replaced the unhinged door, leaving him in darkness broken only by the dull light of the coals in the grate, and those illuminated nothing.
“You saw his face?” the old woman asked in the blackness. She wasn’t speaking to him. “It’s the one you wanted?”
Had he been led here by assassins? Brigands who would take his sword and trade it for a jug of wine? Croy wondered if he had the strength left to fight them.
“I saw it. Make a light, goodwife,” a new voice said. A voice Croy recognized.
Still-he could credit it not, until the old woman lit a stinking rushlight and he saw. There was no furniture in the tiny house, but a pile of straw had been shoved into one corner to make a pallet. Ulfram V lay upon it, sleeping.
And standing next to him was his daughter, Bethane, who would be queen hereafter.
Croy dropped to his knees. He had only the strength left to utter, “How?”
“When they came we had very little warning,” Bethane explained. “A man came running down the road, screaming. It was enough. I dragged Father back here. Baron Easthull sacrificed himself by staying behind. He knew Morgain would not rest until she’d found a noble who’d dared to stand up to her. He died swearing he was alone in the house, and I suppose she believed him.”
There was no passion in Bethane’s voice. Her words were as flat and uninflected as those of a parish priest reading a very dry passage of the Lady’s word.
“I saw much of what happened, though I dared not go so close as to help. I saw them die,” Bethane went on. She did not weep. “I saw my country dying. Before it was over I came back here, and knelt by my father’s side, and prayed the Lady would take him into her bosom before ever he awoke. I do not want him to know what has become of his kingdom.”
Croy lowered his head in grief.
“It was not good for him, to be dragged through mud so far, nor is the air in here fit for royal lungs. Come, Sir Croy, and listen. Tell me what this sound means, though I know it too well already.”
Croy moved to kneel over his king. Ulfram lived still, but the breath that came in and out of his lungs rattled and choked. A sound that could have been mistaken for snoring, if Croy had never heard it before.
“It is his death rattle,” he agreed.
“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
