Homecoming
The descent from the Thasryach pass was far less eventful than the climb, and by midday they were entering the foothills Allystaire had looked across that morning. Idgen Marte set as fast a pace as she could, and Torvul coaxed speed from his ponies and his sturdy wagon’s wheels.
To Allystaire’s initial surprise, Keegan and the other Brotherhood men were able to keep pace even on foot. Though they were reluctant to respond to his attempts to draw them out, he’d learned that two of the remaining band were from Barony Delondeur, one was from Barony Innadan, and a handful wouldn’t say even that much. All had deserted their respective armies within the past three years. Yet nothing else. Not even their names.
He wasn’t overly troubled by it, but he did catch them peering at him sidelong and murmuring amongst themselves. He knew guarded fear when he saw it.
So when they paused—briefly, at Allystaire’s insistence—to eat a midday meal, he was finally more direct.
Strolling over to where they gathered, several yards away from where he’d tethered Ardent, he announced his presence broadly and amiably. “Gentlemen,” he said, and the only one who looked directly at him was Keegan, “might I ask what you find disagreeable about our travels?”
One of them, a Delondeur man, Allystaire thought, glanced briefly to Keegan and then back. “We’re sorry, m’lord,” he said, avoiding eye contact. “We, ah, we just…”
“They’re frightened of you,” Keegan said bluntly.
“Why?”
One of the silent men spoke all in a rush. “We heard all about how Lord Allystaire Coldbourne treated his own. That shirkers and malingerers were lashed, that breakin’ rules was a hanging offense in your camp, and the noose for any prisoners ya couldn’t feed.”
Allystaire blinked at the sudden torrent of words. “So you are afraid I am going to hang you? Am I fattening you up for it by feeding you? Walking you across country to my favorite hanging tree?”
The man spat defiantly. “Could be some kind o’plot, you bein’ a canny one fer a lord.”
“I am no lord,” Allystaire replied calmly, “and if I wanted you dead I would have let you die back in the mountains.” A pause. “It is true that in the past I would have hanged deserters. Yes. But that man no longer exists. There is no more Lord Allystaire Coldbourne.”
“So you say.”
“So I do,” Allystaire said. “And in time, you will come to learn what that means, I hope. Everything I have told Keegan—the sanctuary I am willing to offer him—applies to you as well.”
The half a dozen men looked at each other; the arguer’s cheeks had flushed a bit. “Does that mean we have t’tell ya why we, ah, walked off?”
Allystaire shrugged. “Eventually, mayhap. Now, I only want to go home.”
Something, some note of the Mother’s music, faint but unmistakable, chimed within him when he said that. Home had always meant Coldbourne Hall, or perhaps his own pavilion on campaign, with its few but coveted comforts. Yet home now meant Thornhurst, and he had not thought on it, not decided on it. It simply was. And despite having no family, few friends, and a list of responsibilities and decisions waiting for him, he wanted to be back in that village, back in the Temple Field. He wanted the five servants of the Mother to be gathered together at its altar for the first time and to finish the work three had started in raising it. And he wanted these things with a surety and an insistence that made Thornhurst stand out in his mind like a beacon in a sea of fog.
And then, Allystaire found that if he concentrated, closed his eyes, pushed everything else away, he could hear a single strain of the Mother’s music, and that he could have, without recourse to maps or roads, followed the feel of it straight back to Thornhurst and the Temple.
He opened his eyes, and smiled, and somehow this only made the three reticent men more wary of him. “Follow me there, men, and you will see miracles that will remove all doubt. At the least, follow us, be fed, shod, and clothed when we reach our journey’s end, and then set out again to make of yourself what you will. There will be no shortage of work for you, if you wish it.”
With that, Allystaire signaled that the brief rest was over by loosening the light hitch he’d thrown around a bare tree limb to hold Ardent in place, then began walking, keeping the reins lightly in one hand. Ardent, always eager to be off, knocked into him, as if to show his approval. Soon enough, the rest of the little caravan was trailing them.
* * *
“So what did you see?” Idgen Marte had waited till they’d made camp for the night and eaten, and everyone else was asleep except for them, and she could contain her curiosity no longer. “And how?”
They sat near each other, by the banked fire, and spoke in hushed tones.
