During the night snowfall ceased and freezing weather moved in. When day broke cloudless it saw what was rare in an Armorican winter, earth glittery white and a leafage of icicles aflash over the Wood of the King. The air was so cold that it felt liquid in the nostrils. Silence was so deep that it seemed to crackle, with any real sound barely skimming above.
At first Gratillonius could not see his challenger. The features were there, but they slid off his mind like raindrops off glass. Then he began to think: No, this is impossible, a nightmare or I’ve gone mad or a sorcerer is deceiving me. Yet he felt too clearly the chill on his face and the knocking in his breast, snow scrunchy underfoot, a sudden renewed ache in the ribs that had been snapped. He could count the rivets that held the metal rim and boss of Budic’s shield, he noticed where the legionary emblem on it needed the paint touched up, a light and a heavy javelin rested in the man’s left hand at just the angle that was Budic’s wont, given his height, when he wasn’t on parade, the woolen trews of winter wear sagged a bit over the top sandal straps, a small sloppiness for which the centurion had long since quit reprimanding an otherwise excellent soldier…. It was the visage under the helmet that was different. The lineaments were the same, but a stranger looked out of them.
Gratillonius’s tongue came to life. “What kind of jape is this?” it foolishly formed.
A machine might have replied. “None. I swung the Hammer in full sight of those men on the porch there. Go arm yourself.”
“Have you forgotten what happens to mutineers?”
“The King of Ys will know how to deal with Rome.”
It tumbled through Gratillonius that that might prove correct. Various officials would be glad enough to get rid of him that they would urge Stilicho to give his successor a chance. He said nothing, because it seemed unimportant beside the incomprehensible betrayal. Instead he let his body and its habits carry on for him.
Upon getting the news at the palace, without the name of the adversary, he had sent runners to inform the appropriate persons. Those were now arriving. Soren was as impassive as the sky. The marine guards tried to maintain the same control. The legionaries did too, with less success. They kept formation except for their eyes, which tracked Gratillonius whenever he stirred and swung slitted back to where Budic stood. Hands strained on spearshafts. Gratillonius heard his voice lay double stress on the usual command, that if he fell the men must be obedient to the victor until such time as they marched to Turonum and the tribune there.
“Let me ’elp yer make ready, sir,” Adminius begged. Perhaps he was unaware of the tears that trickled down his cheeks, came to rest in the stubble on his lantern jaw, and gleamed in the sunlight while they waited to freeze.
Gratillonius nodded and led the way to the equipment shed. When the door closed, both were momentarily blind, after the brilliance outside. Gratillonius wondered if he was getting a foretaste of death. No matter. Adminius’s words wavered: “Wot’s got inter ’im, sir? ’E worshipped you, I know ’e did, second only ter Christ—and Christ’ll cast ’im off for this, down inter ’ell, less’n a demon’s took ’im, and ’ow could that ’appen ter a praying man like ’im? Oh, sir, you’ve got ter win this ’un, more’n any o’ t’ others. You can’t leave us under a traitor an’—an’ expect us not ter kill ’im!”
“You will follow the orders I gave you,” Gratillonius clipped. “Is that clear, soldier? Shut your mouth and do your duty.”
Adminius gulped, hiccoughed, fumbled his way to the rack and chest where the battle gear rested. It was the worn outfit that had fared with the centurion from Britannia and seen him through—how many combats at Ys? He’d had a shiny rig made for city and parade-ground use. Since challenge started coming on the heels of challenge, he had left the old one here; it didn’t mind a few extra scrapes and nicks, and he felt obscurely that it brought him luck. The shield was new, of course, following the fight against Carsa. It hefted heavier than it should. Gratillonius had not yet rebuilt his muscles to their former solidity. When he stripped, cold lapped him around, and lingered beneath the undergarments he donned. The metal almost seared him with frigidity. He took his helmet. A notion came to him that the luck drained out of it before he could put it on.
Adminius ran fingers over every joint and buckle. “You’ll want the javelins, sir,” he chattered. “’E’s got ’is.” Plume and vinestaff must stay behind. “Pardon me, sir, let me remind yer that casting is ’is main weakness. If ’e don’t take special care, ’e ’ooks a bit ter the left, so by cocking yer shield after ’e lets fly—”
“Enough,” Gratillonius interrupted. “It won’t do to keep them waiting.”
