“No,” she whispered. “Only that all my joy will be gone from the earth if you are killed in this war. Coren, perhaps the Lion is not dreaming. Perhaps Rok is right and Sirle will defeat Drede, and no one will be killed.”
He shook his head, his face pained, hopeless. “Sybel, men will die; perhaps not my brothers, but men of Sirle. At Terbrec, I heard their broken, weary voices weeping of their wounds while I fought, until I did not know anymore, in the dust, heat and blinding leap of metal, if they were truly men’s voices, or the broken, crying voices of my own thoughts that could never again be coherent. It will be the same thing all over again, now. Rok is mad. I told him so, but he simply told me I did not have to fight. But he knows I will.”
“He does not seem mad,” she said gently. “Perhaps he knows something you do not know.”
“I hope so, for all our sakes.” He lifted a hand, traced the line of her hair. “You are not angry. I thought you would be. I thought you might leave me, go back to Eld.”
“And what would there be for me at Eld but an empty house? Coren, I knew when I married you that one day, sooner or later, I would have to watch you leave me, I would have to wait here quietly within these stones like Rok’s wife and Eorth’s wife, and not know if I would ever see you again. I just did not expect it now, so soon.”
“I did not dream Rok would ever do this; I thought we would live peacefully for years before anything such as this would happen.”
“I know. But things—things have simply woven together into a pattern, and now I cannot tell anymore where the thread of events began. So you must do what you must, and I—what I must.”
“I am sorry,” he whispered helplessly.
“No. The only thing you will have to be sorry for is if you die, and then beware because I will follow you.”
“No.”
“Yes. I will not let you wander among the stars alone.”
He smiled a little, swallowing. He touched her lips, then kissed them gently. Then he held her tightly, crushed against him, gathering her hair in his hands, and she listened to the slow life beat of his heart. They sat silent, motionless in the fall of sunlight, until Coren’s hold loosened. He stood up, helped her up. Then he said, looking over her shoulder out the window,
“Sybel, Cyrin is coming across the fields. We should go down and open the gate for him.”
The silver Boar met them at the postern, his tusks shining in the hot noon. He stood a moment, panting at Sybel’s feet, looking at her out of his red eyes, and then he spoke to her in his flute-smooth voice,
“The giant Grof was hit in one eye by a stone, and that eye turned inward so that it looked into his mind and he died of what he saw there.”
Sybel stiffened. Coren stared incredulously at the great Boar. His head turned, flashing, toward Sybel, and she saw the startled question in his eyes. She found answer for neither of them, so she simply held open the gate, and Cyrin passed through into her garden.
TEN
She moved the Lords of Niccon and Hilt like chess pieces across Eldwold, from their heartlands to the house of the Lord of Sirle, until they stood blinking as at a dream while the smiling Rok welcomed them into his house. Rok’s hall began to fill at noon and evenings with men who sat at their meals in shirts of leather and steel, with knives at their belts, and who spoke with their mouths full of battles they had seen and the scars they had taken as remembrances. The outer yards rang with the constant hollow beat of hammer as swords were forged, shields repaired, spear points welded to lengths of pale, straight ash, carts built, harness and gear of the great-hooved war-horses mended. All this the Lord Horst of Hilt, and in his turn, Lord Derth of Niccon, a fiery-haired young man who had sworn life and family to Drede’s service, saw and looked within themselves to find good. Derth of Niccon, arriving a week after the Lord of Hilt, said rather plaintively at Rok’s hearth, with a cup of wine in his hand,
“I did not realize you had so many followers, or I would not have pledged everything to Drede. But I did that because of Terbrec.”
“I do not intend a second Terbrec,” Rok said, his eyes calm, gleaming faintly below the gold mane of hair. A little away from them, an ivory-haired woman sat quietly, needlework in her hands, her black eyes never moving from Derth’s face, and to him she was little more than a shadow that did not impress itself into his memory. Derth sighed, tapping his cup with a fingernail.
“I can give you five hundred mounted men and three or four times as many on foot.”
“The Lord of Hilt offered me less.”
“His lands are divided—part of them Carn of Hilt captured during the seventy-day siege of Mondor, and the men on them are claiming their old allegiance to the King.”
“So? No doubt we can deal with them. Horst is too old for these games. I pity him.”
Derth snorted into his cup. “Pity Drede, if you must. I have heard Horst was pledged to Drede, too, first, before he turned to you.”
Rok’s brows rose in polite surprise; he refrained from comment.
Coren, weaving his way through the benches of men at their noon meal, caught sight of the red-haired lord and stood still midstep. Ceneth, with a faint smile, turned from his food and pushed a full cup into Coren’s hand. Coren stared down at him.
“Do you see who that is?”
“Yes.”
“Derth of Niccon. Ceneth, how did Rok get him here? Drede gave his father lands and gold for the work he did at Terbrec. What is Derth doing sitting at our hearth?”
Ceneth shrugged. “Doubtless he heard the Lord of Hilt had turned to Sirle’s side and discovered he would rather fight with Hilt than against it.”
“But, Ceneth—” He groped for words, found them inaccessible for once, and drank instead. Then he saw Sybel and went to her.
“I have been looking for you everywhere.”
She blinked up at him, startled, the thread of her call broken. “Coven—” Beside Rok, the Lord of Niccon rubbed his eyes with his fingers.
“I feel very confused,” he commented. Rok refilled his cup.
“You are tired from your ride.” He turned, tugged Coren away from Sybel. “Eorth was looking for you; it seemed important.”
“I want to take Sybel riding. She is not used to all this babble and din.” He paused a moment, then asked slowly, “What are you doing here with Rok and Lord Derth?”
“Oh, she said vaguely, her thoughts rushing like birds ahead of her. “I wanted to talk to Rok.”
Rok added smoothly, “She was worried. Eorth is talking about riding Gyld into battle.”
“What!”
“She could not talk him out of it. Perhaps you can.” The Lord of Niccon leaned across Rok to stare at Sybel. “Are you Sybel? I have heard about you…”
She smiled at him sweetly, holding his eyes, and he sank back in his chair. Coren said grimly,
“Perhaps if I tie him to his horse he will understand. Sybel, wait for me—”
He turned and made his way back into the crowd. Rok sighed softly and turned to the subdued Lord of Niccon.
“Now. The siege of my grandfather failed because he did not have the men to deal with supplies coming down the Slinoon River into Mondor. This time, I want men of Sirle and Niccon attacking by water, sailing through to the heart of the city and attacking within. We will need boats. Niccon is in the lake country of Eldwold. Can you build boats for three hundred men, and gather men to sail them?”