“Girton!”
I turned to find Boros striding toward me. The expression on his horribly scarred face as unreadable as ever, but light sparkled in his eyes and he grabbed me by the arm in the traditional greeting of warriors.
“Boros, why are you here? I thought you were enjoying yourself as blessed of the ap Loflaar lands.”
He shrugged, the many enamelled plates of his armour chiming happily.
“To tell the truth my father had the place running so efficiently I am not needed, even though he is dead. The staff know what they are doing. All are provided for and I spend most of my time overseeing petty squabbles about lost pigs.”
“You are bored,” I said with a smile that felt forced, but Boros did not see it and grinned back at me. A terrifying sight.
“That is the essence of it. And with Rufra heading to Ceadoc to become high king, well, I thought, surely there will be some excitement there.”
“It will be politics, Boros. Old men sitting and talking.”
“Tired Lands politics is never so simple.” His hand fell to the hilt of his longsword. “And you’ve already had some excitement, eh?” I nodded and rubbed at my arm. The bandage was tight and the magic running through me already healing the wound. “I wonder what honour Rufra will bestow on you for saving his queen and child?”
“He does not tend to honour me any more.”
“Well, if you will insist on keeping to the shadows. But the high kingship is why I am here, the great and the good of the Tired Lands will gather and no doubt Rufra will need a good sword arm at his side.” Something dark crossed his eyes when he said “great and good,” and I knew that he did not tell me everything.
“You think your brother may attend.” It was not a question and he did not reply, only glanced away. “He is dead, Boros. We beat him at Gwyre sixteen years ago and his own will have turned on him for it. They will have treated him just as cruelly as he treated others. No doubt Dark Ungar has chained him to the land and he starves and weeps as he pays for the things he did. You have been avenged.”
“I will believe it only when I see a corpse, Girton. You do not know him like I do.”
“Like you did. He is bleached bones now, Boros.” I put a hand on his arm and he took a deep breath to calm the mania that burned within him for his brother, the man who had stolen his looks with a blow from a mace.
“Aye, maybe,” he said.
“Have you seen Rufra yet?” I asked. “He will be glad you see you.”
“Not yet. I will let you see him first.”
I nodded then left. The pair of guards at Rufra’s two-storey caravan parted to let me through. Inside it was stiflingly hot. A fire burned in a metal brazier despite the fact the yearsbirth sun was hot enough to burn skin. Rufra loved the heat, he said it was the only thing that kept away the pain of the wound in his side.
He sat on a stark wooden throne, little more than a raised chair, and by his feet Gusteffa the jester lounged. Really, I should have stood by him at all times as I was his Heartblade and that was my place, but he preferred the company of his lesser jester and a constantly revolving set of guards. He watched me, blue eyes burning with some inner fire, but I was no longer privy to what fuelled it.
“The queen nearly died, Girton,” he said. That was it, no preamble, no welcome.
“But she did not, and now you have a strong son.”
He leaned forward.
“You knocked a heavily pregnant woman from a mount. She could have fallen badly, been trampled.”
“But she was not.”
“And that was luck, Girton, nothing more, and dead gods know you should never rely on my luck.” There was the crux of it. Rufra really believed himself cursed, though his realm had prospered, he had not: a wound that would not heal, two children and a wife dead, the loss of so many that he called friends.
“Voniss has ridden all her life, she knows how to fall from a mount safely.”
“My aunt Cearis had ridden all her life, was the best cavalry leader I ever had, and she died falling from a mount.” He did not raise his voice but I knew him well enough to hear anger there—anger and a little desperation.
“It was knock Voniss down or leave her to certain death at the blades of the assassin.”
He looked away from me, staring down at Gusteffa.
“I want to know who sent them, Girton.” He mumbled the words. “I task you with this. Take whatever you want, whatever troops you need. Comb the grasslands for this assassin.”
“That will be a waste of time as they will be long gone. If you want to find the culprit, look to Ceadoc.”
He leant back in his chair, wincing as pain shot through him, and I saw the smallest movement of his hand toward his side before he stopped it. Never show weakness, it was ingrained in him now. It had made him hard and cold.
“Ceadoc,” he said, making the castle’s name into a sigh. “I must talk to you of Ceadoc, Girton.”