He stepped forth and was again blinded. Light bounced back off snow and flared in hard hues from icicles. Budic stood in a nimbus of radiance like some warrior God: incredible, how beautiful Dahut’s bridegroom was.
Why need I live on? thought Gratillonius while the dazzlement danced around him. I did not know until this dawn what weariness had been in me. Some of the Queens and princesses will mourn—I dare believe Dahut among them—but they will take comfort from supposing that through my death the Gods of Ys renew the life of the world. And Dahut will no longer be torn, poor bewildered soul, between her father and her destiny. Whatever drove Budic to turn on me, he’ll be kind to her. He loves her; that’s been as easy to see on him as fresh blood, year after year. Oh, my death will solve many a problem. Also my own. I can lie down to rest, I can let this heartsickness fall off me and sleep, just sleep forever.
His eyes adapted. He trod at military pace to the oak where his two enemies were.
Side by side, he knelt on the frozen snow with Budic. Soren dipped the sprig of mistletoe in the chalice of water and signed first the King, then the man who would be King. Breath smoked from his lips as he intoned the Punic prayer. It came with a shock to Gratillonius that when he considered what dying would be like a few minutes ago, he quite forgot his spirit would go on pilgrimage toward Mithras. He tried to imagine that and desire it, but failed. He felt altogether empty of anything but tiredness and sorrow.
“Go forth,” said the Speaker for Taranis, “and may the will of the God be done.”
This time he refrained from adding more. His gaze followed the contestants while they departed. Everybody’s did.
Though Gratillonius never looked back, he knew when he and his follower had passed out of sight. How well he knew, after all his prowlings among these huge dark boles. They enclosed him like the pillars of the Lodge, the pillars that were carved in the forms of Gods; but these had nothing of human or even beast about them, they bore forms much older and mightier. Their shadows turned the snow into a blue lake from which islands of brush lifted stiff, toning shrilly when a leg or a shield knocked ice off them. Here was a hall of ice. Its beams were hung with swords beyond naming; they shimmered and flashed in the light that came out of an unseen east and often struck sparks from them. Maybe death was like this, not a road to the stars nor a solitary night but hollowness within an ice labyrinth that reached endlessly onward.
Silent. Whatever else death was, surely it was silent. And he heard withes snicker, their ice tinkle, the snow creak beneath his feet.
He heard the footsteps behind him stop, then stamp. At the edge of an eye he glimpsed the movement.
His body had answered before he understood. He had flung himself aside, caught balance again, spun about. The thrust of the heavy javelin barely missed his neck.
He dropped his own spears and fell into single-combat stance, feet at right angles, knees tensed and slightly bent, shield ready between them and his chin. The sword flew free in his grasp. Budic had recovered too and withdrawn a couple of yards, clutching his light javelin.
For a space they stared into each other’s eyes. A remote part of Gratillonius noticed that he still felt nothing, no fear or anger or surprise. It merely seemed incumbent on him to say, level-toned, “I should have expected that. However, I didn’t know you for a coward as well as a traitor.”
Budic likewise held his voice down, but unevenness crowded through it. “You’ll die regardless. This way would have been kinder.”
“Also to you, when you remembered afterward?”
The face that once remained so boyish was—not aged; beyond time. “No. You see, I’m damned whatever I do. It’s sensible to win as easily as I can.”
Puzzlement stirred faint in Gratillonius. “Why? What brought you to this?”
Budic edged backward between two trees. “It’s best for everyone,” he said. “For Ys, for Rome. I couldn’t take the reins at once if I were badly hurt, and I must. You understand, don’t you? I promise you burial according to the rites of your faith, and an honored memory.”
Suddenly he brought his right arm up, back, forward. The javelin leaped.
Gratillonius had foreknown. Let that head bite into his shield, and the dragging shaft would make half his defense into a hindrance. He counted on Budic’s tendency to hook. The lad couldn’t be as calm as he pretended. There were only a couple of heartbeats’ leeway, but Gratillonius was ready. He slanted the shield. The missile skittered over the curved surface and fell. Adminius would be proud of me, thought Gratillonius, and all at once that was funny; he barked a laugh.
