“Why?” Roan asked. “Why did she go?”
“Scholarship,” Windy said with a half-smile. “The pursuit of knowledge. It seems she was a woman after my own heart.”
The vision Bane had shown him came back to Roan in a rush.
The Oracle’s eyes rolled back, her lips moving, words—no, prophecies—flowing forth. Her son, a young Bear Blackboots, frantically writing them down under the glow of firelight.
Two sides of the same coin…
Roan closed his eyes. Knowledge. Truth. He knew where the Oracle and her son were when she had her first prophecy.
Teragon.
He told them everything, holding nothing back. Last, he told them about his dream of the Horde gathering in some distant land, of the bodies piling up.
No more secrets, he thought when he finished.
Windy Sandes leaned back in her chair and sipped her tea, saying nothing.
Two
The Northern Kingdom, Castle Hill
Zelda Gäric
Zelda missed food almost as much as she missed her niece, Queen Annise Gäric. Yes, the sellswords known as the Brotherhood fed her each day, but stale bread and meat unfit for a dog hardly counted as a meal.
Yet, she ate everything they brought her anyway, washing it all down with the snowmelt dripping down the dank walls of her cell. She needed to keep her strength up, because she’d come to a decision.
She wouldn’t wait for Annise to arrive with her armies to save her. Zelda knew she wouldn’t be able to bear it if her niece perished on her account.
No, Zelda would save herself.
Luckily, the arrogance of men like Severon, the sellsword leader and self-declared King of the North, would eventually provide her with an opportunity, if she was patient. It was on his orders that she was fed each day, because he wanted her alive to watch him kill Annise, or so he said.
Now he approached her cell as he did each day like clockwork, a visit he used mostly to gloat and threaten. “You’re looking pale,” he said, stopping before the bars. He never got close enough for her to touch him, even if she reached through the iron ingots that stood between them. He fears me, she thought. Perhaps he’s cleverer than he looks.
Zelda grinned like a banshee. He already believes me mad, I might as well act the part. “And yet even kept from the sun, dirty and haggard, my hygiene is superior to your own. I could smell you well before I saw or heard you,” she said. She knew it was unnecessary to goad him, but then again it was too much fun to resist.
“You won’t speak so boldly when I cut out your tongue.”
“I won’t speak at all. But I will feast, if you’d be so kind as to fry it with fat and butter and serve it on a sweet roll.”
He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I may be a sellsword, but I am no savage. I’ll feed your tongue to the dogs, not to you.”
“Pity,” she said. Without warning, she rushed at the bars, slamming into them, gripping them with white-knuckled fingers. She held back a laugh when Severon flinched. “What news of my niece?” she hissed, flicking her tongue like a snake.
Recovering nicely, he resumed his smirk. “My spies tell me she will not come. Though she managed to defeat the easterners, her army was largely decimated. They say the giant known as the Armored Knight died in combat with Beorn Stonesledge, the ironmarked. Annise, who my sources say was in love with the man, refuses to speak to anyone or even leave her quarters.”
For the first time since the conversation started, Zelda felt a pang of uncertainty. It cannot be, she thought. Tarin cannot be dead. And Annise would not abandon me here.
“You’re lying,” she said.
His sharp green eyes seemed to pierce her with their stare. He pushed several stringy tendrils of black hair away from his eyes. From experience, Zelda knew it was a habit of his, even when his hair wasn’t blocking his vision. A good sign, she thought. Even with me behind bars, he is nervous. Already Annise must be marching on Castle Hill, regardless of what he claims. And Tarin Sheary is not dead. I won’t believe that until I see his corpse.
He waved her accusation away with a hand, already turning to leave. “Think what you want, it is no matter to me. Soon you will both be dead.”
Perhaps, she thought. But you will be too, even if it’s my last act.
His long, black cloak swirled around his feet as he strode away.
Zelda began making plans.
The next day when Severon arrived, she spoke first.
