Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones (64 page)

The comte glared at her father, but even wounded as he was, the Skullbreaker’s gaze was an intimidating one. Before long, the Savonner looked away and nodded in reluctant acceptance of her father’s verdict.

De Foix cleared his throat to draw Skuli’s attention.

“Your Majesty, may I have leave to take the prince’s body and prepare it for the return to Lutece? Since the cavalry will not be riding out against the ulfin, I expect you will want
Le Christophe
to depart for the north coast on the morrow with as many men and mounts as it will carry.”

“You may take the prince’s body and prepare it as you see fit. And you should prepare one of the aalvarg bodies as well, or else the king might not believe your story. However, the cavalry stays here until the fleet returns. So does one of the mages—the older one, I think. I will permit an honor guard of twenty men to accompany the prince’s body on board the ship, which will depart tomorrow morning. Another six hundred women and children will be ready to board at first light, as well.”

Fjotra repeated his words to the Savonners to the best of her abilities.

The comte drew himself up stiffly before she’d even finished, clearly displeased by her father’s decision. “
Le Christophe
belongs to his royal majesty, the King of Savondir, Your Majesty. It is for the Lord Admiral of the Sea Nordique to decide who will, and who will not, board the ship, not the Reaver King of Raknarborg!”

Her father was smiling dangerously even before she translated the captain’s words. “The Lord Admiral is not here. The Reaver King is. And while the ship may belong to—how do they say it?—to his majesty the king, Raknarborg is mine, and no one, including the Lord Admiral, leaves or enters its walls unless he does so with my permission. Now, Daughter, tell those southerners to see to it that the prince’s body is prepared for travel, select his honor guard, and leave the rest of the ship’s cargo to me!”

Fjotra dutifully told the Savonner, who despite his fury was wise enough to avoid further argument with a wounded and increasingly irritable king of reavers. The comte nodded briskly, bowed in a perfunctory manner, then turned to his the two mages and told them to accompany him to the prince’s chamber.

She wanted to go to Patrice, as the friendly young battlemage was looking downright nauseated at the thought of returning to Lutece and telling the king of the loss of his heir. But her father leaned forward and placed his hand upon her forearm.

“Fjotra, you will prepare your possessions and select four of your friends to serve as your attendants in the south. Choose girls you can trust, young ones with the wits to learn the language quickly, but no sluts or silly ones with slanderous tongues. You will be on that ship tomorrow too.”

He unbuckled his belt, slipped it gingerly from around his waist, and held it out to her, his sword and dagger dangling from it. “You must bring this to Brynjolf. If Raknarborg cannot hold out until the ships can make the crossing three more times, he will be ruler over the Dalarn. Tell him I will hold him to these three vows, which he must swear to sea and sky: He must marry, he must father at least three sons, and each of his sons must be taught one thing with their mother’s milk—we will return. The Isles belong to us, not the wolves.”

“No, Father,” she protested. “You must not talk like that. I don’t want to go, I want to stay here with you. It is my duty too! And you need me to translate when you need to talk to the Savoners, especially if there is fighting.”

“We will make do.” He shook his head and pulled her closer to him, then placed his large, scarred hands on her shoulders. “It’s not only that I want you to be safe on the other side of the sea. I need you there. Who can tell how the prince’s father will react? Perhaps he will blame our people. But you were there. You saw what happened. So you must go there to tell him the truth of it and assure him that we feel his loss as our own. The Savonner prince, he was a good man. He was a brave warrior, and he earned the respect of our men. You tell the king I said that. Tell him that I said his son would have made a strong king. And tell him of the sigkifting. They must know of the sigkifting!”

“You will tell him yourself, Father.” Fjotra’s vision was blurry with tears she could no longer resist. “I can’t bear it. You talk as if you will die here! How can you fight without your sword?”

“I have other swords. What I don’t have is other daughters.” He smiled at her. “My darling, do you not know I love you far more than life? Brynjolf is hurt, but he is safe, and I thank the gods that I can send you away from here again before it is too late.

“Now, I have much to do. The aalvarg will be coming soon, perhaps even tonight. So go. Tell your friends who are to accompany you to prepare themselves. I will also send five of my best young warriors to serve as your bodyguard. But you will marry none of them. You will not marry any Dalarn, because you must marry a southern noble—the higher his rank, the better. A prince, if you can. If we are to survive among them, we must become Savonners, at least on the outside. And listen to your comtesse, let her be your star, and follow her lead. She is a reaver at heart. I think she will steer you well.”

“What about Mother?”

“Be sure to say goodbye to her tonight. She will stay with me.” Her father smiled ruefully and shook his head. “I tried to tell her she would go with the last ships, but she drew her blade and threatened to cut off my manhood. You will forgive me if I found the argument persuasive. Sweetling, your mother and I have lived our lives together, and if the gods require that we must end them together too, I will not deny her that right.

“But do not be afraid! Raknarborg’s walls are tall and strong, and they are held by many brave men. I think we can hold them off long enough for the ships to return, and then we will cross the sea ourselves to join you. If not, then we shall live on through you, through Brynjolf, and through your children. The demons may have driven us from our homes, but I have done my best, and I have saved my children. I am content. I have sent many a man to his grave who could not say the same.”

