“No, not Dariel. He is still unaccounted for. I mean Aliver. I sang him back to life. He is here in the palace even now. He played this afternoon with Aaden. Mena, you should have seen them!”
Mena asked for Corinn to say again what she meant. Corinn did so. Mena asked her to speak it one more time. Perrin’s lips curved into a smile. “I am not insane, Sister. I worked a spell and brought him back. I can do such things. You have the blade; I have the song.”
“I don’t understand. How can…”
“How can something dead and spread as ashes on the wind live again? I can’t answer that, but it’s true. You’ll see him yourself.” Perrin’s eyes closed for a long moment, and then opened with a start. “Call Elya. Call her to you and fly back on her for the coronation. I have already sent her toward you, but call her to make sure she comes to you.”
“The coronation?”
“Aliver will be king. I will be queen. We will rule together. Come, Mena, be here to share the moment with us. Summon Elya. Summon…”
Corinn’s words faded. Perrin sighed, his body loosening, swaying. Corinn was gone. Just like that the force that had animated him vanished. Mena began to ask if he was all right, but stopped as he climbed onto her bed and fell, facefirst, onto her sheets. “Perrin, you can’t…” He grasped her sheets and curled into them, coming to rest on his side, facing her. Fast asleep.
Mena watched his sleeping face for a time. She lay down next to him, close enough to take warmth from his body as she tried to sort through what she had just heard.
T he mock battle the next day was Haleeven’s idea. After three days of steady snowfall-a strangely windless storm that allowed the snow to blanket the world around Mein Tahalian evenly-he proposed, “Let’s stage a battle along the slope of the mountains. We did so in the old days. Even with Hanish we trained that way on occasion.”
When Mena protested the heavy snow, Haleeven said that was the point.
“This is the Mein, Princess.”
The old warrior’s face was a creviced mask. He had trimmed his wild beard, but it was still bushy and longer than anything seen in the empire’s warmer climes. Leather cords wove color into several braids of his thinning gray-blond hair. Mena was not yet used to looking at him. At times she marveled that the world could be so varied as to produce these hairy, blond, fair-skinned northerners in one case and the richly dark, smooth-skinned people of the south on the other. With her kind in between, like a blending of the world’s extremes.
“This is the Mein,” Haleeven repeated, “and north of here it’s been known to snow as well.”
Not sure what to make of his statement-ill-tempered humor or more kindly jest-she nonetheless agreed. Haleeven was a hard man to read. Since their first conversation, he had shown little emotion. He had revealed nothing more of himself and seemed to regret having ever shown himself a victim of the world’s turning. Instead, he threw himself into work. He, more than any single person, brought Mein Tahalian back to life again. That he did it for her benefit Mena doubted, but she was grateful for it.
As they marched out to do mock battle, the sun shone blindingly bright. The clouds that had pressed down upon them for weeks had vanished, revealing a dome of sky impossible to look at. They all squinted as they gave and received commands, trying to form up on opposing sides of the slope. The snow was fluffy and soft. A few soldiers scooped it up in their naked fingers and ate it.
“You’d do well to keep those fingers covered,” Perrin said. He walked at Mena’s elbow. It relieved her that he occupied the role as he had before. The morning after Corinn had used his body to speak through, it had taken Mena some time to explain how he came to wake in her bed. He had no memory of it, and Mena convinced him that he had simply walked in his sleep. She had found him in a daze in the corridor, she explained. She directed him to the first spot to lie down that she could find-her bed. She had not been discomforted. She just slept on the couch in the adjacent room. Nothing inappropriate happened. Nothing they needed to discuss with others. Such things occurred during the stress of approaching war. Better he believe that than know the truth, including that she lay, taking heat from his body, for some time before crawling away. Some things were better kept to oneself.
Gentling as it was on the contours of the land, the snow was a misery to walk through. The soldiers kicked curses into it, struggled to keep their balance. They paused after only a few steps, breathing hard. Several lost their boots in the stuff and had to dig around in it with their hands, one socked foot exposed to the cold.
They spent several hours tugging and shoving several catapults and ballistae into place. By the time they were ready and the two sides faced each other across a stretch of trodden and slashed snow, they were exhausted, panting plumes of vapor into the air.
Though they would not have wanted to know she heard them, more than one soldier on her side grumbled at the incongruity that his face could be plastered with sweat while vapor froze into ice nuggets in his beard, or that his torso could be drenched while his toes had gone beyond cold to numb, or that his mouth was parched for liquid while his bladder made him stop to pee every few moments.
When a soldier noticed her within hearing of such a complaint, his face flushed red with embarrassment. She let him see the sternness of her face. In truth she felt all the same things herself, the problem of wanting to pee being chief among them. She also noted his Candovian accent. He did not belong in the frozen north any more than she did.
Not a good start, she thought.
It got no better when the battle began. The two sides roused themselves sluggishly at the horns’ call. They slogged forward. They tripped and had trouble rising. Their wooden swords and axes encumbered them as they toppled over one another, cursing. The two sides did not so much hit each other as collide, stumble, and fall back, swinging their weapons either as an afterthought or in search of balance. Archers lofted blunted arrows into this melee. A pathetic effort. The catapults’ gears got stuffed with snow, frozen in place. Only one managed to lob a weighted ball. It flew over the opposing side. The ballistae did not shoot at all; the padded bolts had been lost somewhere.
Mena trod the sidelines, growing more dismayed the longer she watched. She was on the verge of calling a halt to the whole exercise. Haleeven commanded the day, but she had seen enough. Judging by the words she heard the old soldier shouting, so had he.
“What’s wrong with you?” Haleeven bellowed. “You look like drunken boys playing in the snow! Is this the best of Acacia’s army? Woe to the empire if it is. Now fight, you fools!” He dodged in among the troops, sword in one hand, mallet of a fist in the other. He smacked soldiers of either side on the head, jabbed with his sword, knocked them off their feet with his punch. He seemed to move on a different surface than the others, so loud and such a fury of motion that many stopped to gape at him.
“This is not going well,” Perrin muttered.
Haleeven kept up his harangue. The soldiers lowered their weapons, stood dejected. Even those face-to-face with the opposing side gave up the fight and watched the old Mein dance among them. He shouted about the pity of it, about how Meins used to drink ice instead of tea and pee crystals. “It never bothered us! A little snow?” He scooped a handful up in his free hand and lofted it at a soldier near him. “It’s like sugar to us. We flavored our cakes with it!”
“Go eat cake, then,” a soldier grumbled.
Haleeven stopped dead. His head turned back, his gaze locking on the offending soldier’s. He studied him as if he had never seen a creature so bizarre. He sheathed his sword, and then stooped and drove his gloved hands into the snow. “You say that to me? You, soldier, tell Haleeven Mein to eat cake?”
I should stop this, Mena thought. The old man is…
Haleeven roared, ran toward the man, and then hurled a ball of hand-packed snow at him. The snowball exploded on his shoulder, dusting his face white. Haleeven shouted something in Meinish. Pointing at the soldier, he said, “Did you understand that? I told him to eat sugar! You hear? Eat”-he ducked down again and hurled another clod of snow at a different soldier-“Meinish”-and still another-“sugar!”
One of the soldiers tossed snow back at Haleeven. With that, chaos erupted. A chaos of flying snow, shoving, kicking, insults, curses. Laughter. Both sides converged with an energy they had not possessed moments before. The tense atmosphere shifted, replaced by boisterous mirth.
“This will not help us against the Auldek,” Mena said. The next moment, she got pelted across the chest with a snowball. Who dared?
Haleeven himself. He kicked his way through the snow toward her. He looked like a madman. Stopping just