Budic drew blade. He kept his place to see what his opponent would do. Gratillonius dismissed the idea of hurling a javelin back. As close as they were, Budic could be on him before he retrieved and cast. Next he decided against moving ahead. The two of them were equally armed and armored now. Let Budic come to him.
Time stretched. Gratillonius settled down into waiting.
Budic’s mask shattered. “Very well!” he snarled, and advanced. He kept to legionary style, though, which showed how dangerous he still was.
The distant part of Gratillonius noticed that he himself was making no gesture of surrender, in body or in mind. He meant to play the game out as well as he was able. It was something to do. The upshot didn’t matter.
Just outside sword reach, Budic circled slowly in search of an opening. Gratillonius turned with him. They had scant room for maneuver here in the thick of the grove. Getting snagged by a bush or tripped by a fallen bough hidden under the snow could be fatal.
In a single motion, Budic stopped his sidewise course, made a step ahead, and stabbed at Gratillonius’s right thigh. Gratillonius shifted shield to intercept and tried for Budic’s bare forearm. Budic’s blade curved about. Steel rang on steel and slithered back. Both men retreated. The circling resumed.
Budic passed close by a tree. Gratillonius saw when a limb would block him in bringing his shield leftward. Releasing tension on his right knee, Gratillonius pivoted on the left leg and struck at that side. Were he as young as Budic, he might have gotten around the edge. Budic was too quick for him, swung his whole body left and caught the point on his shield. It thudded into the wood. Budic stabbed at the arm. Gratillonius got clear barely in time. Blood oozed along a scratch from wrist to elbow.
“Hunh!” Budic grunted, and attacked. For a while they stood shield pressed against shield, thrust and cut, up, down, to, fro. Repeatedly, each tried the rim-catching trick, but the other was alert for it. They went on, stab, slash, defend, strike, a storm of iron.
When they broke off and paused, a few feet apart, Gratillonius was trembling. Air rattled in and out of a throat gone mummy-dry. Sweat drenched his garments; he felt it begin to chill. The ice cave pulsed, closed in on him, drew back into immensity, closed in anew.
Am I winded already? he wondered. Am I still this weak after my bones have knit? I thought I could do better.
He looked at the shadows of the ice-leaf trees and realized that the strife had gone on longer than he had counted.
Budic’s breaths were deep but rhythmical. He smiled a curious, archaic smile. “You’re going to die, old man,” he said hoarsely. “Want to make it easy on yourself?”
Gratillonius shook his head. “Rather you.”
Budic grew plaintive. “I hate this, you know. I have to kill you, but please let me do it clean and painless. Then we can be friends again when we meet in hell.”
Once more, surprise stirred. “Do you really think you’re sending yourself to Tartarus?” Gratillonius panted. “In God’s name, any God’s, why?”
Budic poised for a renewed assault. “Dahut is worth every price,” he said.
“After you murdered her father?”
Budic’s voice throbbed. “She’s ready for me.”
The rage that burst up through Gratillonius was like nothing else in his life. It froze all the world. Its white wind filled all space and time. It bore away humanness, mortality, the divine; nothing remained but ice, the crystalline logic of what to do.
The centurion took a military stride forward. “Soldier—atten-TION!” he shouted.
During the instant that habits and loyalties held Budic locked, Gratillonius reached him. Budic became aware. Gratillonius had slipped shield under shield edge. He threw his last strength into the motion that levered Budic’s defense aside. Budic staggered. He smote. His weapon stopped on his foeman’s mail. Gratillonius’s point went into the throat.
He could do no more. He let go, dropped to his knees, rested his weight on his hands, and shuddered.
He had done enough. Blood spouted, a shout of red. Where it hit the snow, steam puffed. Budic lurched against a tree. The impact shook it. Icicles dropped. They made a brief bright knife-rain over Budic. He slid downward. Head and shoulders propped up by the bole, he sought Gratillonius with his eyes. His lips moved. He half raised his hands. Did he ask forgiveness? No telling, as fast as he died.
Too bad, thought Gratillonius. If I could’ve taken you alive, I’d have twisted out of you what you meant by that last obscenity.
Strength crept back, and a measure of compassion. At length he rose, went to the body, stood in the wildly colored pool where it lay. Dead, Budic looked very young. Gratillonius remembered marches, campflres, battles, parades, and stammered confidences.