“Have you slaughtered the royal mamoothen herd?” she asked.
“Hungry?” he asked, a hint of delight in his raised eyebrows.
“Famished,” she said. “But that’s not why I asked.”
“Why so serious all of a sudden? By now you’d usually have insulted me three different ways.”
She turned away, pretending to let a wave of madness shudder through her. “Too cold for insults,” she said. In reality, it was the warmest her cell had felt. Spring had well and truly arrived. When she turned back, she said, “You think the mamoothen will give you the advantage against Annise’s army, don’t you?”
Severon gave nothing away with his eyes or expression, but again, he pushed his long hair behind his ear. My guess was right. “We already have the advantage of battle experience and skill,” he said. “But yes, I won’t lie. We were hoping the beasts of war would make our victory even more decisive.”
“But they won’t obey you or your men,” Zelda said.
“They will,” Severon said. “We are breaking them day by day.” Despite the certainty of his words, she could sense an undercurrent of doubt. This man had little experience dealing with the massive beasts native to the north. Mamoothens cannot be broken like horses, she thought.
“It will take months,” she said. “Months you do not have. Annise will not hide forever. She will regroup. And then she will come for you.”
Severon’s lips closed, but Zelda could almost see his teeth grinding together behind them. “What would a lady of the north know of mamoothen? Your reputation as a recluse and a madwoman would indicate you know nothing about nothing.”
Zelda leapt up, jabbing a finger in the air. “Where do you think I was hiding when I avoided court? The mamoothen shed. I had few friends. The beasts were all I had.”
Truth with lies. That was the way of it.
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Severon said. “But if you think I will let you anywhere near the mamoothen, then you underestimate me greatly.”
“It’s your choice,” she said casually, as if she couldn’t care less one way or another. “But I wouldn’t think you’d have anything to fear from a woman in chains.”
“It’s not you that concerns me. The mamoothen are as strong as a hundred men.”
“And yet they are captives too. You have them in shackles, no? Even a full-grown male won’t be able to break iron manacles. It was only an offer. I can calm the mamoothen, encourage them to follow you into battle…” She left the next part unsaid, though her tone made it clear she wasn’t finished.
“And in return?”
“I might be half-mad, but I’m no fool,” she said. “The winds are changing in the north. I can either freeze to death or build myself a fire.”
Severon’s eyes narrowed. “You would betray your niece in exchange for your life?”
“Betray is a strong word. I would only be giving you the advantage. She will still likely crush you like the cockroach that you are. But I will be alive either way. Let’s call it a hedge.”
Truth with lies.
“I can’t promise you freedom.”
“I know. I’ll live out my days in this cell. But at least I will live.”
Severon laughed, high and loud. “It’s getting to you, isn’t it? The fear of death. I knew it would. After all, you are naught but a woman. Even the frigid exterior of women of the north will crack eventually. My answer to you is no. But thank you for your offer. The next time I come I will bring the queen’s head
on a platter. I will have it preserved and placed next to yours on my mantle.”
Zelda watched him go, licking her lips. I’ve got him, she thought.
The cell door opened with a creak. Zelda had been pretending to sleep, even as heavy boots approached along the corridor. Now she opened her eyes, blinking slowly. When she saw the black-cloaked sellswords, she pretended to be surprised.
“Have you come to surrender?” she asked.
One of the men grunted out a laugh. “Aye. And Severon wants you for his wife.”
Zelda wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Put a sack over his head and I shall consider it.”
Less amused this time, the man said, “Up,” but before she could comply two other men strode forward and grabbed her under the armpits, hauling her to her feet.
“Good service,” she muttered, her feet finding purchase on the stonework as they hurried her out of her cell and down a dimly lit corridor.
The men said nothing.
Zelda said, “I’m hungry.”
“You can eat when you’re dead,” the leader said.
