Ravenna was a problem Maximilian did not know how to solve. He’d got himself so drunk that first night in Sakkuth, both with wine and with enraged, frustrated love; he’d wanted to forget everything that he’d seen and heard over the past evening, drink himself into oblivion, and all he’d done was further complicate his life. He’d known of Ravenna’s interest, she’d made it perfectly clear to him on their journey through the FarReach Mountains, but in the face of finding Ishbel again it had meant nothing.
Maximilian wished he had not slept with her. Ravenna had used the opportunity to slide completely into his life, so that now she shared his bed every night. If she had been some nameless, anonymous woman Maximilian would have welcomed the physical relief from his frustration, and he could have then thanked the woman and asked her to leave.
But he could hardly ask Ravenna to leave. Not after all she had done for him.
And most certainly not now.
At least with Venetia sharing the tent, he had an excuse to avoid making love with her. He found that difficult…sober.
He sighed, imperceptibly, but Ravenna heard and turned her head to him, and Maximilian could see her tensing, readying herself to rise and come to him.
At that moment Isaiah ducked through the flap of the tent, and Maximilian rose with a too-wide smile on his face.
Isaiah saw the smile, glanced at Ravenna, and grinned in return. “Maximilian, can we speak?”
“Let’s walk,” said Maximilian. “The crispness of the snow will do my head good.”
“The scouts report that there is a column of men, and some Icarii, less than a day’s march to the west,” Isaiah said. They walked the northern border of the encampment, their boots crunching through the snow.
Maximilian could not reply immediately. “A column”—all that would have been left of the fighting forces, and perhaps even peoples, of the Central Kingdoms.
“How many?” he said finally.
“Perhaps fourteen or fifteen thousand,” Isaiah said, “and in a desperate state. There must be more, Maximilian, further to the west perhaps. There must be more who have survived, I am sure of it.”
Maximilian did not want the comfort. “Fourteen or fifteen thousand?” Gods, what had happened to Escator? Had the Skraelings seethed that far west?
“They will reach us by noon tomorrow,” Isaiah said. “Doubtless they shall be surprised to see their old friend traveling with the invader.”
Maximilian spent a few minutes alone before returning to the tent.
Isaiah’s news had shocked him. It drove home how disastrous had been the wars, and then the Skraeling invasion, for the Central Kingdoms. It particularly shocked him because he realized in a blinding flash as Isaiah spoke that the time had come to leave Escator behind him completely.
It was time for Elcho Falling.
Maximilian sighed. Then, suddenly, his shoulders straightened and he swiveled about on his feet, turning to look northeast, toward where lay Serpent’s Nest.
The Mountain at the Edge of the World.
Home, as Ruen never had been.
Much later that night Ishbel woke from a nightmare, crying out in fear.
The Lord of Elcho Falling had been standing in the snow, his back to her, when he’d slowly, slowly, turned his face to look over his shoulder at her.
The Lord of Elcho Falling wore a face, and it was Maximilian’s face, and the despair Ishbel felt now was worse than she’d felt ever before.
“Ishbel?” It was Salome’s voice, concerned. Since leaving the Salamaan Pass, Ishbel had traveled with Salome and StarDrifter, sharing a tent and deepening her friendship with them both. Axis often joined them as well, but he was with some of the troops tonight, no doubt indulging in soldierly camaraderie and building useful friendships and alliances.
“Ishbel?”
Ishbel felt a hand on her shoulder and finally blinked into awareness.
“I’m sorry, Salome, I woke you.”
“You woke half the encampment,” said Salome, “but now we’re all awake, come sip some tea with me, and tell me of what you dreamed.”
“Oh, I don’t want to—”
“You will sit with me, and sip tea,” said Salome, somewhat grimly, “and you will tell me of what you dreamed. I am sick to death of being woken up every second night with your nightmares, and StarDrifter and I would both like to know to what we owe the pleasure. StarDrifter? Get up.”
Ishbel rose reluctantly, hearing StarDrifter grumble as he, too, sat up from his sleeping roll and moved over to the barely alight hearth in the center of the tent.
