“Be that as it may, I will not abandon my son—neither to the ghosts of Tirfang nor to the Eisenlonder barbarians. And so, against the advice of all my counselors, I will take my place at the head of the men who ride out tomorrow.
“If you wish,” he added, “you may ride with me. But be warned, it is a long journey from here to the Drakenskaller Mountains, and even moving with all speed we may come too late.”
It was the most they could do to thank him and accept his offer of horses, still reeling as they were from the destruction of their hopes.
Dinner in Ristil’s spacious, high-raftered hall was simple and hearty: fish, game, and rabbit; bread and plenty of honey; hot soup and blackberry tart. A modest, sensible repast for a royal household. Servants came and went swiftly and efficiently, setting tables with fine linens, lighting tall white candles, tossing herbs into fires to make the smoke sweet.
The Queen was there at the table, gracious and smiling, along with her bevy of small sons and daughters, and there were so many of Ristil’s sisters and nieces present that Sindérian hardly knew how to keep them all straight. They ate from plates and bowls of thick-walled pottery, drank from beakers made of heavy glass, pale green and palest blue. It was, on the whole, a subdued gathering. Behind an outward display of quiet good cheer, it remained perfectly obvious that all were thinking of loved ones in danger at Tirfang.
After the meal, Sindérian and the Prince were separated. A serving woman led her to a small, clean chamber in an upper story. There were hides on the floor, a bright woven blanket on the bed, and a green bronze dragon with a fire in his belly and the light shining out through his eyes and mouth.
The woman indicated a pile of gifts the Queen had sent up for Sindérian’s use on the journey ahead: a change of clothes and some clean shifts, a boxwood comb, soap, and two pairs of thin woolen stockings.
There were also packets of healing herbs—only such simples as any good housewife might keep, but welcome nevertheless.
Sindérian felt tears sting her eyes as the kindness she had received in this place suddenly overwhelmed her. Not since Brill had she experienced such disinterested and unaffected generosity from people who had such heavy troubles of their own.
Whatever happens, may this house be safe, she thought fiercely. Let the good they do here come back to them threefold.
And when she was alone again, she began to work a spell of protection, dribbling wax from a burning candle onto the floorboards, sketching out the runes tarien and dünadh, pulling threads from the hem of her gown and weaving them into intricate knots. Finally, she whispered a béanath, a charm of blessing: Dioho nélo ani ashladi anaëllen dénes nadath,
Dioho ansiansé altheönad angen,
Mûr dei deinnar dioho dir aldeinad ran.
It might not be much in a world at war, in an age of terrors; yet she hoped it would do them some good, however slight.
It was the dark hour before dawn when the same servant came back in with a light to rouse her.
Sindérian had not undressed, so it was only the work of a moment to bind up her hair and pull on her boots. Meanwhile, the woman packed up the Queen’s gifts in a leather pouch. Then it was back through the halls and out to a courtyard, where she found the Prince and Aell already waiting for her.
More servants, carrying candles in earthenware pots, appeared to light their way across the bridge through a series of small private gates in the walls dividing the town, then out through the main gate, to the Skyrran camp. Faolein stretched his wings, launched himself from Sindérian’s shoulder, and flew on ahead.
Outside the great wooden palisade, both camps were astir with activity. By the light of hundreds of lanterns and torches, tents were taken down, folded, and packed away, and men were milling about on a thousand last-minute errands: dowsing campfires, inspecting their gear, tightening girths and adjusting saddles, loading up wagons. It seemed like they would never be ready in time, yet Sindérian knew from experience that they probably would. It was all so familiar: the brassy glint of armor by firelight, the smell of horses, leather, sweat, and excitement. She might almost have been back in Rheithûn before the fall of Gilaefri.
As the King had explained the evening before, he had divided his army into two unequal parts. The greater part consisted of more than a thousand riders, including the troops from Mistlewald and Arkenfell. These were men prepared to travel swiftly and with tight belts. In addition to what could be carried by a train of lightly burdened packhorses, they took only such food and water as they could individually carry with them, and they wore their shields and spears strapped at their backs. A smaller force, made up of foot soldiers as well as cavalry, would be escorting the heavily laden supply wagons at a necessarily slower pace. Neither party expected to meet up with the other until they reached the fortress in the mountains.
Amid all this movement and confusion it was difficult for Sindérian and her friends to locate King Ristil.
They found him just as the first streaks of lavender and gold were painting the sky—and they might not have met up with him then, were it not for Prince Ruan’s keen eyes. Surrounded by his captains and esquires, the King was grim and businesslike in armor of silver mail, and a sword with a golden hilt was strapped at his side.
“You three will ride with me in the vanguard,” he told them. At his command, two grooms and a stable boy led forward the horses he had personally selected for their use, already harnessed and saddled.
By the time the rim of the sun was burning the eastern grasslands to gold, everyone was mounted and ready, awaiting the King’s pleasure. Somehow, the milling crowds had resolved into an organized, disciplined force. At a sign from the King, horns blared, banners were raised, and the first troops set off.
At the last moment, Faolein swooped down from a clear sky and established himself on his daughter’s saddlebow.
Riding along on the elegant black mare the King had chosen for her, glancing back over her shoulder at the equally fine gelding that would carry her during the second leg of the journey, Sindérian felt an uncommon lift to her spirits. To be not only mounted but well mounted, to be riding out in the cool of the day—
Then an idea that had troubled her during the night came back to plague her, and her high spirits tumbled abruptly. For it was entirely possible—worse, it was more than likely—that she and her companions had arrived at Lückenbörg in advance of Ouriána’s priests simply because the Furiádhin had never been going there at all. They had, as she knew very well, ways of learning things that were not altogether natural, not altogether right, methods that might have revealed to them weeks ago where the Princess was to be found.
And with that kind of knowledge, they might be anywhere on the road to Tirfang. They might already be so far ahead, it would be impossible to catch up to them.
After three days of hard riding, changing horses as necessary, King Ristil and his travel-stained and sunburned army reached a region of bony hills at the foot of the mountains, where they set up a camp in a rocky field between great tables of cracked stone.
Beyond the hills rose the gaunt peaks of the Drakenskallers, but the middle slopes—which ought to have been green at this time of year—were oddly and ominously white. All along, Sindérian had been testing the winds for omens. Those from the north and east brought ambiguous and confusing messages. At the same time, the stars continued to predict tumults and prodigies. The sight of those white slopes did nothing to allay her fears.
There had already been two short but fierce skirmishes with Eisenlonders along the way. Fortunately, in each case the advantage of surprise, strength, and familiarity with the terrain favored the Skyrrans, and their numbers had not been greatly reduced. But there were also encounters with hundreds of refugees, all of whom had news and stories to tell, and these encounters served to impress upon the King and his men how badly the war was actually going.