“Sit vigil with me tonight,” Bethane said, and he obeyed. They knelt together, deep in prayer and meditation. Time went away.
In the morning the old woman rose from the pile of blankets she had instead of a bed, and she stirred the fire. “I need to get some water on, if we’re having pottage,” she said. Neither Bethane nor Croy responded. The old woman went out, letting light into the room when she moved the door.
The sunlight fell across Ulfram V’s face, and showed it pale, and the eyes empty, open, staring upward.
Croy broke his reverie long enough to place one hand against the king’s neck. There was no pulse, and the skin was cold as ice.
“The king is dead,” he whispered. “Long live the queen.”
It was only then that Bethane allowed herself to cry.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
“The king is dead,” Coruth said, plucking at long blades of yellow grass on the shore of the Isle of Horses. She said it offhandedly, as she might comment on an unusual formation of clouds overhead. “Skrae is in tatters.”
Cythera shivered and pulled her cloak around her shoulders. Then she went and gathered some more driftwood and piled it on the fire.
Coruth had set up a small kettle on a tripod well clear of the house, and it was Cythera’s job to keep it hot, tending the fire beneath it as necessary. From time to time Coruth came over and threw a handful of herbs in, then replaced the thick iron cover.
“You care about Skrae,” Cythera pointed out, when her mother was silent for too long. All day Coruth had been distracted, staring endlessly out across the waters of Eastpool. Cythera knew perfectly well that her mother was not looking at the clutter of shacks and houses on the far shore. She was sending her mind out-not all of it, not as she did when she flew on the wings of birds and saw the whole of the world. Just feelers, tendrils of her consciousness, testing and probing at the flow of events. “I would have thought witches were above petty politics.”
Coruth snickered. “Do you mean, am I heartbroken that we’ve lost Ulfram V? Hardly. The man was better than his father, but not overmuch. He had a habit of speaking to everyone as equals rather than subjects. I liked that.”
Cythera remembered meeting the king, back before the barbarians came. Back when she had thought she knew what the future would hold. That seemed a long time ago. “He seemed a straightforward man.”
“But a fool. Too concerned with small matters, the daily accounts and business of running a kingdom. He could not see the larger picture. No, there will come better kings. If there will be any kings at all.” Coruth rose to her feet and came over to tend to the kettle. When the lid came off it let loose a stink that made Cythera’s head reel, a must of old graves. The liquid in the pot had thickened to a gelid consistency with a crust of foulness at its top. It had the color a fish’s eyes get after it sat too long in a vendor’s cart. With another few hours of heat it would congeal even further, until it became as stiff as wax.
Cythera thought she knew exactly what this substance was for. And it made her so cold she couldn’t bear to look at it.
“You’ll be interested to know,” Coruth said, “that Croy is still alive.”
“I-” Cythera said, but the thought she’d had, the immediate emotional reaction, died inside her as soon as it was born. “Croy,” she said. “Is he in danger?”
“Always,” Coruth cackled. “He’s an Ancient Blade. He lives to fight. How could a man like that ever be safe? But for now he’s still on two feet. If that still matters to you.”
“It does,” Cythera said, looking down at her feet. It always would, she knew. No matter how her love for Malden grew, there would always be a little room in her heart where Croy would live. A room with a door that could not be locked.
Coruth came and stood next to her, looking down into the kettle of ointment. “Almost ready,” she said. She had changed, become more present-more fully integrated with her own body. “You know what this is, don’t you?”
Cythera went to get some more wood for the fire before she answered. “It’s witch’s unguent. It opens up the inner eye. Brings on the second sight.”
“Yes,” Coruth said. “When it’s ready-when all the preparations are ready-we’ll begin your initiation.”
Cythera closed her eyes and tried not to weep.
Chapter Seventy
A thousand barbarians marched north, pulling wagons full of books from Redweir. They grumbled at the load, wondering what the Great Chieftain could possibly want with words. Morget ignored their complaints and ordered a doubling of the pace. He was anxious to see his father again. He had something to say to the old man.
“Slow down, you bastard. We’ve been walking so long I’ve got blisters all the way up my legs. For fuck’s sake, I’ve got blisters so far up my arse I can taste them.”
Morget hauled in Balint’s chain. The dwarf staggered toward him, her eyes wide with terror. He was in a good mood for once, so he didn’t hurt her. Just grinned down into her hairy face and laughed his dark and booming laugh.
Morget in a good mood was still a frightening thing.
Ahead he could see the walls of Helstrow. He’d been walking for days to return to the fortress, leaving his horses behind. There were so few of them left that every mount was needed for the dwindling number of scouts Morget could command. The scattered men of Skrae had been busy killing his outriders. No matter-if that was the best they could do, then victory was assured.
There was a nagging doubt in the back of Morget’s mind, a curiosity about what he would do once he had conquered the West. What would satisfy his bloodlust then, when every man on the continent was his thrall? The barbarian put such pointless wonderings behind him. There was always the Old Empire, across the sea to the south. There were always more lands to crush.
At the gate of Helstrow, Morgain received him with honors. She placed a wreath of dry roses upon his head in mockery of western pomp. She’d even pruned off all the thorns-which he thought might be a subtle jab at his toughness. He was used to her disdain, however. He thrived on it.
“I hear you laid low a baron,” he told her. “A silly little man in linen and fur.”
She bowed like a western courtier. “Milord, you are too kind to remember my paltry accomplishments. Though I see you’ve forgotten I also defeated Sir Croy.”
“I forgot nothing. He still lives.”
Morgain laughed. “I left him in a welter of berserkers. We’ve heard nothing of him since. Though, if he is alive-I want him. He’s beautiful, in a decadent way. I want him stripped and staked in my tent. I want to see what soft western skin feels like under my lips. I want to know the secrets of courtly love.”
“Him you may not have. I must slay him myself.”
“You give me orders now, Chieftain?” Morgain’s eyes flashed dangerously. The two of them had never fought a true blood duel. Never had their Ancient Blades met when the intention was to draw heart’s blood. Morget wondered briefly how long it would take to kill his sister. Whether she would be a satisfactory opponent, the foe he’d been looking to meet for so long.
She was still useful to him, though. He grabbed her by the throat-she did not try to stop him. Her eyes danced and she smiled as he squeezed.
“What do you really want, Morgain? I need your aid today. Tell me your price and I’ll pay it.”
“I want,” she said, picking her words carefully, “to serve my clans. To obey and enforce the decisions they make. I want nothing for myself. I am their chieftess, and what they want is all that matters.”
It was a variation on the oath every chieftain took when he won his clan. She would deny him the true secret of her heart’s desire by parroting words he’d spoken himself so many times. Words their father had composed.
He let go of her. For a moment he expected her to draw Fangbreaker and try to cut him down, but she merely laughed.