asked him another question, merely went on matter-of-factly. “It took me some time to free myself, and by then the borders of Eäneté had been closed. It seemed appropriate to allow Nomoris himself to clear the way for me into Eäneté, as he had put me to such considerable trouble. That this gave me the opportunity to permanently disembody Nomoris was certainly an added benefit.”

  “He gave you trouble, did he? But not so very much, we gather, as you killed him. Or disembodied him. Because you are a servant of the Fortunate Gods and an enemy of Irekay.”

  Quòn inclined his head just a fraction. “Just so.”

  “Yet you are a friend to Her Highness.”

  “I surmised, from the opportunities that fell my way, that in serving Her Highness as she might require, I would also strike a blow against the Power of Irekay. I believe that is still true.”