Salome was all efficiency, poking life into the coals, setting a kettle to steep, fetching mugs from a corner.
Ishbel sat down cross-legged before the hearth, watching her with some admiration. For a woman who had so recently grown her wings, Salome moved with a lovely grace. Ishbel was sure that had it been her, she would have carelessly dragged a wingtip through the coals well before now.
“I’m sorry,” she said to StarDrifter, who was yawning to one side.
He gave a small shrug. “No one can resist Salome. It will be she who rules the Icarii nation, when we discover it, not I.”
Ishbel saw Salome look at StarDrifter, saw them smile slightly at each other, and felt a pang of such envy she actually felt physically ill.
Salome sat down herself, checked the kettle, pursed her lips in annoyance to see it not yet begun to steam, then looked at Ishbel. “Tell us about the dream.”
Ishbel thought about trying to squirm her way out of it, but almost instantly decided resistance was useless. Besides, she trusted both StarDrifter and Salome, and perhaps they could offer some advice.
“It is about Maximilian,” Ishbel said, and StarDrifter grunted.
“How surprising,” he said.
“StarDrifter!” Salome hissed. “Go on,” she said to Ishbel. “We need to do something while waiting for this damned kettle to boil.”
So Ishbel told them: about her experiences as a child, locked in the house with her family’s corpses; about what the corpses had whispered to her; about the dreams of the Lord of Elcho Falling that had continued throughout her life; what she had said to Maximilian in the woodsman’s hut (at which both StarDrifter and Salome winced); about her horror when she realized that Maximilian was the Lord of Elcho Falling.
“I love him—” Ishbel said.
“Well, I’m glad you can finally admit that,” Salome muttered, stirring a handful of tea leaves into the kettle.
“—but I have put such a distance between us and I don’t know how to close it.”
“Do you actually want to?” said StarDrifter.
Ishbel opened her mouth, then closed it, not knowing how to answer.
Salome waved a hand over the kettle, dissipating some of the steam that trickled from its spout. “All this talk of sadness and despair trailing about Maxel’s shoulders,” she said. “Very dramatic. I commend your imagination. But what do you know of this sadness and despair? I don’t doubt that you can see and feel it, but how do you know its origins, or purpose? It could just as well represent Ravenna’s desperate clutching at Maxel’s shoulders.”
StarDrifter laughed, and Ishbel managed a smile.
“The despair reaches out to envelop my life,” she said. “It comes from Maximilian. Is caused by him. I wish it didn’t. I wish it wasn’t there, but…” Her voice trailed off, and she gestured helplessly.
“I have no idea what this miasma of despair means, Ishbel,” Salome said, “but I see that you love the man, and he you.”
“Ravenna—” Ishbel said.
“He doesn’t love her,” Salome said. “He is irritated by her. He feels bound to her by guilt and by the stars alone know what else, but he doesn’t love her. You. Only you.”
She took a deep breath. “For all the gods’ sakes, girl, none of us can have any idea what that vision you have of Maximilian means, but this I do know. You have to live your life, and you need to take the risk.
You need to clear the air between Maximilian and yourself. You need to make it perfectly plain to him that, despite all this talk of a nasty miasma, you want to share your life with him. Damn it, you must. Are you not bound by blood and destiny? Do you not both love each other? Yes, yes, I know both of you have made mistakes, and said and done things that perhaps you shouldn’t have. But if you don’t take the chance, Ishbel, you will shrivel up and die, and Maximilian with you, and everyone else with the tragic pair of you. Ishbel, this is the selfish Salome speaking here! I want to live. Sort it out with Maxel.”
Both StarDrifter and Ishbel were staring at Salome by this stage, then StarDrifter gave a short laugh.
“I can add no more to my wife’s wisdom, Ishbel. Sort it out with Maximilian. You must.”
CHAPTER NINE
Entrance to the Sky Peak Pass, the Outlands
They had set out as usual in the morning. Up before dawn, striking camp, trudging forward, foot after foot—most of the horses had been eaten weeks ago. They had long since ceased sending out scouts, for the Icarii were exhausted, and as sick at heart as everyone else, and neither Georgdi nor Malat cared to hear whatever bad news they might bring.
