Kirven hated the journey north.
She could have ridden on one of the many rafts, pulled by either crownheads or soldiers, but she did not. It would have made her look weak and she could not afford to look weak before the Rai or their soldiers. So she wore her armour, and she walked with the soldiers and she bit her lip when her muscles ached and the pain of her blisters became almost unbearable. She kept quiet when sleep would not come because she had become too used to comfortable beds in Harnspire. She ate the food, if it could be called that, and she did not complain.
With every step, she felt the slow erosion of her power more keenly.
She had made a mistake in coming, her power was civil not military. Galderin was not slow to point that out either. He could not outright deny her but the group of Rai he had brought with him side-lined her and their troops would not take her orders.
She should have stayed in Harnspire, it became more apparent with every step. She should have known this was coming when she could not bring her guard. Galderin had tried to stop her coming so she had fought him, but looking back he had not fought hard enough to stop her. He had drawn her in. He knew this would weaken her. An easy acquiescence would have been too obvious.
It was still an option to backtrack, to stay in Harnspire, right up to the moment they left. But she had not, because there was Venn. Her child. She could not trust Galderin to bring them back alive. If Venn died in the assault on Harn she was done, and she knew Galderin would exploit it, could even hear what he would say. “Non-Rai rulers are fine, but not in the north, not where old gods still rise and threaten Tarl-an-Gig.”
She had to be here, to protect Venn from the ambitions of Galderin. But by coming she had played into his hands.
But if she brought Venn back and if she could convince them to come into their power she would be strong once more. The Cowl-Rai needed the conduit. Venn was her only chance.
She had never felt so alone.
Even in the long night when she had waited in the darkness for Madrine, when she had bathed the bruises and sewed up her cuts, there were others with her to understand. The secondwife, the firsthusband. But not now, not here. There was only her.
The troops would not speak to her, she was too important, too high up for them to speak with comfortably anyway. Galderin would speak to her, but he could not keep the condescension out of his voice and if she heard the phrase “a military matter” once more she would scream. At Harn-Larger she had made a final attempt to convince Galderin to bring dullers. That it was the easiest way. Move in dullers, take them up close and neutralise any power Cahan Du-Nahere had, but Galderin had laughed. Not openly mocking her, but mocking her nonetheless. In the way he spoke, the looks he shared with the other Rai.
“But High Leoric,” he had said, “we have the abomination for that.” Then the conversation was finished.
Sorha, possibly the only one who she could speak with, was at the back of the column. The Rai would not have her anywhere near them, and the troops did not like the Hetton. Now even the possibility of speaking to Sorha was gone, the woman had taken the Hetton and vanished into the forest. Chasing Forestals who peppered the convoy with arrows, and the filthy rootlings that constantly stole from them.
Kirven walked alone on a path she had chosen, stripped the skin from her feet until every single step became agony. Even sleep was no escape, constant nightmares of her firstwife, Madrine, of the night she had punished Kirven for becoming pregnant. Of the terror in the wood, the strange death waiting in the darkness of Wyrdwood.
When they arrived at Harn it looked like nothing special. Ditches dug around its low walls, wooden spikes driven into the ground. It was much like a hundred other little Woodedge villages, she was sure. Much like the place she had grown up in, hated. This one may hold treasure but she would not be sorry to see it burn, as soon as they had Venn back and the information they needed.
She watched Galderin while the troops around him made camp in Woodedge. Darkness was coming, the light above waning as the second eight came to a close. She approached and he made her wait before he turned to her. Pretending he was contemplating the village’s defences.
“You cannot make a direct assault,” she said. He did not speak to her, not immediately, another small slight.
“I was unaware you were trained in tactics, High Leoric,” he said.
“You know I fought,” she said, too quick, too defensive.
“There is a difference between holding a spear, Kirven,” his eyes lifeless, skin hidden behind thick make-up, “and being the one who tells people where to point it.”
“If they hold Venn prisoner,” she said, “they are likely to kill them if we attack.” Again, Galderin took his time, turned back to Harn. Stared at the walls.
“They have prepared for us, a poor job. The first ring ditch is not even deep enough to stop us walking over it. We should go in now, in the dark. While they are frightened. Finish this.”
“You will talk to them first.” He stared at her.
“Why?” said Galderin, “they are all going to die, it does not matter when it happens. I have brought strong Rai with me, we could bombard the place with fire now. This would be over before night is fully in.”
“You would kill the trion. If Venn is brought out unharmed the Cowl-Rai will look well upon us both.” The Rai did not look at her, only at Harn. “Otherwise we are finished.”
“You would be finished, High Leoric,” he said, turning to her. “Rai survive.” Before she could say any more he raised a hand to stop her. “Nevertheless, I will do what I can. I will talk to them, but if they do not know their place.” He looked back at Harn. “Well, then they must be taught it.”