A silence settled on the room. Maeve stepped forward with a jug and refilled Eremon’s cup. Camlin saw her hand was shaking. She spilt some ale, then dropped the jug. It smashed on the stone floor, shards exploding.
For an instant all eyes were on the jug. Then Camlin saw Maeve move, a glint of metal in her hand. She lunged forwards and drove a knife into Eremon’s throat, blood gushing in a steady pulse.
Everyone moved at once: Maeve diving across Eremon’s kicking legs towards Edana; Rath, Baird and Halion surging towards Maeve; Roisin rising from her chair.
Edana lifted her arms, an instinctive reaction, but Maeve was not aiming at her. They collided but Maeve was rushing with her knife at Roisin, scoring a gash across her ribs. Then Rath had Maeve about the waist, was hauling her away. The knife clattered to the ground as he twisted her wrist.
Eremon was white, his skin almost translucent. Life flickered in his eyes and then vanished. Roisin screamed and fell across his body, hugging him and keening. Eremon’s head flopped.
‘Why?’ Rath said, clutching Maeve tight.
‘Because he would let so many die. Because he was old and close to death, anyway. Because I hate Roisin and her spawn. Because I want Conall to be king.’ She glared at him unflinchingly.
Rath drew his own knife and plunged it into her chest, then embraced her as her life fluttered away. He lowered her gently to the ground. Tears filled his eyes as he turned back to them.
Roisin stood slowly and stepped away from Eremon, blood staining her gown.
‘I think this changes things,’ she said.
‘This way,’ Baird said, leading his horse through a hole in the stable wall that hadn’t been there short moments ago.
Those giants were a mistrustful lot, Camlin thought, remembering the tunnels beneath Dun Carreg, always with their bolt holes.
They were in the stableblock of Dun Taras, Edana and her shieldmen alongside Roisin, Lorcan, Quinn and about two score shieldmen whom Rath had gathered, their loyalty beyond doubt.
‘It’s the only way out of here,’ Roisin had said of the tunnel that they were now descending — a shallow path sloping down into darkness, tall and wide enough for men and horses alike. Hooves thudded, muffled with cloth for when they reached the open road. The tunnel stretched for a league or so before it spilt back above ground, taking them beyond the ring of Rhin’s warriors, they hoped.
Rath had refused to leave, saying that his presence in the fortress would mask Eremon’s death and buy them vital time in making their escape. There had been no changing his mind. Halion had hugged the old warrior tight.
They walked a long while in the dark, following a flickering light ahead, then Camlin emerged into the night. It was still dark, the sky perforated by a thousand stars.
Edana walked just in front of Camlin, Fech perched on her saddle. Camlin saw her hold out an arm for the bird and it hopped onto it and rubbed its beak against her face.
‘I would ask a great favour of you,’ Edana said to the bird. ‘Find Corban for me, and tell him of what has happened. Tell him that I am sailing to Dun Crin. And that I hope to see him again.’
The raven protested at first, but Edana asked again, and with a flapping of wings the bird lifted into the air and faded into the night.
Edana looked back and saw Camlin watching her. Tears glistened in her eyes. ‘Looks like we’re running away again, Camlin.’
‘Like old times,’ he said, and with a smile tried to give her some courage that he didn’t feel.
CHAPTER NINETY-NINE
CORBAN
They made camp beside a fast-flowing stream, the water clear and icy cold, seventy-one people strong, plus Storm and Craf. They had passed through the mountains back into Domhain, and then Coralen had led them north, their pace fast and ground-eating. Over a moon had passed since they had left Dun Vaner, the weather changing, snow turning to sleet turning to rain. It was still cold here in the north, but each day there was a growing hint of spring in the air. Corban could smell it. New life, rebirth.
It will be my nameday soon. It’s been almost a year since we sailed away from Dun Carreg.
Coralen had said that they would soon be crossing the northern border of Domhain into Benoth. From there it would be less than a ten-night until they reached Murias.
And Cywen.
He had had a lot of time to think. The reality of his time in the Otherworld had not faded. And even if it had, he had a physical reminder riding close to him every day.
Meical.
The man had seemed cold and aloof at first, unapproachable, but as the days of the journey had passed, conversation had begun to flow between them. It was mostly Corban asking questions and Meical answering. Corban had for the most part asked about Nathair and the political circumstances of the Banished Lands, of kings and queens, of where they would stand in the scheme of things. Meical seemed to know everyone, or if not know them, at least know of them. For the most part Corban steered away from anything that navigated close to what he thought of as spiritual — the Otherworld, Asroth, Elyon, the Ben-Elim and Kadoshim — even though he had a thousand questions bubbling away in his mind. But once he started asking them, he knew he would have to acknowledge the truth of it. It was one thing to acknowledge it to himself, or to his mam. It was another thing entirely to admit it to this band of fanatics who would willingly cut someone’s head from their body at his mere suggestion. Besides, once he admitted it to Meical and the Jehar, the consequences of that were staggering. Where to go from there?
No, he could not walk down that path yet. It scared him, like standing on the edge of a cliff and looking down, waves of giddiness sweeping up, consuming him. He had decided to focus on the task at hand. To find Cywen and take her from Nathair. That was task enough. If they lived through that, then there would be plenty of time to consider the bigger questions.
Just the thought of seeing Cywen again sent a swell of emotion coursing through him — hope, worry, fear. Elyon in heaven, let us save her. He smiled to himself as he realized what he was doing. Strange how we pray in these times. Even to an absent god. A shred of hope is better than no hope at all, I suppose.
Corban saw Coralen a little way off, standing on a ridge of rock, looking at the horizon.
‘What are you looking at?’ Corban said as he drew near.
‘Benoth,’ Coralen said. She pointed. ‘Between those peaks is a wide vale — and on its far side is Benoth. Murias will not be much further, if we do not run into a band of the Benothi patrolling their borders.’
‘Is that likely?’
‘Perhaps.’ Coralen shrugged. ‘You never know with the Benothi. They can stay locked in their halls for years, and then they will raid a dozen times over a few moons.’
She was wearing her wolven pelt. Corban had taken to wearing his too; it was warmer than his cloak. They both stood gazing at the gap between the mountains, the sky a deep blue. Stars winked into life.
‘I wanted to thank you,’ Corban said into the silence.
An in-drawn breath. ‘For what?’
‘For everything. For guiding us. For risking your life at Dun Vaner. For coming to save me. For leading us north. For what you’re about to do, taking us to Murias. We wouldn’t be here, if not for you.’ There was more that he wanted to say, more that he’d thought about, every day, but he couldn’t find the words.
‘It must have been hard for you, seeing Conall like that,’ he eventually managed.
‘It was,’ she said. The silence lengthened and he thought she would say no more about it. Then she spoke. ‘Con was always my favourite. I shouldn’t say that. Halion was always kind, thoughtful, always looked out for me; but Con was so much fun. He was always exciting to be around. Maybe not good, but exciting. .’