Eventually, they knew, they would meet up with the Tyrant of Isembaard’s forces. Georgdi and Malat had discussed briefly what they would do once they met: unconditional surrender and pray that Isaiah would feed them. There was not a man or woman among them in any fit state to fight, and fifteen thousand starving, exhausted, tottering excuses for soldiers and citizens would be no match for what they’d heard Isaiah commanded.
They had also discussed the possibility of retreating—to Pelemere, or Kyros, or wherever. But neither man had wanted to turn back west. For all they knew, the Central Kingdoms were utterly destroyed. West lay only rotting flesh and ruins. East lay…something else. They just had to pray that the something else was better than the rotting flesh and ruins.
It was, as always, BroadWing who brought them the news.
There had been some words among the Icarii traveling in a group just behind and to one side of Georgdi and Malat, and then BroadWing had taken off, lurching a little in his tiredness as he rose into the sky.
Malat supposed that with their superior sight the Icarii had spotted something ahead.
BroadWing returned within minutes, landing a few paces away from Georgdi and Malat.
“Do I want to hear it?” Georgdi asked.
“An army, massive,” BroadWing said. “Stretching as far east as my eye could see.”
And that was far enough, Malat thought glumly.
“Before it,” said BroadWing, still unable to believe what his eyes had shown him, “sit a line of kings on their horses. Waiting for us.”
A line of kings, BroadWing had said, and Malat thought it true enough. Four men sat their horses a few paces before the mightiest army Malat had ever seen, or even dreamed of.
One of them he knew, Maximilian of Escator (gods, how had Maxel joined up with this invasion?), and the others BroadWing identified to Malat and Georgdi.
“Stars,” BroadWing said, “I can hardly believe it. There, that man, that is Axis SunSoar, once StarMan of Tencendor. Then Maximilian of Escator, who you know. Next to him is StarDrifter SunSoar, Axis’ father, and now Talon of the Icarii. My king. And the final man must be Isaiah of Isembaard.”
Malat agreed with BroadWing on that point. He could think of no one else save the Tyrant of Isembaard who would wear such a magnificent collar of gold, or sit a horse with such innate arrogance and power.
Malat and Georgdi stepped forward, and a moment later Isaiah pushed his horse into a walk toward them.
They had closed half the distance between them when suddenly there was a movement behind Isaiah.
It was time.
Maximilian sat his horse, watching Isaiah ride out to meet Malat and Georgdi, and he knew it was time. From the moment he’d received news of the offer of Ishbel as a bride, events had pushed and pummeled him toward this moment. Everything appeared absolutely clear, totally straightforward. The air hung cold and frosted about him, the snow crisp and solid beneath his horse’s hooves.
All was so lucid, so crisp, so clean.
Maximilian took a deep breath, leaned very close to Axis, whispering, “Back me up!” Then he pushed his own horse after Isaiah, kicking it into a canter.
Behind him, the entire army stirred in surprise, and Isaiah’s five generals laid hand to their swords and narrowed their eyes.
“What the fuck…?” Armat murmured.
Isaiah heard him coming, knew precisely who it was.
He smiled a little, glad, and reined his own horse back.
As Maximilian rode past him he pulled his horse to one side, bowing his head in deference.
Malat and Georgdi halted, surprised but not particularly alarmed as Maximilian pulled his horse to a halt in a flurry of snow before them.
“Welcome to the ancient past, my friends,” Maximilian said, his voice clear and strong, carrying back to those who waited behind him. “Welcome to Elcho Falling.” His mouth gave an ironic twist, and he nodded over his shoulder, indicating the forces stretched out behind him.
“You are Maximilian of Escator?” Georgdi said, a note of puzzlement in his voice.
Maximilian glanced at Malat as he spoke. “No. I am Maximilian Persimius, Lord of Elcho Falling, commander of you and yours, of Isaiah of Isembaard and all his, and of this army behind me. I am very much afraid, my friends, that the war has only just begun.”