He stooped, eased the corpse onto its back, closed eyes and jaw, secured them with sticks broken off a frosty shrub.
He didn’t want to meet Corentinus, but he’d send a message bidding the pastor arrange Christian burial for this member of his flock.
And what had led the sheep astray? Gratillonius recovered his sword, wiped it clean on a section of his kilt onto which blood had not spurted, sheathed it. He also recovered the javelins before he trudged back to the Lodge. Good practice. Waste not, want not.
Something had gone hideously wrong. It had lured a man of his command to mutiny, death, damnation according to every faith Gratillonius knew about. He must find out what. Somehow it did involve Dahut. A shadow had fallen over the daughter of Dahilis. Well, her old Papa would bring her clear of it. That was plenty to live for. And his other girls, and Bodilis, Forsquilis, Tambilis—all the Queens, really, with all Ys, his comrades, his men, everybody who trusted him. He’d be too busy for regrets.
Gratillonius straightened. His stride grew longer, onward through the winter wood.
Bodilis, Forsquilis, Tambilis, wisdom, knowledge, friendship. Thus Gratillonius thought of them as he entered and found them seated in expectation. Love went without saying, but here it bore three strangely different faces.
Well, they were three different people. He halted and returned their regard, their carefully formal greetings. Beneath the grayed waves of her hair, through the lines that time had plowed, he saw concern in Bodilis’s countenance, and an underlying calm as strong as the bones. Forsquilis leaned back with the deceptive ease of a cat, the enigmatic expression of a Grecian idol. O Venus, she was beautiful, in the fullest ripeness of her womanhood; memory burned him. Tambilis perched nervous on the edge of her chair. Her pregnancy had just begun to show, early rounding out of belly and bosom, haggardness in visage. Like her two previous, it was causing her frequent discomfort. She had not sought his bed this past month or more, nor he hers; once she had whispered him hurried thanks for that, and a promise to make it up as soon as she felt better. With royal and military affairs cramming in on him, and daily exercises to the point of exhaustion in order that he get back in condition, he usually slept well anyhow.
Last night he had not.
“Be seated,” Tambilis invited. Her gesture included a small table between their chairs and his, where wine, water, and cups waited.
“Thank you, I’d liefer stand for the present,” Gratillonius replied. In fact, he started to pace, back and forth in front of them.
“I hope we can open up that cage you are in,” said Bodilis.
He gave her half a smile. “I do myself. ’Tis no pleasant abode.”
“Speak,” said Forsquilis.
He cleared his throat and began. It was impossible for him to come straight to the point. He had prepared words that would lead toward it.
“In the three days since my last combat, I’ve been thinking and questioning much. ’Twas hard. So hard that hitherto I’d shied off. Nay, better said, I’d refused to believe there was aught that required asking about. Give Budic thanks of a sort, for that his… rebellion… shocked me into understanding. I woke the next morning and found myself aware that some riddles must be resolved. To go on thence took all the courage I own.
“Why did Budic turn against me? Tommaltach and Carsa—well, they were young, headstrong. Ambition and, and lust seemed to account for their actions. Not that I’d imagined any such baseness in their metal. The betrayals hurt worse than the weapons. However, we’re ofttimes surprised in this life.
“But Budic! My faithful soldier for almost twenty years. We stood on the Wall together. Together we came here and slowly learned that this was our home. His Christianity never divided us. If anything, devout as he was, it made him the more true to his oath. But then, without the least forewarning, he broke it, broke with everything he had been and believed in. Why?
“His messmates, his Ysan companions, everybody who knew him and whom I inquired of, are as amazed as me. None can explain it. I summoned his widow and interrogated her; she blubbered that she knew naught, but in the past two months he scarcely swapped a word with her.”
“That pitiful creature,” Bodilis murmured. “You were not harsh, were you?”
“Nay, no cause for that. I’ve seen to it that she’ll get her pension. Folk do agree Budic grew moody and withdrawn at about that date. He’d absent himself for long whiles, and when he returned would tell nobody where he’d been. Some persons noticed him in Lowtown or out on the northern heights. Doubtless others saw him also but failed to recognize him, for he’d dress in plain clothes and keep his head covered. Something was gnawing in him.”
