Tenth moon, first year of the reign of King Mace
Freedom Hill, edge of Deep Forest, Wheat Lands
Mace stood beneath the same royal standard that had marked his command post on this day the previous year. Around it stood banners marking the Ranks who’d fought and died there: South, West and Palace. A high black flag with a stylised wolf’s head picked out in silver to commemorate the many dead and few surviving Wolves who’d given everything in the war. The Warlord of Krike’s standard.
Below the hill, two more flags flew proud against the high expanse of emptiness – the Trickster’s, a fox with two-coloured eyes – and the calestar’s, a wolf beneath a sun and moon, newly commissioned for the memorial.
Everyone who’d fought or resisted, everyone who’d lived and could travel had come to bear witness and pay their respects. Mace looked out at them in silence, Dalli by his side with their baby girl wrapped up in her arms. The ghosts of the dead thronged the hill.
Mace took his daughter from Dalli and looked into green eyes in a tiny face. ‘Lots of people here, sweetheart,’ he whispered. ‘Just not as many as there should be. I can think of a few who should be celebrating with us, can’t you?’ He kissed the pudgy fist that tried to grab his nose.
Dalli stepped forward. ‘They’re waiting, love.’
The host was silent and solemn, retired soldiers standing stiff and straight in uniforms not worn for a year. Gilda, Hallos, Mark Salter, wearing a major’s sigil now. Colonel Thatcher, now Commander of the Ranks, and his husband, the promoted Major Kennett. Brid Fox-dream and Cutta Frog-dream, who’d together held the wood and the slope with the Wolves and lost three-quarters of their warriors defending a foreign land. Dalli’s Wolves, just over one hundred, all that was left of an entire people. Even Rillirin and young Macha with her blood-red hair and black, black eyes.
Among them, hundreds of civilians from Rilporin, the Wolf Lands, Sailtown and Pine Lock and the South Forts. Soldiers, warriors, survivors all.
The dead were shadows among them, hovering close as their names were whispered, and it seemed there was only one living person missing: Ash.
Where he’d gone nobody knew. What had happened to Crys’s body, no one knew that either. They’d simply disappeared into the snowstorm, never to return. Some thought that Crys still lived and together they haunted the high passes of the Gilgoras Mountains, watching Rilpor and all the world, ready to descend and defend it once more when danger threatened. Others thought they’d taken a boat to Listre, or maybe all the way out the other side into the great, endless ocean that Gilda had once seen, sailing for new lands and new gods, where nobody knew them and they could be free.
No one believed that Crys was dead.
Not even Mace could truly believe it.
‘We are gathered here today to honour the fallen.’ His voice cut through the murmurs and the wind. ‘We are here to remember their sacrifice and yours. One year ago today we defeated evil. One year ago today two men faced down two gods and triumphed.’
Mace paused and pressed a kiss to his daughter’s forehead before sweeping them all with his gaze. ‘They were heroes. And so is every single one of you. Do not let your deeds be submerged beneath greater stories. Do not ever forget that your heroism did as much to win the day as theirs. When no one would answer our call, Krike came. When the Mireces killed the Evendooms, the Ranks did not falter – and nor did you. I never wanted to be king,’ he said and there was a ripple of laughter. ‘I never wanted to lead this country. But I’ve never been prouder in all my life than the day you led me – by your example – to victory here on Freedom Hill.’
He paused, fighting emotion, and Dalli took the baby from him and handed him a silver cup. ‘For Durdil Koridam and Tara Carter.’ He shouted the names, pouring drops of wine into the grass with each one.
Dalli took the cup from him. ‘Ash Bowman,’ she cried, spilling wine. ‘And Dom Templeson.’
One by one they advanced, calling out the names of those they’d loved and lost, comrades in arms, friends, family. The ground ran with wine red as blood, staining boots and the hems of skirts. Mace refilled the cup for them himself, over and over and over again as the day progressed. He listened to their voices, listened to the names they called. It wasn’t snowing this year and the wind hadn’t yet got winter in its teeth, and yet he was chilled to the bone by the sheer multitude of what – of who – they’d lost.