“As to the latter,” Allystaire said, picking at the remnants of his third bowl of Torvul’s onion and mushroom stew, “magic. To the former, Bend in flames. The Choiron sailing away.”
She was silent a moment, absorbing the information, and said, “Town full of slavers, cowards, and pirates. Not sure they didn’t have something like that coming.”
Allystaire felt a spot of anger flare within him. “Town full of slaves, then, and victims, and fishwives, and people sick of war. Do they deserve to be burnt out, and worse, by Braech-crazed Islandmen?”
Idgen Marte sighed. “No. Yet as long as men have built towns, other men have wanted to burn them. You can’t stop every enormity men like Symod are determined to commit.”
“I ought to have been able to stop this one.”
Idgen Marte reached out. Allystaire expected a cuff, but instead, her hand settled on his shoulder. “I’ll not have you brooding on this all through the winter. Think of our victories first, our failures later. If you insist on thinking of who we haven’t helped, well, the results will never be in our favor. We did what She asked, and we’ll return to Thornhurst and set about doing what She asks next.”
Grinning, Allystaire said, “What if what She asks next is for us to live in Thornhurst and take up farming?”
“Don’t jest about that,” Idgen Marte warned. “There’s things I won’t do, even for Her.”
Allystaire chuckled. In truth, he doubted that any of them could refuse a request the Goddess made, given the effect of Her presence. He thought of the music of Her voice, that rich silvery harp song, the undeniable strength in Her hands, the searing fire of Her lips. I know I couldn’t. A shiver went down his spine.
“Let us just focus on getting home,” Allystaire said, turning to watch her sidelong, gauging her reaction to the word.
“Aye,” Idgen Marte replied. Then she made a quiet, thoughtful sound, lips pursed, chin wrinkling. “Never thought I’d call a northern barony farming village home.”
“Nor I. After all, farming and peat-digging villages are very different places.”
Idgen Marte gave him the light punch on the arm he’d expected before. “Come off it. Your home was some Lord’s hall, not a laborer’s cottage.”
“True enough, but the villages were nearly on the doorstep. And I probably spent as much time at Wind’s Jaw, or on campaign, as I did at Coldbourne Hall. Hard to think of a tent as home, though.” His eyes were drawn, momentarily, to a log that hissed as steam escaped it. “What was home for you, anyway?”
“A city far t’the south and west.”
“Keersvast?”
“Farther south,” Idgen Marte replied. Then, quietly, “Cansebour.”
“Cold,” Allystaire said, “I have even heard of it. Can it be as large as they say?”
“You could drop Londray into one quarter of it and not notice the difference.”
“Surely not,” he protested.
“Your barony cities would be the smallest of towns back where I come from, Ally,” she said softly.
“How in the Cold did you wind up out here then?”
“Chasing stories,” she said, a bit too quickly perhaps.
“I would think the Concordat would have better stories than those we northern savages tell.”
She snorted. “Most of our tales are about how if anyone—usually a woman or child—doesn’t follow the rules, they end up dead, or worse. Our songs are much the same. At least yours have some passion in ‘em, some blood.”
“You speak often of songs and yet in all this time I have never heard you sing.”
“You never will. Don’t ask about it any further.”
Allystaire threw up his hands in surrender. “I shall not, then.” He levered himself slowly to his feet, stretched his back till it popped, and said, “Wake you in four turns. Days of road ahead.”
She nodded, watched him begin to walk off, then went to climb one of the bare trees surrounding their camp.
* * *
There was a crowd waiting when, on the afternoon of a day that had begun with frost on the ground, a tired party arrived at the outskirts of Thornhurst. At the front of the crowd was a small, brown-haired girl with large dark eyes, wearing a robe the color of the summer sky, her feet bare despite the cold. In contrast to the crowd of adults and other children behind her, the girl stood silent and still, her eyes on the curve of the road ahead. She stood apart from them, with an air of dignity that was uncommon for her age.
When the column came into view there was a great hubbub of talk and jostling, but no one broke from the crowd. Even the eldest among them seemed to be looking to the girl for their cue.
They got it when, as Allystaire came into view leading the column, his great grey destrier stamping along behind him, she broke into an entirely childlike and undignified run.
