“Not fight with,” the giant rasped. “They want us fight for. Again.”
It took a moment to find the creature’s meaning. “Fight for the Norns? Fight against who?”
“Men. We will fight men.” It showed its teeth. “Your kind.”
It was not possible. It could not be true. “What are you talking about? The Hikeda’ya do not have the strength to fight mortals again. They lost almost everything in the Storm King’s War, and there are scarcely any of them left. All that is over.”
“Nothing over. Never over.” The giant wasn’t looking at him, though, but was staring raptly at the body of the old woman. Thinking again about supper.
“I don’t believe you,” said Jarnulf.
Bur Yok Kar turned toward him, and he thought he could see something almost like amusement in the ugly, leathery face. The idea of where he was, what he was doing, and how mad it was, suddenly struck Jarnulf and set his heart racing. “Believe, not believe, not matter,” the corpse-giant told him. “All of north world wakes up. They are everywhere, the Higdaja, the white ones. They are all awake again, and hungry for war. Because she is awake.”
“She?”
“Queen with the silver face. Awake again.”
“No. The queen of the Norns? No, that cannot be.” For a moment Jarnulf felt as though God Himself had leaned down from the heavens and slapped him. In an instant, everything that Father had taught him—all his long-held certainties—were flung into confusion. “You are lying to me, animal.” He was desperate to believe it was so. “Everyone knows the queen of the Norns has been in a deathly sleep since the Storm King fell. Thirty years and more! She will never awaken again.”
The giant slowly rose from its crouch, a new light in its eyes. “Bur Yok Kar not lie.” The beast had recognized Jarnulf’s momentary loss of attention, and even as he realized it himself, the giant took a step toward him. Although half the length of the treetop platform still separated them, the creature set one of its huge, knobbed feet on the head of his spear, pinning it flat against the tethered logs. “Ask again. What name you, little man?”
Angry and more than a little alarmed at his own miscalculation, Jarnulf rose and took a slow step backward, closer to the edge of the platform. He shifted his balance to his back foot. “Name? I have many. Some call me the White Hand.”
“White Hand?” The giant took another shuffling step toward him, still keeping the spear pinned. “No! In North we hear of White Hand. Big warrior, great killer—not skinny like you.” The creature made a huffing noise, a kind of grunt; Jarnulf thought it might be a laugh. “See! You put spear down. Hunter, warrior, never put spear down.” The giant was near enough now that he could smell the stench of the rotting human flesh in its nails and teeth, as well as the odor of the beast itself, a sour tang so fierce it cut through even the stiff, cold wind. “Ate young ones like you before.” The corpse-giant was grinning now, its eyes mere slits as it contemplated the pleasure of a live meal. “Soft. Meat come off bones easy.”
“I am finished with you, Godless one. I have learned what I needed to know.” But in truth Jarnulf now wanted only to escape, to go somewhere and try to make sense of what the creature had told him. The Norn Queen awake? The Norns preparing for war? Such things simply could not be.
“You finish? With me?” The huff of amusement again, followed by the carrion stench. Even as the giant leaned toward him its head still loomed high above Jarnulf’s, and he was now within reach of those long, long arms as well. This monster might be old, might have to scavenge its meals from burial platforms, but it still weighed perhaps three times what he did and had him trapped in a high, small place. Jarnulf took one last step back, feeling with his heel for the edge of the platform. Beyond that was only a long drop through sharp branches to the stony ground.
Not even enough snow to break my fall, he thought. Lord, O Lord, make my arm strong and my heart steadfast in Your name and the name of Your son, Usires the Aedon. As if reminded of the cold, he adjusted his heavy cloak. The giant paid no attention to this small, insignificant movement; instead, the great, leering head bent even closer until it was level with his own. Jarnulf had nowhere to retreat and the corpse-giant knew it. It reached out a massive hand and laid it against the side of Jarnulf’s face in a grotesque parody of tenderness. The fingers curled, each as wide as the shaft of the spear that was now so far out of his reach, but Jarnulf ducked beneath its grasp before it caught at his hair and twisted his head off. Again they stood face to face, man and giant.