“Worms and hard dirt are bad for digestion. A warm bowl of mamoothen stew, however…”
The leader froze, turning slowly. His face, which was pocked with holes on one side and slick with smooth skin on the other, pressed close to hers. She didn’t move, her eyes holding his. After a brief stalemate, he coughed out a laugh and continued onward faster.
Zelda pretended to be breathing heavily when they reached the top of the staircase, emerging into an atrium filled with bright white sunlight. “Some warrior,” the man scoffed as she bent over to ‘catch her breath.’ “The men they say you killed probably tripped and fell on their own swords.”
“How did you know?” Zelda said.
The man rolled his eyes and gestured her to follow. He went in exactly the direction she expected. Outside toward the mamoothen shed.
“Where is Severon?” she asked casually.
“It’s none of your concern.”
“Using his chamber pot then.”
To his credit, the sellsword ignored her, no small feat—Zelda was a hard woman to ignore.
Zelda breathed in the fresh air. It wasn’t warm exactly, but not cold either—at least not by northern standards. Most of the snow had melted, and what little hadn’t had been pushed up against the sides of the castle’s inner walls.
Members of the Brotherhood wearing black cloaks moved here and there on various errands. They all carried weapons. Zelda squinted against the bright sunlight and craned her gaze toward the top of the main wall. The white stone blocks reflected the spring rays like windowpanes. Ah, Zelda thought. At least a dozen men were positioned atop the ramparts, dutifully looking outward. It was far too many men for a castle that didn’t expect to be attacked.
Annise is coming, Zelda thought. Severon lied, just as I thought.
She would have to work quickly.
She turned her attention forward once more, where the humorless sellsword had stopped before a large stone structure. It was shaped like an archway, except it went on and on for a great distance, the curving roof high enough for ten full-grown men stacked on each other’s shoulders to pass through unfettered.
A massive wooden door held together by thick iron fittings barred their way forward.
Shouts, thudding boots, and other, more animal-like sounds, arose from within.
“Time to earn your keep,” the man said.
With a groan, the door began to open.
Zelda had to hold back a laugh as she watched the commotion within the mamoothen shed. Men dove out of the way as one of the beasts swung its great trunk around like a whip. In fact, if there were barbs at the end of it, it would have resembled Tarin Sheary’s Morningstar.
One man, who held a real whip, was a hair too slow. He was knocked aside like a straw doll, rolling twice before smashing into a wooden barrel filled with water, which sloshed over the sides and onto his head.
With a quickness that belied its sheer size, the mamoothen bucked forward, aiming one of its deadly curling tusks toward the dazed man. Chains clanked and the beast bellowed as it reached the end of its tether mere inches from its target.
Gasping, the man shrieked, “Get it away from me!” his voice higher pitched than most women Zelda knew. She pretended to cough to cover her amusement.
“Fool!” the sellsword said to his comrade. “Just move to the side. It can’t reach you.”
His eyes wide, the man obeyed, stumbling back rapidly once he was clear of the barrel.
It’s not an ‘it’, you dolt! Zelda wanted to shout. This one was a she, a proud lady named Murga. Mamoothen were a rare species where the females were much larger than the males. Instead of berating these fool men, however, Zelda whistled, high and clear. The mamoothen, which had continued straining against her chains, froze. Slowly, Murga moved backwards one step at a time, before easing down onto her enormous legs, looking bored.
The sellsword spun to face Zelda while the other men openly gawked in her direction. “Can you teach us that?” he asked.
She shook her head. “It would take many years to perfect the pitch of each whistle command. But I can show you hand signals and convince her to obey you.”
“Do it,” the man said, sounding desperate for the first time.
“How do I know Severon will spare my life in return?” In truth, Zelda didn’t care one way or the other, but she had to continue to play her part.
“Would you like a piece of paper with the Brotherhood seal?” the man asked, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Who will uphold the contract? You’ll just have to trust Severon to keep his word.”
Zelda nodded, while inside she was thinking, I’d rather trust a snake in my bed.