By the time she reached him, he’d knelt to throw out his arms and gather her into an embrace, and those watching thought, on balance, the scene resembled a beloved uncle or older brother returning from great peril.
Soon enough, though, Mol wriggled out of his arms and smoothed down the front of her robe and turned her gaze on the rest. She smiled at Idgen Marte, who returned the girl’s gesture with a lopsided, scar-tugging grin and a nod. She took in the others and instantly sorted them into categories. To Bethe and the Brotherhood men, she immediately said, “There’s warm wine and food waiting for everyone. I expected you’d want clothes so I had some of the folk gather up what they could spare. Should be enough to suit you.”
Taken aback by her self-possession and tone of easy command, the rest of the party was silent as Allystaire, smiling, said, “Allow me to introduce the Voice of the Mother, Her first priestess—Mol, of Thornhurst.”
The girl gave a tiny sort of curtsy—less a noble mannerism of deference than an acknowledgement of new introductions. Then her eyes instantly found Torvul and Gideon, sitting together on the bench of the dwarf’s wagon. “Right,” she said, “you two must be the Wit and the Will, aye? We’ve work to be doin’ and things to discuss, so eat quick.” She waved a hand towards the village, as if sweeping everyone towards it. “Go on, go on. The Inn is the only three-floor building in the village. Can’t miss it.”
Meanwhile, certain men and women of the crowd came forward to tend to the animals. Allystaire and Idgen Marte began exchanging greetings with familiar faces. Allystaire clasped forearms with Renard, who smiled through his beard, even as Henri and Norbert came forward—together, Allystaire noted—to tend to the animals.
Torvul climbed down off his wagon, but shooed away the villagers who came to take charge of it. “I’ll see to the wagon myself, if you don’t mind. I’ll let you take the ponies once we get it inside the town, aye?” Then he walked over to Mol, and without any trace of his usual flippancy, knelt in front of her, though he did not bow his head. “Lady Mol,” he said, rather formally, taking her hand, which disappeared into his. “I am—”
“Mourmitnourthrukacshtorvul,” Mol said, smiling a bit smugly. “I know. She tol’ me ta expect ya. And if he’s no lord, then I’m no lady either,” she said, pointing with her chin at Allystaire. She turned the same smile on Gideon, who followed Torvul hesitantly, made uneasy by the crowd, it seemed. “And you must be Gideon. C’mon, both of you,” she said, holding out her other hand towards Gideon, and pulling at Torvul’s till he stood. “Let me show ya Her Temple.” She glanced at Allystaire, and said, “Ya have visitors. Best go see t’them.” Then she was leading Torvul and Gideon, both by the hand, towards their first glimpse of the Temple of the Goddess they served.
“Visitors?” Allystaire asked this question to no one in particular, yet it was answered by Renard.
“Well, something to that effect. Mayhap more like pilgrims,” the gruff old soldier said. “In fact, we’ve had rather a lot of new arrivals.”
“Where from? And any trouble?”
“A lot of places between here and Londray, I take it, and some from across the borders. And no, none I couldn’t deal with.”
“Which borders?”
“Oyrwyn, Innadan” Renard said. “And remember I already said there was no trouble. No sign of knights come looking for your head.”
“What was it, man? Out with it?”
“Better y’see for yourself. Lots of folks been askin’ after the two of ya—though usually they didn’t know your names. It was all Arm this, Shadow that.”
Allystaire grunted. “How’s Leah?”
Renard smiled even wider through his beard, and it was all the answer Allystaire really needed, but Renard said, “In a family way. Mol tells her it’ll be a girl.” They’d reached the edge of the restored buildings on the outskirts of the village proper, and Allystaire could see, clustered here and there, groups of tents and makeshift three-walled shacks.
Renard followed his gaze. “Like I said, a lot of new folk come in. We haven’t roofs for all of ‘em yet, but we hope to by winter, or it’ll be close quarters all around. Done that already when it rained.” He pointed to a particular cluster of tents that stood well apart, and said, “Swords-at-hire that that wants to speak to you over there. We’ve invited them into the village proper but they haven’t come. Said they needed your permission first.”
