On the morning of the third day after the One had shown Isaiah the curse, and had caused Hereward to be so badly injured, Isaiah busied himself making final preparations for the journey back to Maximilian. Every day that he had spent waiting in their little camp by the river had galled him, but there was little he could do about it. Hereward had been in no condition to travel in the immediate days after she’d been injured, and even now Isaiah knew he was risking her life.
But he had to leave for the north. He had to.
Hereward could totter a few steps about the camp, but she was incapable of doing anything more. Isaiah couldn’t leave her—to do so would be to make a mockery of relinquishing his power—but he knew he couldn’t carry her, either.
So he spent the few days waiting for her to grow stronger either hunting out the occasional rabbit (and twice finding the remaining entrails and meaty bones of beasts that the Skraelings had eaten), or building a cart with which he could transport Hereward and what supplies they could take with them. He had found a small trolley on the riverboat, used for wheeling about casks of water and wine, and with its wheels and axle he had fashioned a small cart. With some canvas and ropes from the boat, he made a comfortable harness with which to pull it.
“When will we leave?” Hereward asked softly as Isaiah sat across the fire from her, sewing the last strap of the harness into place. She rarely spoke to him. This was not because of her guilt at what he had done for her and how she currently held him back, all of which she continued to feel keenly, but because she felt so out of place in his life. They had no common ground save that both had lived in the palace at Aqhat.
Even that divided rather than united them. He the Tyrant, she the serving woman; nothing in their lives had ever touched.
“Tomorrow morning,” Isaiah said. He set the harness to one side, then stretched out his shoulders and neck.
Hereward glanced at the cart. Isaiah had already packed as much food as they had into it.
The bundle looked pathetically small.
“I can hunt as we move,” Isaiah said, “and we’ll be traveling close to the FarReach Mountains. There are a series of springs that dot the foothills. If we are lucky they’ll still be running. The Skraelings don’t like water and will have left them alone. They should be full of fish.”
“Springs,” Hereward said. “Water enough to bathe?”
Isaiah regarded her with genuine amusement. “Water enough to bathe,” he said.
They lapsed into silence, and Isaiah looked north. It would take them months to reach Maximilian if they had to walk. He thought of how Maximilian and Ishbel had glanced at each other now and again in the days just before he left.
The curse was fixed.
For all he knew they had already sunk into its trap.
“Will we find anything at Sakkuth?” Hereward said, startling Isaiah out of his reverie.
“Sakkuth?” he said, wondering why that struck a chord deep within him. There was something about Sakkuth…
“To eat,” Hereward said. “Or maybe we might even find a horse still stabled there.”
“I doubt it,” Isaiah said. “The Skraelings will have overrun the city. There’ll be nothing left.”
Sakkuth. The One had said that Maximilian and Ishbel needed to bring the Weeper, the Goblet of the Frogs, and the crown of Elcho Falling to Sakkuth.
Why didn’t the One want them to deliver it to him at DarkGlass Mountain? Surely that was the heart of his power?