“I know.” I sounded petulant and knew it. “You wish me to protect your family and find who sent these assassins? I could balance a plate on my head as well.”
Rufra stared at me and a cold silence fell on the room. Had I gone too far? Once he would have laughed at that. Now he only blinked.
“You are a man of many talents,” he said slowly. “But I would make some requests of you, and I would lay down some rules.”
“Rules?”
“I am a king, it is generally what kings do.” He sat straighter and I thought I saw a flash of humour in his eyes, though it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Neander will be at Ceadoc.”
“I know.” A fizzing through my blood, a sudden need to be holding a blade.
“I know you blame him for the death of your first love, but that was twenty years ago now. You are not to touch him.” I started to speak but he raised a hand. “Without him, the entire priesthood will turn against me. With him, he will make sure they support me.”
“And what did you have to offer him for this?”
“That does not concern you.” We locked gazes, but it was a war I could not win unless I was willing to walk away, and I was not. I still hoped, almost every day, that I would see my friend emerge from beneath the shell of royalty he closed around himself. And sometimes I did fleetingly: caught happy moments, saw him laugh, but these moments had become more and more sparing over the years. “And I want you to approach the Children of Arnst, Girton. They will not see my emissaries since I banished them, but they will see you. They still call you Chosen.”
“And what can I offer them?”
“A temple, on the site of the old battlecamp, in the place where Arnst died.”
“That is a mistake, Rufra. You were right to cast them out. Don’t do this, don’t let a bunch of murderers create a place of pilgrimage for a rapist on your lands. That is not what you fought for.”
“How do you know what I fought for, assassin?”
“I know because I fought with you. We were friends.”
He stared at me, his mouth opening and closing, his body shaking with emotion. I hoped beyond hope he would say something funny, something clever that would warm me.
“I also want you to dance when we reach Ceadoc,” he said, “for the assembled blessed.”
“Me?” He had not asked me to dance as Death’s Jester for many years.
“Gusteffa says if I have Death’s Jester with me, and if I do not let you dance it will be seen as an insult to the blessed who are yet to make up their minds. I cannot have that. I need them on my side. And none of your games either.”
“Games, my king?”
“Messages, mottoes, choosing stories that will insult those gathered. Dance something safe. Gusteffa will help you decide.” The little jester grinned at me. I wanted to snap at her but this was not her fault. I held my anger in check.
“Death’s Jester makes its own choices.”
“Death’s Jester serves me!” He roared it, standing from his throne and then looking confused at what he had done. He glanced at Gusteffa, who turned to me and gave me a small shrug, as if to apologise for the whims of kings. “Please, Girton,” said Rufra. “Please do this thing for me.”
He sat, looking pained and miserable.
“Very well,” I said.
“And I am sorry about Feorwic, Girton,” he said. Before I could take some comfort from his words he chose to spoil it. “She should have left the assassin to Vinwulf. The boy can handle himself. Her death was needless.”
“Needless?” That one word escaped my lips and I found I could say no more. Rufra stared at me and my hands itched for violence. That he could be so dismissive of Feorwic created a fury within me, but at least part of it was that I feared he was right. Poor Feorwic should not have died, she should never have been here. “May I go now, my king?” He nodded but as I reached the door he spoke again.
“I have received a letter from Olek ap Survin. He says his father Dannic ap Survin is in fine health.” He said it conversationally, as if he were not reprimanding me because I had not carried out a murder he was too cowardly to ask me for.
“He is an old man, King Rufra,” I replied. “Old and ill. Such men often sicken and die without warning.” I walked out without waiting for a reply. Boros stared at my face as I left.
“He’s in a good mood then?” I did not reply, only stalked off into the camp.
I had a child to bury.
I laid Feorwic under a cairn of rocks by the river near where she had died. One day, this would be her island. As I laid each rock I made an oath to Xus the unseen: I would find who had sent this assassin, not for Rufra, but for me. And I would avenge myself on them no matter how unpolitic it may be or how much trouble it may cause the king in his bid to become high king of Ceadoc.
All my life I had put aside my own wishes for others, but not this time.
I would send Feorwic’s killer into a life of service to Dark Ungar and, for the first time in many years, I heard a voice inside me speak.
I can help you.