“Then I think the Sky Palace will make a good camp. There are still some cells that have roofs, where men and horses can sleep out of the cold, and it is far from Stormspike itself and spying eyes.”
“This tumbledown Sky Palace of yours looks more like a trap than a refuge,” Isgrimnur said, “or at least like a spot where I would plan an ambush if I were the White Foxes.”
“I do not think you need fear an ambush. The Hikeda’ya are down to only a few fighters. They have not tried to stop you since you crossed into their lands because the mountain itself is their greatest defense. Their mistress Queen Utuk’ku is deep in what is called ‘the dangerous sleep’—the Hikeda’ya have never been so weak as at this moment. As to camping in the Sky Palace, Isgrimnur, though you may not understand me, I promise you the ancient observatory has a . . . spirit of its own. That is the best I can explain it, and that spirit is not at all warlike, which is why it became a spot to contemplate the mysteries of the Sky Dance. I think your army will be safe there. The true danger is farther ahead, at the foot of the mountain itself. At the gates.”
Isgrimnur looked from Ayaminu to Sludig, then at the array of titan stones before them, a few still suggesting the vague shapes of walls and arches and other structures, but far more of them toppled. The summer days were cold in these northern reaches but very long, and the men had been riding and marching for at least an hour or two longer than they normally would have.
“Well, then. I will take your advice,” the duke said at last. “Sludig, ride to Jarl Vigri and tell him we will make camp in the Sky Palace there, as the lady names it.”
Sludig, chewing on unspoken words, gave him a look that Isgrimnur thought bordered on insubordination; Sludig did not like magic, and he had good reason to fear it. Isgrimnur thought he might say something, but instead he only nodded and rode off to find Vigri.
Isgrimnur turned back to the great shadow of Stormspike, a spearhead jutting from the rocky ground and aimed at Heaven, a mute threat that could not be ignored however much he might have wished to turn back toward the lands he understood.
This is a lonely place, he thought. This is a cold, lonely place we’ve come to.
“Husband, come back to bed,” said Khimabu. “The bell has not yet sounded.”
It was true, the great stone bell in the Temple of the Martyrs had not rung the first hour of morning, but Viyeki had been awake for some time, sleepless and full of buzzing thoughts. “I must go, my wife. There is a meeting of the War Council.”
She threw a slender arm across her eyes as he lit a taper. “You are not a member of the War Council, husband. Why must you go? Will you leave me to stand outside the council hall with the commoners and slaves, waiting for news? Yaarike will name you as his successor, will he not?”
“That is not for me to say. All I know is that he wants me there.”
Khimabu sat up, the cover falling away. For a moment, as always, Viyeki was stunned by his wife’s beauty, her graceful limbs and perfect, narrow face. His mouth dried as he looked at her. How much more astounding that she, a member of venerable Clan Daesa, should have let herself be joined to him. “You have been gone for months. Surely you will not desert me so soon?” She swung her long legs out of the bed and stood up, as unconcerned with her nakedness as a forest creature.
Looking at her—staring at her—as she began to dress, Viyeki was seized by contrasting moods. He was astonished to realize that this flawless scion of one of the oldest Nakkiga clans was his, but that was quickly followed, as it usually was, with the nagging question of why her parents and clansfolk had chosen him as the recipient of this great gift. Certainly few others except High Magister Yaarike had seen much potential in him, and Viyeki had labored long in thankless, middling obscurity for the Order of Builders before being lifted up.
“My wife,” he said, and hesitated. She turned and saw him looking at her.
“Ah,” she said. “Is there something else on your mind beyond the honor the old man is giving you? Would you perhaps like to see if this is the day we create an heir?” Her morning gown was not yet fastened, and she let it fall open to reveal her body of shadowed ivory. “I would not be unwilling . . .”
“My wife, we cannot celebrate, and we cannot make an heir—not this morning.” He was surprised at how little he wanted her at this moment, when he should have been feeling triumphant and powerful. “This is the War Council. We are besieged. I cannot let my own selfish concerns keep me from attending Magister Yaarike. Leaders of all the orders will be there. How could I be the last to enter the Council Hall?”
In an instant the cold look that he so dreaded swept over her like a sudden storm around the mountain’s peak. “No, how could you? And do you think you alone have tasks to do, husband? It is war, after all, as you said.” She stared at him now as though he were not her mate but only a lowly servant. “I have my own work maintaining this household that you have so seldom visited lately, but I have also to feed and find places for all our workers and slaves whose homes near the gates have been sealed off at your own magister’s orders.”
“So that it can be better defended,” he said with a calmness he did not feel. His wife’s sudden angers always left him surprised and unprepared. “What else can be done? We are at war and that is where the enemy will attack.”
“Of course, husband. But apparently your beloved master will not even allow you and your household the simple pleasure of celebrating your return and your long-deserved advancement.”
“Khimabu, this is not the way . . .”
“I understand.” She turned from him with a definite air of dismissal. “Your wife can wait. Making an heir can wait. Do you even desire an heir, Viyeki sey-Enduya, or have the mortals at our doorstep changed your mind about that, too?”
“Don’t be foolish,” he said, but seeing her expression he softened his tone. “You know that I do. If the Garden desires it and fate permits it, yes, my wife, of course I wish to make an heir with you.” But after many Great Years without one, he wondered whether they would ever succeed, war or no.
“Then go to your council,” she said as if that were something of little import, an amusement. “I will do my own work and think of how best to announce your rise to my kin and your underlings.”
“No word of that can be spoken yet, Khimabu! Until my master informs the Celebrants, he still might change his mind.”
“Is old Yaarike a fool?”
Even in the privacy of their bedchamber, such talk worried him. “No, of course he is not a fool.”
“Then he will not change his mind. He will give my husband what my husband so richly deserves. And if my husband remembers what is important, so will I.” She had banished the fury from her face, and now moved toward him, stopping just short. She took his hand and placed it on her breast through the thin fabric of the morning gown. He could feel her heart beating slowly and steadily. “So will I.”
Outside the Council Hall, the Martyrs’ Temple bell tolled again to mark the middle hour of morning, a deep, flat sound that always made Viyeki think of a heavy door falling shut. It was time for the council to begin.
He was surprised at how sparsely attended it was, how empty the huge, columned hall. Looking across the archaic witchwood table and its centerpiece, an arrangement of stones and living plants meant to symbolize the Garden that had birthed their race, Viyeki could not help wondering why so many of the other orders were not present—not Luk’kaya, High Gatherer of the Order of Harvesters, nor any representatives of other powerful orders like the Echoes.
Zuniyabe, chief of the Celebrants, was of course at the table with several lesser nobles of his order, but it could not have been a Queen’s War Council without him, since he was the ultimate authority on tradition and the governing principles of the people.