Tam, and the only of them to remain in the Named Lands.
He felt a stab of remorse and suddenly hoped desperately that his sixth daughter would find the elusive kallaberry on this island. He missed the comfort those berries gave him when the past lurked at his door. He craved the forgetfulness and focus that his pipe brought him when he thought of all the arrows he’d lost or seen broken against the world along the way.
Vlad Li Tam forced his attention back to the beach. A handful of great-grandchildren and grandchildren played in the surf while their parents unloaded the boats.
Laughing, he chased after them.
Winters
Winters sat on the floor of the Great Hall and held Hanric’s cold hand while she wept and wondered what to do.
Stunned by Aedric’s words, she’d been unable to keep her focus as the conversation turned to speculation. Hanric was dead now. So was Ansylus. And she’d seen for herself. She’d left Rudolfo when the River Woman poked her head in to tell him that Jin Li Tam’s labor had begun.
She’d held the Firstfall axe and looked at the dull reflection of a dead Marsher scout, still under magicks that her people had not used or seen for two thousand years. Certainly, they used blood magicks for other rituals, but the scout potions had been lost-or kept hidden by the Androfrancines-after the Old World fell.
And now, she sat by Hanric, holding the axe of her office in one hand while she held his lifeless hand in the other.
The half-squad of Gypsy Scouts had removed the others from the room and guarded the doors now so that she could be alone. Already, birds raced westward to her people. Soon, she would will herself to stand, to leave his side and go with her people into Rudolfo’s gardens to find Hanric’s rest.
They had left him where he lay, though someone had closed his eyes, and she could feel the coldness of his congealed blood seeping through the rough fabric of her dress.
She would wear his blood even as she wore the ash and mud of the earth that he would be given back to.
He’d been fearsome, they told her, taking at least two of his attackers before they overpowered him. And these attackers were faster, stronger than the traditional earth magicks employed by most. They’d stormed a room of armed men, killed their targets, and withdrawn.
The Francines had taught that all losses were connected to one another, and she saw that now. There in the shadows cast by the fireplace of Rudolfo’s Great Hall, amid the scattered remains of an interrupted feast, Winters found herself feeling as small and alone as she’d been eleven years ago when she sat with her father’s body.
Of course, she’d never truly been alone in those times. Hanric had kept that vigil with her. Hanric had closed her father’s eyes and had held her on his lap as he leaned against the wall and wept loudly for his fallen friend. With his own hands, Hanric had dug out King Mardic’s rest in the Caverns of the Sleeping Kings. And he’d followed his friend’s instructions to the letter, climbing the Spine and declaring himself her shadow in the dark tongue of House Y’Zir, commanding the loyalty and love of the Marshfolk and pledging himself to the Homeward Path on her behalf until she reached the age of her majority. Until she was old enough to rule in a way that would strike fear in the heart of the Named Lands and, in that fear, hold their respect and keep the Marshlands apart from the interlopers and home-thieves.
Now, once Hanric was in the ground, she would return home to her people, climb the Spine and drink from the horn. For the first time in her life, she would feel the burn of the blood magick as it shored up her voice and gave it the span of a hundred leagues. Then, she would announce herself as Winteria bat Mardic, ward of Hanric ben Tornus, Queen of the Marsh. After that, she would give her first War Sermon and set herself to make this right.
She sniffed, wiping her nose with a sleeve.
Beyond the room, she heard the clatter of activity. Despite the approaching dawn, the Seventh Forest Manor had not quieted. Jin Li Tam, Rudolfo’s betrothed, was hard at her labor, and the halls were alive with the hustle of servants bearing fresh linens and whatever other supplies the River Woman and Rudolfo’s medicos required. The scouts, magicked and unmagicked, were stationed throughout the massive pine-and-stone house. Winters’s own people were waiting outside the Great Hall.
In all their years of sojourn in the New World, certainly factions had arisen and insurrections had emerged. But never anything like this. Why would Marsher Scouts, under blood magick, attack and kill the man the rest of the Named Lands believed was their king? To what end? Could they have been acting alone? The assassination of the Crown Prince led Winters to believe not. This had been planned, and whoever was behind it commanded Marsher Scouts and had need of the Named Lands to believe the Marshers were without their king. An ache at the pit of her stomach told her that these would not be the only deaths this night.
“What kind of blades were used?”
She’d known before the First Captain could answer. “Iron.”
But Rudolfo had not been scratched. That meant something at the heart of this, she wagered.
The Marsh Queen sighed and squeezed Hanric’s hand. “I will miss you,” she said. Then, she dropped his hand and stood. She hefted the Firstfall axe, feeling the solid ash handle thrumming in her hands, and turned toward the doors. “It’s time,” she called out in a louder voice.
The doors opened, and her people came through. The women bore shovels and the men bore a stretcher. A half-squad of Gypsy Scouts accompanied them. Winters stepped aside as they all approached. The men gentled Hanric onto the stretcher and grunted beneath the weight of him when they finally lifted him from the floor. The lieutenant of the scouts stood before her and bowed. “Lady Winters, Lord Rudolfo sends condolences and apologies that he is unable to join you at this time. He bid me relay that he vows upon his father’s sword that each year on this night, he will tell his son Jakob of Hanric the Marsh Queen’s shadow.”
She blinked. “Tell the Gypsy King that his hospitality and his vow honor me and my people in this darker moment of our sojourn.” She turned to the door and stopped.
Neb stood there, dressed now in a fresh uniform. He shuffled from one foot to the other, awkward now before her. But he’d come. At the sight of him, Winters felt the hot tears pushing at her. She held them back and walked to him. Behind her, the scouts fanned out, whistling low and long to magicked counterparts she was certain watched. Her people walked slow behind, the women beginning the death psalms. When she stood before the young man, she reached over and took his hand, pulling him alongside. “I’m glad you came,” she said.
Walking beside her, he glanced down at her. “Have you decided on his rest?”
She nodded. “I have.” They were leaving the Great Hall now, standing before the massive doors that would take them out into the winter night. As the door creaked open, she saw that it had started snowing. The flakes were small and dry, and the wind spirited them along the ground. She looked up at him, watched the wind drift his hair. She squeezed his hand, then spoke. “He will rest at the heart of Rudolfo’s Whymer Maze, in the shadow of Library Hill.”
T’Erys Whym had made the labyrinth popular during his brief papacy in the New World, but Winters knew its darker heritage. A circular maze that could only be solved by returning the way you came or enduring the pain of climbing its thorns to find its hidden secrets. High sport of the Cutters of Old. Rituals of the Wizard Kings, their Surgeons working the knives for pleasure and blood magick bargaining, bent by time into Physicians of Penitent Torture, who worked the knives for redemption.
At the heart of that Whymer Maze, Hanric would rest.