“White Hand, you say.” With Jarnulf’s spear pinned to the platform beneath its foot, the beast was in no hurry. “Why they call you that, little Rimmersman?”
“You will not understand—not for a little while, yet. And I was not born in Rimmersgard at all, but in Nakkiga itself.”
The cracked lips curled. “You not Higdaja, you just man. You think Bur Yok Kar stupid?”
“Your problem is not that you are stupid,” Jarnulf said. “Your problem is that you are already dead.” Jarnulf looked down. A moment later the giant looked down too.
Beyond the hilt in Jarnulf’s hand a few inches of silvery blade caught the starlight. The rest of it was already lodged deep in the monster’s stomach. “It is very long, this knife,” Jarnulf explained as the giant’s jaw sagged open. “Long enough that the blood does not stain me, which is why I carry the name White Hand. But my knife is also silent, and sharp as the wind—oh, and cold. Do you feel the cold yet?” With a movement so swift the giant had no time to do more than blink, Jarnulf grabbed the hilt with both hands and yanked upward, dragging the blade from the creature’s waist to the bottom of its ribcage, twisting it as he cut. The great beast let out a howl of astonishment and pain and clapped its huge hands over the wound even as Jarnulf threw himself past it, still holding fast to the hilt of his long knife. As he tumbled into the center of the platform the blade slid back out of the beast’s hairy stomach, freeing a slide of guts and blood. The monster howled once more, then lifted dripping hands to the distant stars as if to fault them for letting such a thing happen. By the time it came staggering toward him, innards dangling, Jarnulf had regained his spear.
He had no time to turn the long shaft around, so he grabbed it and charged. He rammed the rounded butt-end of the shaft into the bloody hole in the giant’s midsection, freeing a bellow of agony from the creature that nearly deafened him. The logs beneath them bounced and swayed, and snow pattered down from the laden branches above as the giant thrashed and howled and plucked at the spear-shaft, but Jarnulf crouched low and braced himself, then began to push forward, hunched over the spear as its butt-end dug deep into the monster’s vitals.
The corpse-giant staggered backward, arms swinging like windmill vanes, mouth a hole that seemed too big for its head, then it suddenly vanished over the side of the tree-burial platform. Jarnulf heard it crashing through the branches as it fell, then a heavy thump as it hit the ground, followed by silence.
Jarnulf leaned out, keeping a strong grasp on the edge of the platform. His head felt light and his muscles were all quivering. The giant lay sprawled at the bottom of the tree in a tangle of overlong limbs. Jarnulf could not make out all of it through the intervening branches, but saw a pool of blackness beneath it spreading into the mounded snow.
Careless, he berated himself. And it almost cost me my life. God cannot be proud of me for that. But what the thing said had startled him badly.
Might the giant have lied? But why? The monster would have no reason to do so. The Silver Queen was awake, it had said, and so the North was coming awake as well. That certainly explained the giants now pushing down into Rimmersgard, as well as rumors Jarnulf had heard of Hikeda’ya warriors being spotted in places where they had not been seen for years. Certainly the border was as active as he had ever known it, with Nakkiga troops and their scouts everywhere. But if the giant had actually spoken the truth, it me
ant that Jarnulf had been wrong about many important things. He had stepped onto a bridge he thought safe only to find it cracking beneath him when it was far too late to turn back.
So Father’s murderer is not gone—not lost in the dream lands and as good as dead, but alive and planning for war again. That means everything I have done, the lives I have taken, the terror I have tried to spread among the Hikeda’ya . . . has all been pointless. The monster is awake.
Until this moment Jarnulf had believed he was God’s avenger—not just God’s, but Father’s as well. Now he had been proved a fool.
