He jumped when she slid alongside of him into the narrow bedrolls. She moved as silently as a Gypsy Scout, perhaps more so. And when she had entwined her arms and legs with his, she pinned him down and kissed him on the mouth. “For a great and mighty general,” she whispered, “you are not so very bold.”
Rudolfo returned her kiss, amazed at how in the moment he finally longed for home, home appeared and welcomed him.
Petronus
Petronus was rounding the corner, approaching the galley tent, when the muddy bird flapped into camp. It squawked and hopped about until he scooped it up and slipped the unthreaded message from its foot. He opened it and saw Whymer runes.
Your grandson is our honored guest, it read.
Petronus checked the tent first. Then the wagon and the galley and the bathing tent. When Neb didn’t
turn up at any of those places, he went next to the sentries. But the sentries were pulled in closer now that
defense was warranted, and at sundown, the guard had changed.
After he’d done that much, Petronus returned to the camp and organized a search party. The War
Sermon started up as they moved into the city.
But midway through the search, Petronus called them together and sent them back to the camp. The Marsh King’s note was specific enough that he knew they wouldn’t find the boy. While the others drifted back, Petronus stayed on the northern edge of the city and watched the line of forests. Tonight, the War Sermon was particularly cryptic-a string of prophetic utterances about a boy, obscure references to texts Petronus had heard of but never seen. Texts that not even the Androfrancines had seen these two thousand years. Only the memory of these texts survived as references in newer works.
He understood the words but did not understand their meaning. “He’s in the Marsh King’s camp,” Gregoric said.
Petronus turned in the direction of the voice. “You’ve seen him then?” “Aye,” the scout said. “We saw him running with one of their scouts.”
Petronus felt anger, sharp and focused. “And yet you did not stop him?”
“No. For many reasons I’m sure you can cipher out.”
Yes. It would have meant giving away the Ninefold Forest House’s continued presence at Windwir. Petronus did not like the mathematics of it, but it was what it was. He would hope he’d choose differently, but knew that he had been in that position before. Sacrifices for the greater good. Memories of that burning village chewed at him. “Have you seen their camp?”
Gregoric’s voice moved again. “I have not. They’re better woodsmen than Sethbert’s men. And they seem to have kin-clave with us.”
“I found that surprising,” Petronus said.
“We did as well. But we’ll have some better idea of it in the next few days.”
Petronus raised his eyebrows, waiting for Gregoric to finish, but he didn’t speak right away. When he did, his voice was far away and he was running fast. “We will also inquire about your boy.”
Those words settled him somewhat. He still felt the strain pulling at his neck and back, and he swung his arms as he turned back toward camp.
There’s nothing more that you can do here, old man.
As he walked, he thought about the Gypsy Scout’s words. Most likely, it meant that Rudolfo was near and intending to parley with the Marsh King. It would be a first, and to Petronus’s recollection, there had been a rather brief and nasty war between the Ninefold Forest and the Marshers. Four, maybe five years before his assassination. Jakob had captured the Marsh King and showed him his Physicians of Penitent Torture. Then he released him, and the Marshers never bothered the Forest Houses again.
Now they were Rudolfo’s only kin-clave remaining in the world apart from his alliance with Vlad Li Tam. And they had Neb.
Petronus stopped and looked behind him at the dark line of trees against the sky. Remnants of his
upbringing as a Gods-fearing boy momentarily usurped his Androfrancine sensibilities. It happened infrequently, but when it did it reminded Petronus of how fragile the human heart and mind can be when faced with potential loss.
All the way back to camp, Petronus prayed.
Neb
Th»s Nizee Marshers defied Neb’s imagination.
He’d run as fast as he could to keep up with the scout, tearing through the underbrush, ducking and weaving to avoid the branches that slapped him. The scout was fast and big, making no attempt now for stealth.
Neb ran for what felt like leagues before he realized the forest had changed. Fishing nets interwoven with branches concealed mud-smeared, tattered tents. Unkempt men and women, many slack-jawed and empty-eyed, wandered the camp. They wore unmatched bits of weaponry and armor scavenged from two thousand years of skirmishing, and they moved to and fro in silence.
Neb’s guide vanished, leaving him at the edge of camp. A young girl approached him. She was covered in filth, just like the others, her hair shot through with mud and ash, and Neb suddenly realized that it wasn’t simply different values around hygiene. They did this to themselves, painting themselves with earth and ash, for reasons that were sacred to them.
The girl smiled at him, and beneath the caked dirt, he could see that she possessed a coltish kind of prettiness. She was nearly as tall as he was, and he thought perhaps her hair was a mouse brown beneath the mud. Despite the dirt, she had it pulled back from her face and wrapped with a bit of red ribbon.
“The Marsh King summoned you,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “Y-yes,” he said.
She took a step closer to him and he smelled her. It was a distinct scent-the musk of sweat, the smoky smell of the ash, the traces of sulfur and clay in the mud. And apples, he realized. She extended her hand to him. “I will take you.”
He took her hand and felt her gently tugging him along, walking at a quick gait. He studied her as they went. She wore mismatched boots and a long man’s tunic cut down to fit her. Beneath it, a long-sleeved shirt that had once been white. Her calves were bare and gray with dirt. She wore no weapons that he could see.
The Marsh girl led him through a maze of trees and tents, dodging in and out of the Marsh King’s silent soldiers. “Why are they so quiet?” he asked, his curiosity finally getting the better of him.
“It is our faith. We have one voice in war-the voice of our king. So we only speak when necessary.” Neb took her hint and remained quiet until they approached a tent slightly larger than the other, snug
against the side of a low hill. “The Marsh King awaits you in there,” the girl said pointing.