Not that it mattered. Chaos was coming, and she and the mamoothen herd would be its flagbearers.
Three
The Northern Kingdom, Gearhärt
Annise Gäric
“Have you ever heard of this Calypsian poet, Japarti?” Annise asked.
Tarin stretched and yawned, rolling over and almost knocking her out of bed. His strong hand grabbed her waist and pulled her back. The book she’d been flipping through fell from her fingers and thudded to the floor. “Was he the guy who wrote about death a lot?” His hands were roving now. Exploring.
“I don’t think so,” Annise said breathlessly.
“Then no,” Tarin said, his lips finding hers. His tongue parted them, slipping deftly inside.
For several long moments, Annise forgot about Japarti the poet, forgot about how her Aunt Zelda was a prisoner in her own castle, forgot about war and pain and regret.
The moment passed when there was a knock on the door.
Tarin broke off the kiss and sighed. “Go away,” he said. Annise snorted a laugh.
Sir Dietrich’s deep voice penetrated the wood. “I wish I could, but a stream has just arrived from Castle Hill.”
Annise closed her eyes. “What does it say?” She held her breath. Tarin gripped her hand firmly. Comfortingly.
“It’s a request for surrender.” Annise said nothing, waiting for the rest, unspoken words hovering like dark crows. “Lady Zelda will be executed if you do not.”
Annise’s breath rushed out. Tarin’s teeth ground together. “I’ll kill every one of the Brotherhood,” he said. There was a dangerous edge to his voice, one that turned his threat into a promise. The line between Tarin and the monster inside him seemed to grow ever thinner. His body jolted, as if he’d just recognized her reaction to his words, however subtle. “I—I mean…”
“I know,” she said. “You just want to protect me. To protect Zelda. You are a good man, Tarin Sheary.”
He frowned, his expression disjointed to the words she’d just spoken. She could see the doubt. He still fears himself, she thought. Annise wondered if he always would.
“Thank you, Dietrich,” she said loudly. “We shall be out shortly.”
Tarin opened his m
outh to speak again, but Annise silenced him with a kiss. When she pulled away, her hands moved up to hold his chin. Her thumbs traced circles on his pale, too-smooth skin, marred only by the dark, raised veins curling like asps from chin to temples. “Don’t you dare leave me,” she said. “Never again.”
Though he’d already promised her he wouldn’t, she needed to hear it again. Needed it like she needed air. Like the north needed sunshine.
“I won’t. Not ever.”
She raised his hand to her lips and kissed each knuckle, one at a time.
Then she crawled out of bed and began to pull on her armor.
She was thinking about Japarti. It was sad that a man who wrote such beautiful words believed love held no place in life. Annise was determined to prove him wrong.
It was the strangest army Annise had ever seen, and yet, to her eyes, it was the perfect army.
On one side stood Sir Christoff Metz, his silver armor gleaming under the blazing spring sun. Behind him stood his female army, the first in northern history, a group of stalwart women who’d heard Annise’s call and volunteered to join her cause. They were the best of the north, proof that there was still some good to be had in this place of ice and snow. On the opposite side, but well apart from the others, stood the strange girl known as Lisbeth Lorne, her unseeing eyes glazed with white film. She wore a blue silk dress that brushed the ground around her feet. Around her were the Sleeping Knights, though the name hardly seemed appropriate anymore—Annise didn’t think they ever slept. In the dead center was Tarin, his white armor the color of fresh snow, with the few men who remained in his company, a ragtag assortment of castaways from Darrin. Nearby stood Fay, the blacksmith who’d designed his new set of armor, thick, heavy plates that none but the Armored Knight could wear. When Annise met Fay’s gaze, she nodded.
Annise nodded back.
Beside her, Jonius’s age-wrinkled eyes met hers in the manner that only an old friend could. With solidarity. With trust. The trust had taken them a long time to achieve, but finally, there were no secrets between them.