He watched from the platform until he was quite sure the giant was dead and his own limbs had stopped trembling, then he tossed his spear over the side and began to climb down. The wind was strengthening, bringing snow out of the north; by the time he reached the ground Jarnulf was dusted in white. He cleaned the blood and offal from his spear, then used his long, achingly sharp knife to cut off the giant’s head. He set the monster’s head in the crotch of a wide branch near the base of the burial tree, the eyes lifelessly black and stretched wide in their last surprise, the fanged mouth gaping foolishly. He hoped it would serve as a warning to others of its kind to stay away from human settlements, to find some easier forage than the corpses of Rimmersfolk, but just now defending the bodies of dead men and women was not what dominated his thoughts.
“We men beat back the witch-queen and defeated her.” He spoke only to himself, and so quietly that no other creature heard him, not a bird, not a squirrel. “If she has truly returned, this time men like me will destroy her.” But Jarnulf had made promises to himself and God before, and those pledges had now been proved nothing but air.
No, save your words for fitter things, he told himself. Like prayer.
Jarnulf the White Hand tipped the long spear across his shoulder and began walking back to the part of the snowy woods where he had left his horse.
4
Brother Monarchs
As if to crown the entrance of the High King and High Queen, the sun had emerged from behind the morning clouds and was spreading its light generously across the hills of Hernysadharc. Even the disc of gold atop the Taig’s distant roof glittered like a coin spun into the air, as though the great hall celebrated their arrival as well.
Simon was fidgeting with a golden coin of his own—a medallion of unusually large size and uncomfortable edges that held his cloak and was currently rubbing against his neck. His friend the Lord Chamberlain had insisted that he wear it.
“Remember, you are the High King and High Queen,” said Jeremias, pushing the pin through the heavy cloak with enough force to make the high king wince. “I didn’t come all this way to see you two looking like beggars.”
“Then you should have stayed at home,” Simon growled. Waiting had put him out of temper. The hurt on Jeremias’ round face was so profound that Simon almost apologized, but the edge of the medallion was still digging painfully into his jowls and he resisted the impulse.
“I am the Royal Chamberlain, in charge of the king’s and queen’s household,” Jeremias said stiffly.
“That household is in Erkynland,” Simon pointed out. “We are in Hernystir.”
“The household is wherever you and the queen are . . . Majesties.” Jeremias put a little twist on the last word to make Simon feel it. The king knew it was difficult sometimes for his childhood friend to live happily with the distance that now yawned between them, even when Jeremias was close enough to breathe on his cheek, as he was doing now. “In the old days, they say old King John would travel from castle to castle for a year before coming back to the Hayholt, so you have little to complain about. There. Now please don’t fiddle with it. It looks splendid.”
Simon stared into the hand mirror one of Jeremias’ servitors held before him. “It looks like I am ready to be buried. The Heavens know I couldn’t do much else wrapped up like this.”
“Some might think that was not a very nice joke,” his wife told him, frowning. “In fact, some might think the king is taking his own bad temper out on everyone except the one who caused it.”
Now it was Simon’s turn to send a warning look. Neither of them were happy with Hernystir’s King Hugh at this moment, but such things were not to be shared in front of any but the most important advisers. “Enough, Lord Chamberlain,” Simon said, gently lifting away Jeremias’ hand as he tried to give the medallion one last burnishing with a kerchief. “You are right and I apologize, I suppose. It looks splendid.”
“I should hope so,” said Jeremias, his face red from effort.
• • •
The royal procession slowly climbed the main road through the city of Hernysadharc, past waving and cheering Hernystiri lined up on both sides, many crowded on overhanging balconies, or even perched precariously on sloping roofs. The houses and shops had been done up in festive style, bright banners and fresh paint so that sunlight seemed to jump back into the air as soon as it landed, full of new life. Simon and Miriamele rode side by side as they always did—monarchs together, not monarch and royal spouse. In the early days Simon had been the stickler for that distinction, but as the years had rolled past Miriamele had become increasingly determined to remind people that she herself was the daughter of a king, however blackened his name might now be, and also the grandchild of Prester John, founder of the High King’s Ward that gave them dominion over much of Osten Ard.
“Hugh should have come to meet us at the gate,” the queen said, in words so quiet only Simon could hear them. “I will tell him so myself.”