“Have you spoken with Corentinus?” Forsquilis asked.
Gratillonius scowled, shook his head, quickened his pace. “Not yet. I did send him a note requesting he tell me aught he knew. He wrote back that he had no information save that Budic had quit seeking his guidance as of yore. We’ve neither of us any desire to meet.”
Tambilis swallowed, ran tongue over lips, finally achieved saying, “Sisters, I’ve kept silence about this until today, but they quarreled… over Dahut.”
“Aye,” Gratillonius rasped. Now he could delay no more; but he was in motion, he could go ahead like a legionary quick-stepping toward the enemy line. “He claimed she’d poisoned the minds of Tommaltach and Carsa, that she wanted my death so my slayer would make her his Queen. Of course I threw him out. He’s lucky I didn’t kill him.”
Forsquilis straightened. “He’s far from the only one who’s borne such thoughts,” she said in a voice that stabbed. “He alone had the honesty to tell you them.”
Gratillonius slammed to a stop. He reached for a carafe, pulled back his hand before he threw the vessel at her, and coughed, “You too?”
Tears stood in the eyes of Bodilis. “We must needs be blind and deaf not to have… wondered. Daily I’ve prayed the suspicion prove false. Belisama has not heeded me.”
“I don’t believe it!” Tambilis cried. “My own Sister!”
Gratillonius held his gaze on Forsquilis. “What of you, witch Queen?” he demanded.
Her look at him was unwavering. “You know what I told you in a certain dawn,” she answered. “The Gods are at work. We are fated. I wish you had not asked me to be here this day.”
“Do you, then, say we are helpless? I scorn that thought.”
“Belike we can save something. What if you departed Ys and never came back? The strife might die away.”
He bridled. “Desert my post? Abandon Dahut in her need?”
“I knew you’d refuse,” Forsquilis sighed. “My one thin hope is that you may think further about this.”
His indignation collapsed. “Dahut cannot be guilty,” he groaned.
Abruptly the three women were at his side, embraced him, kissed him, stroked and murmured to him. He shivered and gulped.
After a while he could draw apart and tell them, flatly but resolvedly: “What I confront, much too late, is that those suspicions exist. They are hellish wrong, but they are not groundless. I must cease calling enemy anyone who feels them. Instead, I must get them done away with. I must uncover the truth beyond every possible doubt.
“How, though? I asked you to come, you, the three Gallicenae I can wholly rely on—come and give me your counsel, your help. For her sake.”
His self-possession broke again. “What shall we do?” he pleaded.
“We awaited this,” Bodilis told him. “Let us sit down, calm ourselves as best we may with a cupful, and think.”
They did. Silence followed.
At last Tambilis inquired timidly, “Could you speak with her, Grallon?”
He grimaced. “I’m afraid to. She’d be so hurt that I could even utter the foul thing, and—and what could she do but swear she’s innocent?” He paused. “You can better sound her out. Gain her confidence, till she tells you, shows you what it really is that she’s been doing.”
“I’ve tried already, darling.” Tambilis’s head drooped.
“She is indeed alienated,” said Bodilis softly. “That’s understandable. She was earnest in her worship when a child. Does she now go away to be alone with the Gods and seek Their mercy—on you, on Ys?”
“My arts have not availed to find it out,” said Forsquilis. “However, there are folk who can follow a person unbeknownst.”
Gratillonius’s fists whitened on his knees. “You were always the one to speak the cruel thing…. Oh, ’twas necessary. I’ve made myself consider setting spies on her, though the idea gagged me. But who? Dirty little wretches from the Fishtail? They’d know how, as a decent man would not. I can see them leering through a window while she… undresses for bed…. Could we trust their reports? Could they themselves know what it meant, whatever they glimpsed?”
Forsquilis nodded. “Aye. Suppose she danced before Taranis. ’Tis a rite forbidden men to witness. Or—other possibilities come to mind. And she could well grow aware of watchers. She has an awesome gift for sorcery, does Dahut. ’Tis ill to think what she might perchance wreak in revenge.”
“But she’d never harm those who love her,” Tambilis protested.
Gratillonius skinned his teeth. “If she struck the spy blind and palsied, ’twould suffice.”
