Ardial in his black robes and permanently bloodless expression. A Speaker was safe enough. Even Stralg had been content to drive Ardial out of the city, when he would have put an extrinsic ruler to death. Witness Tranquility followed them up, carrying her distaff and spindle to record the dynast’s return.
Still the people chanted “Ambilanha.”
Ingeld paused at the top to catch her breath, to survey the enemy, and to smile at the crowd. The arch proved that someone had planned a public welcome. Beyond it, a band with trumpets and drums stood in glum silence, making no effort to overrule the “Ambilanha” dirge. And there was a wagon with a throne on it, all brightly decorated, the sort of contrivance the Lamb Queen rode in at the Festival of Nastrar. The ropes that would draw the wagon lay deserted on the roadway, and the children who would pull them were nowhere to be seen. There was no sign of Sansya or the senior priests and priestesses, the heads of cults and guilds and senior families, all of whom should have been here to greet her.
The great crowd was held back, upstream and downstream, by walls of massed Heroes, at least six deep, perhaps a mustering of the entire city horde. And in the center of the open space stood the self-proclaimed horde- leader, Jarkard Karson, backed up by a dozen Werists-presumably the Benard execution squad, Yabro’s hard cases who didn’t like Florengians. They were all smiling eagerly.
Benard’s hand on her arm was steady, but icy cold. He kept it there as they walked forward and the chanting crumpled away into silence.
Ingeld stopped several paces back from Jarkard. “Return your men to barracks, Huntleader. They are not required.”
Jarkard was big, of course, but more bloated than beefy. Either he had practiced long and hard, or his face had come with a built-in sneer. “They are here to witness our marriage. I see you brought a Speaker. How considerate!”
“He is here to administer your oath of loyalty.”
“Then he will be disappointed.” He pointed at Benard. “You, boy, will leave now. I will count to three.”
“And I,” Ingeld said, “shall count to two.” No need to delay. Either the goddess would support her or She wouldn’t.
“You can count anything you like, my sweet,” the Werist said. Was there a hint of hesitation in his puffy eyes?
Nasty though he was, Ingeld would prefer not to kill him. “Do not provoke my wrath!”
Jarkard’s sneer remained unruffled. “One!”
“One!” Ingeld echoed. “I warn you for the last time.”
“Two!”
“Two!”
Jarkard opened his mouth to say “Three” and Ingeld laid the curse of Veslih on him. He did not so much burn as erupt, as if he had been struck by lightning. His pall and skin charred instantly. A tower of red flame hurtled upward, then his head and belly exploded in fire and steam. His escort leaped back in horror, and every throat in the city cried out-except Be-nard’s, because he had been forewarned, but his grip nearly crushed Ingeld’s forearm. The crowds, even the Werists, fell to their knees in the presence of the goddess. In moments Hordeleader Jarkard was reduced to a smoking, reeking litter of charred bones.
Ingeld was shivering with the relief of tension. She had never cursed a human being before. Once she had dealt with a mad dog, but she had not been certain that she could bring herself to kill a man. Her grandmother had done so twice, reputedly. The crowd was moaning and weeping.
“Dramatic!” Ardial said dryly. “Twenty-seven years ago you did not treat Stralg so harshly.”
Ingeld bit her lip. What could she respond to that? I love Benard but did not love you? Or perhaps, Horold was handsome and you were not? Even, I was only a child back then? She said, “Oliva will need her father, Ardial.” That felt nearest the truth.
“It is unfortunate you did not burn the Fist, though. The world has suffered much since then.”
“I am sure you could quote me a number of texts about missed opportunities. Witness,” Ingeld added quietly, “will there be more challenges?”
Behind her, Tranquility laughed. “Not a peep, my lady.”
“You!” Benard bellowed. “Flankleader! Get those men back to barracks! All of them. Do you want to be next? Bandleader, play!”
The cheering began, rising to a roar and drowning out the brazen shriek of trumpets. Consort and dynast walked forward to the wagon. As they passed the cinders, Ingeld averted her eyes and met Benard’s loving gaze. Those artist’s eyes-dark Vigaelian eyes-missed nothing, not her nausea, her relief, her shame, her joy. His great hand tightened around hers
“Well done!” he said admiringly. “You didn’t warn me you were going to melt his collar.”
“Horrible!”
“But necessary. And there won’t be any more. Everything will be all right now.”
FABIA CELEBRE
had never seen anything as flat as her first view of Florengia. The floodplain of the Wrogg at Kosord had been mountainous by comparison. Dantio called this the Altiplano, and it looked as if it had been raked and rolled, fine gravel stretching off in all directions forever, coated with brownish lichen, not one blade of grass anywhere. Behind them, a ruled white line below the indigo sky marked the Ice they had left two days ago, but even the Ice had been much smoother on this side of the Edge than in Vigaelia. Straight as a javelin, the trail ran ahead, a line of different color rutted by wheels and stained by many years’ animal droppings. Beyond it the world ended in the usual mistiness of the wall, with just faint hints of very distant hills visible late in the day, when the sun was at Fabia’s back. Every fresh heap of dung was a landmark, and proof that the pass was still being provisioned and patrolled.
A new world and a new year. This morning at sunrise, Dantio had pointed out the holy star Nartiash, whose heliacal rising heralded the turning of the year.
The constant eye-watering cold wind was one problem and Dantio’s limp another, but the gravest concern was water. The shelter at First Ice had been stocked with shabby leather canteens, obviously left there so travelers would know to fill them at the seasonal meltwater pools. There had been nothing at last night’s shelter except timber windbreaks and some jars of pemmican. Now the second day was drawing to a close and the canteens were running dry. The world ahead was flat gravel and more flat gravel.
“Are we nearly there yet?” Waels asked, yet again. The joke had worn as thin as the soles of Fabia’s boots. If he weren’t a Werist, someone would hit him.
“It is not known,” Dantio said, “but it is suspected, that we are nearly somewhere. There’s a dip ahead. I can’t see it, but I can sense it, just barely.”
Waels did something that briefly made his face twist out of shape and his eyes bulge. “Bless my fangs and talons! You’re right.”
Fabia wondered what they would they do when they got “there,” wherever “there” was. Veritano, the Florengian equivalent of Nardalborg, was supposedly a smaller settlement. They had hoped to slip past it unseen, for it would be manned by Stralg’s men, but on this terrain a mouse would be conspicuous.
“Has anyone thought up a good fable yet?” Dantio asked the landscape, tactfully not asking Fabia directly.
Xaran was the Mother of Lies. If anybody could think up a workable cover story, it should be the family Chosen. Fabia had prayed for guidance in the night, but none had come. She was in little danger because she could claim to be a hostage from some obscure place on the far side of the Face. Dantio was merely an escaped slave. But Orlad and Waels would have to talk very fast to convince any Vigaelian Werists they met that they were not Cavotti rebels.
“Not me,” she said. “I can only suggest we tell the truth and call for a seer to verify it.”
“Stralg can’t have many seers left. I very much doubt that he’ll have one stationed out here.”
Waels sighed. “Pity to come all this way just to bleed to death.”