He held their eyes a moment longer, then he wheeled his horse about and rode directly back to the army.
He was pleased (and relieved) to see that Axis had positioned himself slightly to one side and in front of the spot where Isaiah’s generals waited on their horses, their faces masks of anger.
Maximilian met Axis’ eyes briefly, and Axis gave a very slight nod.
Maximilian reined in his horse before the generals. He could feel the tension rippling from not only them, but from the entire tens of thousands of men gathered behind them. He could see, feel, intuit, the hands reaching for swords, the mouths readying themselves to shout out the assassination order, the mayhem that gathered itself to leap.
He was moments away from death; Isaiah and Axis as well, Ishbel and StarDrifter and Salome also. Everything, the entire world, was a heartbeat away from complete and total disaster.
And Maximilian, for the very first time in his life, felt as if he was, finally, right where he belonged. Purpose filled him. The Veins had not killed him, these generals did not stand a chance against him, and even Kanubai would probably lie down and cower at the sight of Maximilian atop his horse.
Maximilian laughed out loud, flinging out one arm in an extravagant gesture. “My friends, my generals, is this not the most exquisite moment? I have surprised you, and for that you have my humblest apologies…as also you have them for the fact that I now announce myself your commander, Axis SunSoar and Isaiah of Isembaard my immediate captains, to whom you shall answer and who shall speak with my voice.”
All humor vanished from Maximilian’s voice, and it became tight, ringing with determination. One of the generals, Morfah, had opened his mouth to speak, but Maximilian gave him no chance.
“I am the Lord of Elcho Falling. This”—as if it were one with Maximilian, his horse stamped one of its front hooves on the snow—“is the land of Elcho Falling, arisen from ancient memory. Know me as your lord, gentlemen.”
“Fuck you,” said Morfah, and he drew his sword.
Maximilian walked into the Twisted Tower. His steps were unhurried, his posture relaxed. He moved through the ground level chamber and climbed into the second level. He walked to a chest of drawers, opened the third drawer from the top, and withdrew a small block of stone. He held it, and retrieved from it knowledge.
Morfah thrust his sword into the air, opening his mouth to shout the orders that would see him finally take control of this army, and which would see both Isaiah and t
his pissant Maximilian dead in the snow.
And then he turned to stone, and a moment later crumbled into dust, his horse shying to one side at the unexpected relief from the weight of the man on its back.
Maximilian smiled, the expression grim, his eyes moving slowly over the four remaining generals, now staring at him in complete shock.
“I am now your lord,” he said very quietly, and yet in a tone that still carried.
“Maximilian!” Axis shouted, now thrusting his sword into the sky. “Lord of Elcho Falling!”
An instant’s hesitation, during which Axis looked pointedly at Ezekiel, who then thrust his own sword skyward, shouting, “Maximilian! Lord of Elcho Falling!”
Another moment’s hesitation, then the shouting spread through the ranks.
Maximilian! Maximilian! Lord of Elcho Falling!
“How soon loyalties turn,” Isaiah said, chuckling. He, Maximilian, Axis, StarDrifter, Ezekiel, Malat, and Georgdi were in his commodious command tent, having ridden there once the shouting had died down and Maximilian had given Lamiah, Kezial, and Armat orders to return the soldiers to camp and to ready themselves and the army for a march northeast within the next week or two.
“I wish you’d told me that was going to happen beforehand,” Axis said. He was still a little shaken by the events, and didn’t quite trust the three generals outside not to turn immediately to plotting Maximilian’s destruction.
“I don’t think even Maximilian quite knew he was going to do that,” Isaiah said. “It was well done, Maximilian. It was time for you to come into your own.”
“Will someone please explain what is happening?” Ezekiel said. “Isaiah?”
“Ah,” Isaiah said, “there is a long tale behind this day, Ezekiel.” He told the general, as well as Malat and Georgdi, the ancient tale of Kanubai, and of the Lord of Elcho Falling, and of all the events that had brought them to this point.