“She’s only an apprentice witch,” Forsquilis reminded them. “I myself could not cast such a spell. And yet—”
“Action is vital, true,” Bodilis declared. “But let us move with the utmost caution. I know how you suffer under this, Gratillonius, beloved. Still, you can endure while we feel our way forward.”
She sat quiet before continuing: “Suppose, first, I invite her and you two Sisters to dine. We can invent an occasion. We’ll not force matters, we’ll simply offer her comfort, after this latest ghastliness between her father and a friend. Comfort and, aye, gentle merriment. It may be we’ll thaw her fears. In due course she may open her heart to us.”
Tambilis brightened. Forsquilis went expressionless.
A knock resounded. “What the pox?” Gratillonius growled.
The knocking came again, and again, hard, a male hand behind it. Tambilis half rose, uncertainty on her face. Gratillonius waved her back and went to open the door.
Cynan stood outside, in the armor of guard duty. At his back was a tall blond man in Roman traveling garb.
The legionary saluted. “Beg pardon, sir,” he said. “You told us you shouldn’t be disturbed. But this courier has a letter from the praetorian prefect in Augusta Treverorum. We decided I’d better bring him straight to you.”
The newcomer made a civilian’s gesture of respect. “Quintus Flavius Sigo, sir, at your service,” he announced in the same Latin. “Allow me to deliver a summons.”
Gratillonius took the seal parchment proffered him. “I am called to Treverorum?” he asked slowly.
“You are, sir. Effective at once. Details in the letter. Allow me to hope you will not be unduly inconvenienced.”
“I’ll need a day or two to make ready.”
“Sir—”
“I am prefect and King in Ys. I have my responsibilities. Cynan, take Sigo to the majordomo, who’s to see that he gets proper quarters and whatever else he needs.”
Gratillonius turned back to his wives. “I’m sorry,” he said in Ysan. “But you knew I was expecting this, albeit not quite so soon.”
Recently he had gotten a communication from Rufinus. The Gaul had reached Mediolanum and set about becoming a familiar at court. That took time, but he had won as far as being granted a brief audience with Stilicho, besides making himself a crony of numerous lesser officials. He reported that Stilicho was at present preoccupied with obtaining consulship and with preparations against Alaric the Visigothic King, whose behavior grew ever more ominous. Nonetheless the half-Vandal Roman had appeared sympathetic to Rufinus’s petition on behalf of Gratillonius, an impression that was reinforced by conversations with the underlings. Probably Stilicho was going to send orders north that the case be settled with dispatch, once for all.
Evidently Stilicho had done it.
Rufinus had expressed the hope—it shone through the sardonicism of his language—that the directive would require Gratillonius receive the benefit of any doubts. Gratillonius’s own hopes were at the back of his mind, as he shifted the parchment around in his hands.
His immediate thought was that he’d be gone for more than a month, and investigation of Dahut must await his return. Good. Maybe the miserable business would resolve itself meanwhile. If not, well, in his absence no further evil could happen.
Guilvilis had Vigil on Sena. Gratillonius found that oddly saddening, in spite of his having sought her house the evening before. She had not ventured to offer him more than a kiss. It was shy and salt.
The rest of the Queens were here today, in the basilica of the Council. He had given the Suffete magnates much the same short speech as in the past when he was about to journey off: Necessity called him; nothing urgent was on the horizon; they should carry on the governance of Ys according to established law and usage; he ought to be back in ample time to take any initiatives that might be required. Thereafter he requested them to depart but the Gallicenae to remain. Soren surprised him by responding, “We all wish you well, O King. May the Gods fare with you,” before his heavy form disappeared out the door.
Now Gratillonius stood on the dais before those Gods and his guards, looking down at the eight women on the first tier of seats. This morning was again lucent; light brimmed the great chamber. It made the white headdresses shine and the blue gowns glow.
One by one he regarded them. Tambilis; Bodilis; Forsquilis. Lanarvilis wrapped in aloofness. Innilis gazing wistfully from her place close to stern Vindilis. Maldunilis throwing him a smile that he knew was an invitation, come his return. Dahut—Dahut sat three or four feet beyond, alone. She likewise wore blue, which gave back the depths of her eyes, but—to cry out that she was not truly a high priestess—she was bareheaded. Her hair billowed loose past the face that was like her mother’s. He thought he saw yearning upon her, as if she wished to spring into her father’s arms but had not yet discovered how.