Tossing a curious look back at Idgen Marte, who was following him as he expected, Allystaire set off for the tents Renard had indicated. They’d been pitched in neat, military rows, with stacks of weapons at regular intervals. A pole was planted in front of one tent, a grey and dark blue banner hanging limply from it. If the wind caught and unfurled it, Allystaire knew it would show a raven perched atop a round tower.
“That’s a warband sigil,” Idgen Marte. “I don’t recognize it.”
“Iron Ravens,” Allystaire said. “Not very well known.”
“Then how do you—”
Her words were cut off as the fourteen or fifteen black-clad swords-at-hire seated around a fire in the middle of that encampment caught sight of Allystaire as he moved towards them. First one, then two, then all the remainder at once stood up to face him. They offered neither salute nor obeisance nor recognition, just stood, watching him.
Allystaire approached one of them. They were roughly of a height, though Allystaire surely outweighed her by four stone at least. The woman was bald as a stone and tanned a deep brown, wearing a chain shirt and thick bracers similar to those Allystaire favored. Steel clanged dully as they clasped forearms, and exchanged a phrase: “Brother of Battle.” And then Allystaire moved down the line of them, doing the same with each one, clasping arms and shaking, and saying, almost solemnly, “Brother of Battle.” When that was finished, he returned to the very first woman he’d shook hands with.
“What in the Cold are you doing here?”
“What d’ya think,” the woman said, her accent thick and nasal. “Come to serve with you.”
“There is no weight or color in it, Ivar,” Allystaire replied. “I do not expect the Iron Ravens to work for free.”
One of the other men, stocky and with a fringe of dark hair, spoke up. “Ne’er really needed links t’shoulder spears if you were t’call, Lord Coldbourne.” He flushed a little as he spoke, but there was a general murmur of consent from the men gathered around.
“I am not Lord Coldbourne anymore, Gern,” Allystaire said, with a slight twist of regret shading his words.
Ivar smiled—a smile that was brown where it wasn’t empty—and delicately stuck a finger inside one of her bracers and pulled forth a piece of parchment folded upon itself. “Luck is wi’ us then, m’lord,” she said, though the casual way she used the honorific made it seem more like a nickname. “We are commissioned t’ serve ya already.” She held out the parchment to Allystaire who took it carefully and spared a glance at his own name on the outer surface, written in a fanatically neat, tiny, rounded script that he knew as well as his own. He unfolded it with slightly nervous fingers and read.
Allystaire,
I cannot say that I approve of your leaving, or the method of it. The Baron could have been made to see reason, especially when he realizes he will have to campaign without the great and infallible Lord Coldbourne directing his armies. Yet Garth and Skoval told me the truth of their encounter with you, and I know that trying to talk you into returning would be trying to talk the Ash into flowing backwards.
I do not know if I believe what Garth told me you said. A paladin? The Mother?
I know that Skoval believes, and that Garth is trying his best not to.
The day will come that the Baron will stir against you again, though Garth told me that the corpses of the other four knights, Casamir especially, were eloquent arguments for inaction. Still, I know you, and I know that you will make enemies. I would send all the strength of Coldbourne and Highgate to you if I could, and you know that if you asked, they would come. Yet I know just as well that you would ask no man to commit treason on your behalf. Garth told me what happened when he spoke of it in the village you are now calling home. So instead, I have sought out and commissioned your pet warband. I have paid them enough for a year, though I know they feel such a debt to you they would stay yours forever if you merely asked. Keep them with you. Even if you are a paladin, you are still a man.
I do not know how you would get a letter to me, but please try.
Love,
Audreyn
In the space left under his sister’s signature, there were a few dense, closely written lines in even tinier letters that he had to strain to see.
The women of Barony Oyrwyn are forever indebted to you for killing Casamir. Should you come back you will find no shortage of would-be wives.
And beneath that, almost as an afterthought, was one more simple sentence that he knew instinctively was an apology for the previous line.
Garth has made sure that Dorinne’s grave is kept the way you ordered.
Allystaire swallowed hard and carefully folded the letter back up. Then, with a deep breath, he turned to Ivar. “Welcome to Thornhurst then, Ravens. And welcome to the service of the Mother.” The group cheered; several picked up shields and began banging their rims.
Allystaire raised his hands to quiet them.