Fjotra rose and buried her face in her father’s chest, hugging him hard and inhaling his familiar scent. Remember him, she told herself fiercely. Remember how he feels, how he smells. Remember the strength of his arms around you. Somehow, she managed to keep herself from sobbing hysterically.

“I love you,
far
,” she whispered.

“I know,
kaelebarn
, I know.”

No one slept that night as thousands of howling aalvarg tried to storm the high walls of Raknarborg using crude ladders constructed in the nearby forests. Fjotra stayed in her chamber, two guards standing outside her door, in the company of a group of young women and children who huddled together for comfort and shivered with fear throughout the dark and terrible hours.

The dawn was near by the time an exhausted young warrior, who had come to reassure his betrothed after the battle, told her that the wolf-demons had been driven back, but at the cost of fifty-seven northern dead and one hundred twelve southern lives. Nearly three hundred men were wounded, though less than a score seriously.

Not long after first light,
Le Christophe
set sail, accompanied by ten of the Skullbreaker’s eleven remaining longships.

As the sun rose from the green-blue waves into the lighter blue of the heavens, Fjotra stood on the aftcastle, holding hands with Geirrid and Svanvhit, two of her closest friends from childhood, who would henceforth serve as her ladies-in-waiting. They watched together in silence as the great black towers of embattled Raknarborg drew slowly away from them, fading into sea and sky.

CORVUS

As Corvus followed Vecellius through the streets of Amorr under the last rays of the setting sun, he reflected that his decision to accept a third goblet of wine may not have been the height of wisdom.

It was not yet dark, but the two leading fascitors already bore torches, which had the result of turning his escort into something of a procession. Several of the clients he had not had time to see today were following in his wake, and as the journey to the elven embassy progressed, they gradually collected curiosity-seekers, until Corvus found himself accompanied by the greater part of a century.

The embassy was new, having been established only a few months ago after the release of Immaculatus Dei and the return of the legionary eagles lost by Lucius Varrus two centuries ago. It had once been a private residence, but Publius Licinius Dives had not become vastly wealthy by overlooking opportunities.

When the Senate had met to discuss the High King’s request to establish a permanent embassy following the return of its Amorran counterpart, and when concerns had been raised about the potential unwillingness of property owners to rent a suitable building when its inhabitants would almost surely be engaging in occult and illicit arts, Publius Licinius absented himself from the debate, tracked down the elven ambassador, and placed one of his larger domuses near the city wall at the High King’s disposal.

It was said the elves were paying five times the rent of the previous tenant, who was summarily evicted by Dives the following day.

Maximus, who was married to Dives’s younger sister, Licinia, had assured Corvus the story was untrue. He was entirely confident that Publius Licinius was receiving at least ten times the rent he’d been getting before.

The elves might be much reduced in numbers and in power from the days when their legendary Seven Kingdoms ruled over most of Selenoth, but the Church embassy had confirmed that their legendary wealth yet remained.

However, very little of it was on display outside of Elebrion House, he saw as they approached its gate, affixed with an ornate brass symbol that was the only indication of those who resided within. The grounds of the domus were walled, which no doubt had recommended it to Lord Silvertree, and as the property backed up on the city wall, it was as defensible as any residence in the city.

The gate doors unexpectedly swung open at their approach, alarming Corvus, his fascitors, and the crowd following them alike. Vecellius swore under his breath, others behind them cried out loud in dismay, and Corvus couldn’t help but agree with them as he, like nearly everyone else, instinctively sketched a tree over his heart to protect himself from the invisible evils of the elven magic.

There were no guards, man or elf, in view, but Corvus had the distinct impression they were being watched. No sooner had the last fascitor entered the grounds than the gates swung shut again, as silently as they had opened. The crowd gasped, sounding for all the world like spectators at the stadium witnessing a gladiator receive his death wound.

“A neat trick, wouldn’t you say, Captain?” His guards might be disciplined enough to conceal their nervousness, but Corvus had been with the legions too long to miss the signs of a body of men nearing a state of panic. The wide eyes, the rapid blinking, the convulsive swallowing. The only thing unusual was seeing it here in the city.

“I heard they have ghosts to serve them, my lord consul, but I never thought I’d think to see it!” Caius Vecellius’s hands on his axe were white-knuckled.

“I hear they trap souls and make things from them,” one of the men muttered.

Cursed bloody elves, Corvus thought. Lord Silvertree seemed a reasonable sort, but he wouldn’t put it past the elf to be putting them to the test. Or simply amusing himself at their expense. Damn his golden eyes.

As they crossed the well-maintained grounds toward the entrance to the domus, Corvus forced himself to laugh.

“My good men, I fear in your alarm you are overlooking the good news here!”

“Good news?” someone asked.

Corvus couldn’t help but smile at the sight of eight pairs of extraordinarily skeptical eyes aimed in his direction. “Do you not understand what this means? It will be months before any of you need pay for your own drinks! Every man in the city will want to hear your tale.”

No one laughed, but Vecellius nodded slowly, and several of the men exchanged speculative looks before shrugging and visibly relaxing. Nevertheless, they were startled again when the front door to the domus opened.