“Give him a chance, my dear.” Simon waved his hand at the crowd. “You see he has brought the people out for us.”
“He could not have kept them inside,” she said. “And why shouldn’t he bring them out? We are High King and High Queen. He is only a king himself because his great-grandfather did my grandfather a favor, so Hernystir kept its crown.”
“Still, he is a king for all that, and kings have their pride. As do queens.”
“Do not make it my complaint, Simon.” Her voice was firm but her look contained love and a little amusement as well as irritation. “You are too kind and you hate a fight, but there are people—and I suspect Hugh is one of them—who take that for weakness.”
“Yes, I do hate a fight. Let’s not have one now.” He waved to the cheering Hernystir-folk again. Near the road, a group of small girls were leaping up and down, waving colored ribbons that curled and snapped like a frayed rainbow. “Look at them. It makes me miss Lillia.”
“Our granddaughter would be out in the road, trying to lead the procession.”
Simon smiled. “Yes, she would.”
Miriamele sighed. “Sweet God give me strength.” She squinted up the road, lined as far as they could see with well-wishers. “We will not reach the Taig until nightfall at this rate.”
“Patience, my dear. Patience.”
“No more for me, thank you.”
Count Eolair covered his goblet with his hand and kept it there until the servant had gone away. He would have enjoyed a little more wine, and after a long day in bright sun after a fortnight of clouds and dark days he certainly deserved another cup or few, but Eolair’s sense for conflict, as trained as the nose of a hunting hound, suggested restraint. Queen Miriamele’s and King Simon’s Lord Steward, more commonly known as the Hand of the High Throne, did not want a haze of wine slowing his thoughts tonight.
The scene itself could scarcely have been more familiar to him, of course. The wooden palace called the Taig had been Eolair’s second home for much of the early part of his life, when he had become first a messenger to kings and eventually an esteemed advisor. The atmosphere in the Great Hall, where ancient wooden carvings of animals and other totems hung from the rafters, was unquestionably festive, the bright colors of the Hernystiri gentry in their best clothes mingling with the sounds of tipsy laughter and the succulent
smell of roast pork. But something was off-kilter here. Queen Miriamele and King Simon were out of sorts with the delays and confusions King Hugh had put them through, of course, but Eolair could not help feeling that something deeper and more troubling was going on.
A few seats away, Queen Miriamele was being entertained—“distracted” she would doubtless have termed it—by Lady Tylleth, an attractive widow who was almost certain to become King Hugh’s wife. Many at the Hernystiri court thought her too old, nearly thirty years, though her children by her husband, the late Earl of Glen Orrga, showed that at least she was fertile. In fact, with her handsome, womanly figure, glossy chestnut hair, and high color, Lady Tylleth looked a bit like Eolair’s idea of the Hernystiri goddess Deanagha, or even great Mircha herself, the mistress of the rains.
The high queen made a stark contrast to dark Tylleth. Miriamele’s golden hair was largely silver now, worn in simple plaits under a modest circlet. Her cheeks were pale, her green eyes shadowed, and Eolair was worried for her. This was the first time the king and queen had faced the anniversary of Prince John Josua’s birth while away from home. Eolair did not blame Queen Miriamele in the least for her irritation at being marooned in conversation with King Hugh’s mistress.
In fact, as Eolair watched, the queen seemed to have lost patience entirely with Tylleth’s chatter and was trying desperately to draw King Simon’s eye. Her husband saw, but Hugh was leaning close to him, talking with quiet animation, and Simon could only shrug to show his helplessness.
Eolair shifted on his seat and felt his joints complain at him for sitting too long on a hard bench. He was beginning to wish he had accepted that offer of more wine, if only to ease his old bones. The day seldom passed now that Eolair—once among Hernystir’s best riders and swordsmen—did not marvel at what age had done to him.
I have become Time’s poppet, he thought sadly. She plays with me as a child with a doll, pulling off a piece here, another there, dragging me through the mud, then carrying me back to sit at some mock-banquet.