Mace squinted up at the next, a giant of a man with a familiar look to him. ‘Name’s Merol, son of Merle Stonemason. He—’
Mace shook his hand. ‘I remember Merle well. Your father was a great man, Merol. Pretty sure he saved my life. And I’ve seen you in the city, helping us rebuild. Thank you for coming.’
In the depths of the beard, Merol’s lower lip wobbled. ‘He wouldn’t let me fight, Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘I wanted to, but he wouldn’t …’
Mace searched his memory for all the stories that had been told after the war ended. ‘You carried Rillirin, didn’t you, out of the city? Rillirin and her daughter?’
The mason nodded and Mace slapped him on the arm and then winced: it was like slapping marble.
Merol shuffled his feet, embarrassed. ‘Weren’t nothing much, Your Majesty. Not like I carried her all the way. Just a while, you know. Just … seemed right.’
‘Well, what do you think would have happened to her if you’d fought and died alongside your father, eh? No, Merol, the gods saved your life to help her. It might not seem as heroic as some other deeds recounted here today, but you ask Rillirin what she thinks of your actions. She’s here, too. Speak to her.’ He noticed two small faces peeking from behind Merol’s massive legs. ‘And who are these young princesses?’ he asked with a smile.
Merol ushered them forward, his massive hands gentle enough to cup a butterfly’s wings. ‘My girls. Adopted after the war ended. They’re … from the west, if you know what I mean.’
‘They’re Rilporian now, Merol,’ Mace said firmly. ‘Now and always.’
‘Can I see your sword?’ the littlest one asked, making a grab for the scabbard.
Her sister hauled her back. ‘Ede,’ she said. ‘You’re supposed to curtsey.’ She stumbled into one of her own and Mace felt the corner of his mouth lift. ‘Hello, Your Majesty. I’m Kit. I’m six now.’
Mace gave them both a little bow. ‘Hello, Kit and Ede,’ he murmured. ‘You know your da’s a great man, don’t you?’ They giggled and nodded. ‘Be good for him, yes? Promise me.’
Merol dragged his fingers through his beard, blushing. ‘Thank you, Your Majesty, though I doubt even you can command this pair.’ He took the cup. ‘Merle Stonemason,’ he said. ‘Tara Vaunt.’
Mace frowned. ‘Tara Vaunt?’ He put the names together and his eyes widened. ‘Come and find me after the ceremony is over. It seems that’s one story I haven’t heard.’
Merol bowed awkwardly and shuffled away.
Mace watched him go until Hallos blocked his view. He looked deep into his king’s eyes. ‘You made your father proud this time last year,’ he said. ‘And you make him proud today.’
Mace coughed and shifted. ‘Thank you, Physician,’ he murmured.
‘King Rastoth,’ Hallos said, pouring wine. ‘Durdil Koridam.’ He handed the cup back and Mace blinked away the sting. Hallos leant in close. ‘And I’d like it put on the royal record that I’ve still got a limp. The next time your wife goes into labour, you can find someone else to deliver her.’
Mace pressed his lips together but couldn’t prevent a very unroyal snort of laughter. ‘Duly noted, Hallos.’
The afternoon was beginning to gloam when the last person appeared to make her offering. The grey novice priestess robes suited her and Mace squeezed her shoulder, gave the toddler on her hip a little wave. Rillirin’s hand shook so hard the wine sloshed and the little girl wrapped her arms around her neck to comfort her.
‘Take your time,’ Mace said quietly. ‘There’s no rush.’
Rillirin took in a shuddery breath. ‘Tara Carter, for saving my life,’ she said, pouring, and a muscle flickered in Mace’s jaw. ‘And Dom Templeson, for showing me how to live it.’