“You may not find it profitable beyond the commission you already have. There will be rules.” He paused and saw the knowing grins on the men’s faces, and added, sternly, “More rules than in the past. We can speak of that tomorrow.” He saw some of the grins fall, and pointed to the Inn that was visible above the cluster of cottages. “Tonight, you drink at my expense.”
The good cheer returned, and with many a muttered “Brother of Battle” and clasp of forearms, the Iron Ravens—fourteen in all—tramped off.
“At your expense?” Idgen Marte was suddenly at Allystaire’s right shoulder as he watched them go. “With what, exactly, are you going to pay for their beer?”
“Torvul has charge of all our expenses now, aye? I will refer Timmar to him.”
Idgen Marte snorted. “I can’t wait to see those two haggle.”
“Be a duel worthy of song, I expect.”
“What now?”
“Temple,” Allystaire replied.
The route took them through the green and along the outlying cottages, past the first of the farms scattered in the valley and towards the High Road that paralleled the river Ash. And it took them past villagers eager to greet them. Allystaire and Idgen Marte clasped so many forearms, pressed so many palms, and accepted so many hugs and well wishes they were near exhausted from the walk. It, too, was a walk in memories. For Allystaire, of following a column of smoke for a day and finding the charred corpses of a massacre. For Idgen Marte, of watching the carnage as the Arm of the Mother ripped apart the shackles that knights had bound him with, and then of her own Ordination in the stand of trees to the west.
There were new faces in the crowd, as well—faces from Ashmill Bridge or Birchvale, from towns and villages and hamlets all over Barony Delondeur. Allystaire and Idgen Marte did not know them all, but most knew them, by reputation if not sight. They were farmers, laborers, city watchmen, whores, fishwives, tradesmen, children, and they had come to the place the Arm or the Shadow had promised them. They had come for safety, for shelter, for refuge, for curiosity, to make a new life or to forswear an old one. And now the Arm and the Shadow walked among them, growing ever more uneasy as the weight of responsibility began to settle heavily upon their shoulders.
The crowd seemed to understand their destination and so eventually parted to let them pass, and they had their first sight of the Temple of the Mother. What had been a waist-height wall of stone marking out the foundation when they left was now a temple; true to Mol’s plan, there were windows spaced all around the building. From its hill it commanded a good view of much of the valley that Thornhurst and its farms nestled in.
“Goddess, is that glass in the windows?” Idgen Marte leaned forward, her mouth gaping slightly. “Where in the deepest Cold did they find that much glass? How did they afford it?”
“How did they build a dome?” Allystaire said. They shared a puzzled glance and then made for the doors, carved oak, bound in brass, with a sunburst painted in the middle of it.
Inside it was still simple: a floor of cunningly nestled planks had been affixed, and rough but sturdy benches stood in three rows up to the altar, itself still rough, seemingly unformed stone, joined together through the joint prayer of Allystaire, Mol, and Idgen Marte. Mol was standing to one side as Torvul examined it carefully. Gideon stood next to Mol, watching everything with his seemingly detached air. Allystaire realized that though the boy seemed indifferent, he was probably taking in more details of what was happening around him than everyone else together would.
Mol smiled as they entered. “D’ya like the windows?”
“Aye,” Allystaire replied, cautiously. “We do wonder how—”
“A master glazier,” she said pronouncing the word with utmost care, “came in not long after ya left. Said you’d healed him after he was knifed in a tavern brawl and spoke to him of Thornhurst. He came here with his tools and all. Name of Grigori. Said he had t’repay it somehow, pay the Goddess. I told him he didn’t need to, but he insisted. He left when he was done, but I prayed wi’ him at the altar and he’s come to the Goddess. Said he’d be back after the winter.”
“How many people have come, Mol?” Idgen Marte walked up to the altar and almost unconsciously dragged her fingers across the stone. Allystaire followed her and placed a hand upon it as well. He found it warm, and looking up, he saw panes of glass were set directly above it, allowing the sun to fall upon it as much as possible.
“To stay? More’n three score, maybe four. More have come and gone,” the girl replied. “And there’ll be more in a few days—folk fleein’ Bend.”
“How do you know,” Torvul started to ask, but Mol simply swung her large, dark, knowing eyes to him and his question resolved into an “Ah.”