“I wanted privacy for us to say our farewells,” he told them awkwardly.
“What is there to say, other than that word?” retorted Lanarvilis.
“Nay, Sister,” Bodilis chided her, “we are more than Gratillonius’s Queens. We are his wives, and his daughter. Let us send him off with our love.”
“Oh, come home soon,” Tambilis called low.
“Aye,” said Vindilis grudgingly, “we must wish you success among the Romans.”
“You’ll win,” Maldunilis insisted. “You will.”
He barely heard Innilis: “And then can there be a healing?”
“I know this much,” Forsquilis said, “that for better or worse, ’twill never again be as it was between us.”
Gratillonius’s gaze sought Dahut. Her lips moved the least bit, soundlessly, before she shook her head.
“Well,” he said around a thickness in his throat, “abide in peace, my dears.”
He took the Hammer from Adminius and led his soldiers out past the women. His last sight of the chamber showed him the eidolons of the Gods looming over it, and Dahut’s head a blaze of gold beneath.
Folk hailed but did not accost him on his way through the streets to the palace. There he changed his robes for his centurion’s outfit and left the Key in its coffer. Favonius awaited him, impatient, at the rear. He vaulted onto the stallion’s back. Already mounted, by special permission, was the courier Sigo. They rode down to Lir Way and between the walls and images that lined it, among the people who thronged it, to High Gate. The twenty-three legionaries tramped after. They had made their own goodbyes.
Pack animals stood ready outside. The men took them over, assumed route formation, fell into the cadence of the road. Gratillonius led them toward Redonian Way. That was quicker than going through city traffic to Northbridge.
“Isn’t this a rather late start, sir?” asked Sigo. “The days are still short. Julius Caesar never wasted daylight.” He was a Treverian, his family long civilized, himself very given to showing off his Romanness in these times when barbarian Germani were everywhere on the move.
“We’ll camp at a farm I know,” Gratillonius snapped. “The next good site is a hard march beyond.”
Briefly he wished he’d been less curt. Sigo was polite enough. No matter. He, Gratillonius, had too much else on his mind, in his breast. For no sound reason, he was glad to have shed the Key.
They crossed the canal and passed the turn off of Processional Way. The Wood of the King lay yonder. Against the snow it was as dark as clotted blood. They left it behind and came out on Point Vanis.
There Gratillonius drew rein. He and his men saluted the grave of Eppillus. The courier was startled but refrained from questions.
A moment longer Gratillonius lingered, to look back. The sea reached calm, like a steel mirror, save where it broke white across the reefs. In this clarity he could make out Sena afar, even the tower upon its lowness. The road swept down to where Ys stood athwart the cliffs of Cape Rach. The wall formed a ruddy ring from which the towers leaped agleam. Gulls flew around them, among them, hundreds of wings over Ys.
Keep Dahut safe, he told them. Guard her with your beauty.
Favonius snorted and pranced. Gratillonius curbed him, then loosened reins and rode on.
The cold spell ended. Snow began to melt. The canal gurgled engorged. Wind whooped, clashed breakers against rocks, shook trees, hounded cloud shadows across the land.
Soon trade would reawaken, as dirt roads grew passable. Occasional travelers were already arriving on the paved highways. For the most part they brought lumber, charcoal, furs, leather—winter produce. A few had come farther, pleasure seekers, negotiants, adventurers.
Mules drew three carts from the direction of Gesocribate, down to Aquilonian Way and there west. On the first of these a man sat atop its bales, strummed a harp and sang. The song was on an alien scale and in foreign words, but rollicked so that his companions listened with enjoyment. The sentinels above High Gate noticed and gave him special heed. They felt no misgivings. Ys stood open day and night to any peaceful person, and outlanders got an eager welcome. It was only that he was such a big, fine-looking man.
“Who goes there?” called a marine.
“You know me,” the leader of the merchant party cried back from his horse, through the salt wind. “Audrenius the fuel dealer.”
“I meant him with you.”
“A Scotian who joined us on our journey. He’s a good fellow.”
“Niall is my name,” shouted the stranger in accented but fluent Ysan. “I’m for seeing the wonders of your city.”
The guard beckoned genially with his pike. Niall entered.