Mol turned back to the rest of them and said, “Tomorrow, at sunrise, at noon, and sunset—we must gather here. The rest of the folk may come at noon. And then at night we keep a vigil. She will come and speak to each of us in turn.”
Allystaire felt the strum of power in the girl’s words, the binding of something true and important as she spoke, and he knew that the rest of them felt it as well—and that the sound was radiating not only among them but between them—as if each of them was a note. Idgen Marte’s was so high-pitched it nearly escaped his senses, and were it sung or played he was not sure he could have heard it. Mol was something simple and pure and, he knew, harmonizing with every note around it. Gideon, an intense, blaring blast of some great winding horn, a sound that would carry across mountains. Torvul rolled like thunder, if thunder could carry the promise of home and safety in its thrum. He strained to hear his own but then the moment passed.
He looked to Idgen Marte and saw, he was sure, tears gleaming at the corners of her eyes, quickly blinked away. She moved to his side and whispered, for him only to hear, as the rest were still distracted by the moment that had just passed.
“Like a silver trumpet signaling a charge. Terrible and beautiful all at once.”
* * *
Late that night, when even the Ravens had retired to their tents, Allystaire and Idgen Marte sat in front of the banked hearth inside the rebuilt tavern of Thornhurst, drinking beer that was slightly less sour than when they had left.
“With no need to stand a watch we hardly know what to do with ourselves,” Idgen Marte said, idly, to break the silence as they stared into the faintly glowing coals.
“We could still stand a watch if you miss it that badly,” Allystaire offered.
She snorted, had a sip of beer, and then did precisely what he expected. “The Iron Ravens, Ally? I have to know.” Her tone wasn’t demanding or imperious; it was almost imploring him. She leaned forward in her seat, bending slightly towards him.
He gave his head a small and uncertain shake. “If I tell you, Idgen Marte—if I tell you this, you can never speak of it. Not to Torvul. Not to anyone.”
“That’s not fair.”
He lifted his head and met her gaze with a chilling solemnity. “Neither is what happened to them. Promise me.”
She thought on it a moment, swirling the beer in her mug, and nodded. “I promise.”
He drained the rest of his mug, set it down, and let his eyes unfocus among the flickering embers. “They were Oyrwyn soldiers. Some of them Coldbourne, some of them Highgate, Horned Towers. Four score I left to hold a tower that commanded a pass into Harlach. This was near a decade hence. And held it, they did. Harlach had fooled me, and had three hundred men behind me I did not know of. They besieged the tower. I had left them enough supplies to last two weeks—in my arrogance I thought I could pin Harlach’s largest host, grind it down, and be back in that time, or near enough. They stood up to a siege of near four times their number, and they did it for more than a month longer than they had supplies for.”
“How? What did they eat? Rat? Horse? Leather? Grass?”
“All of those, save horse. They had none. Oyrwyn armies are mostly foot.”
“Well, Cold, Ally, everybody that’s gone for a soldier has eaten his share of grass or rat.”
“They ran out of all of those old tricks well before I was able to relieve them.”
“Then, what?” Idgen Marte swallowed as she asked the question.
Allystaire turned to face her, his cheeks pale, his voice low and dark. “What does a raven eat?”
She gasped, sitting up straight and pressing a hand to her mouth. “Oh, oh, Mother, no, Allystaire. No. And they are here? They did, they did that and you forgave them?”
“It was my fault,” Allystaire said, his voice quiet, but fierce, his body raising half out of his seat. “I left them there. I told them to hold to the last, I said it in jest as I rode away with the rest of the army and the food they should have been eating. Well, hold they did, to the last soldier and beyond.
“When we finally relieved them, they would open the gate only to me, and me alone. I found them shaking as they stood at their posts. They were sure I would hang them for their crime.”
“You should’ve.”
Allystaire made as if to lunge towards her, one hand curling into a fist. “How dare you? They were good , honest soldiers, young and strong and brave, and the gnawing, screaming, horrible demons of hunger drove them to something we have no right to judge. Not then and not now.”
Idgen Marte sat back and away from him, considering his words, face twisted in reflexive disgust.
“I could not take them back. They knew that. So I gave them their release, and I wrote them a charter. There were just over two dozen of them left. As a warband, they had no past, no crime. Only their name, their skill, and their word. It was all I could do for them. I asked only that they take no contract to serve against Oyrwyn.”
There was utter silence in the room save for the occasional crackle of the fire till Allystaire went on. “I could not hang them for my own mistake, Idgen Marte. Surely you see that. And if you do not, it is because you did not see them then, the shame and the guilt and the loathing they had for themselves, and each other.” He lowered his head into his hands, rubbing at his temples with his thumbs.
Idgen Marte stood up from her chair then and turned as if to leave, thought better of it, and put a hand on Allystaire’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Ally,” she finally said in a whisper-thin voice. “You’re right. Even then you knew that mercy was no weakness.”
“Speak to no one of this,” Allystaire replied. “If word were to spread I would have to send them away.”
“Do we want a warband here?”
“I want this one, yes. till I met you and Torvul, there were only three people I would have trusted more than I do Ivar.”
“What are you going to give them to do?”
Allystaire drained his beer and stood up, setting the mug atop the mantel. “I will think on that tomorrow. Start building some defenses, mayhap. Watch towers, or a palisade wall.”
Idgen Marte tilted her head back a bit, and he had the sense of being watched thoughtfully. “Think we’ll need them?”
Allystaire took a long breath as he bent to pick up the hammer he’d laid by the side of his chair. He slid it into his belt as he exhaled. “Better to prepare for what could happen rather than what you think or wish might happen, aye?”
“I suppose.” She picked up her sword belt from a peg on the wall. “Where in the Cold do we sleep?”
“They gave the house we had shared to a newly come family. Mol told me there were beds upstairs free, though.”
“You’re planning to sleep down here with your back up against one of the walls, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Allystaire said, though he’d meant to tell a harmless lie, like That is how I sleep best. The words simply didn’t pass through his throat, and Idgen Marte laughed.
“Cold, take a bed. Have a decent night’s sleep for once in your life. The Goddess didn’t tell me to live like some kind of self-mortifying monk.”
“No, She did not. It was my father who taught never to trust comfort too much. A man gets too used to soft beds and rich food, he starts imagining such is his due.”
“Or,” Idgen Marte countered, “he takes what comfort and joy he can get while it’s there to be had.”
He shook his head. “That ends in getting soft. I heard it too often as a child to stop believing it now.”
“A skilled poet could exhaust himself coming up with ways to describe you and never, ever use ‘soft,’ Allystaire,” she said. “And every time you talk about your father, about the Old Baron, about your life in Oyrwyn, it’s like seeing another piece of a map get revealed, another note in a song being written down. I’ve a notion to dig around for bottles of wine and get you drunk, hear the rest of it. Hear what was in that letter, maybe. I saw your face when you read it. At the end you looked like you’d been punched in the gut.”
“We have to be in the temple in the morning. The Goddess has nothing against honest drink, so far as I can tell, but I doubt she would take kindly to Her ordained coming to her presence with wine-ghosts battering the inside of their skulls.”
She sighed. “I s’pose. There’s stories I’ve yet to get out of you, though.”
“Aye, and I have told one more than I meant to already. To bed with you,” he replied, as he began eyeing the wall for a likely spot.
“And you as well and not up against a wall,” she chided, seizing his arm with one strong hand. “If we’re meant to keep a vigil you’re sleeping on a bed tonight. No arguing. A little comfort won’t kill you.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but her questions and Audreyn’s letter set his mind moving along familiar paths outside the massive castle in the mountains where the Barons he had served all his life, all of his first life, resided. And on a path leading from the postern gate, to a small tower that guarded a southerly approach—the route from the lands that had once been his charge. How, on a small battlement underhanging the crenellations and reachable only by a rope ladder, a patch of grass was carefully tended, planted with heather, mountain vetch, and loosestrife. A single rough, unmarked headstone stood amidst the flowers. When that image filled his head, his throat was tightly seized with a grief he had rarely allowed himself, and all the soldierly protest went out of him.
Forcing that grief back down, he let Idgen Marte lead him up the stairs and they sank into separate beds in one of the larger rooms.
Sleep took him quickly, but not before he found himself thinking of a petite, fine-boned woman of twenty or so summers, her hair an auburn, wind-tossed mass.