Somehow Lyrna knew she would never see it again.
They gave the dead to the sea at twilight, the Meldeneans standing in silent regard for their fallen crew-mates, more than twenty canvas-wrapped bodies weighted and lowered into the waves. As each corpse was readied to be carried to the rail crewmen would come forward to choose an item from the belongings laid out on a cloth at their feet. Any coin or valuables had already been collected by Belorath who would see them safely to the bereaved families, the trinkets left behind were merely tokens of remembrance: a die, a Keschet piece kept as a lucky charm, a favoured knife. The only words spoken were the names of the fallen men, enunciated clearly by the Shield to be crossed off the ship’s roll by his first mate.
The ship’s carpenter had fashioned a basic raft for Harvin, his body placed on a bed of pitch-soaked rope and rags, the sword Lyrna had given him resting under his crossed arms. Benten and Iltis lowered him over the side and the former brother said the words at his queen’s behest. Orena stood between Lyrna and Murel, clasping their hands in a tremulous grip, her cheeks dry now as she seemed to have exhausted her tears.
“We stand in witness to the end of the vessel that carried this man through his life,” Iltis said. “We know there are those in the Realm who would remember him without kindness or high regard. But we knew him as a friend and a comrade in a time of great trial, and he never failed us. An outlaw he may have been, but he died a Sword of the Realm, beloved by his woman, his friends and his queen. We give thanks for his deeds of kindness and courage and forgiveness for his moments of weakness. He is with the Departed now, his spirit will join with them to guide us in life and our service to the Faith.”
He let go of the rope holding the raft and it drifted away on the swell. Benten raised a bow notched with a flaming arrow and let it fly, the raft soon a fiery square on the broad ocean, carried towards the horizon and lost to view before the hour was gone.
The Shield found her as night fell, keeping company with Skerva once again. The sky was clear now, all trace of the storm gone from a sky lit with numberless stars, the air cool and pleasing on her skin.
“Your Highness owes me an answer,” Ell-Nestra said, resting against the figurehead’s arm. “Your true intent.”
She nodded, eyes still rapt on the sky. “When I was little, I tried to count them all. It proved very difficult, so I devised a plan. I would study just one section of sky seen through a window in the palace roof, count all the stars visible within it then multiply the result with the sky’s overall area.”
“Did it work?”
Lyrna breathed a soft laugh. “The number was so large there is no name for it. But that’s not the interesting thing. You see when I came to check my figures, for a good scholar always checks their figures, the number of stars in the window had changed. It was the exact same date a year later, but there were two more stars in my count. Two distant suns that simply hadn’t been there a year before.”
“And what did this tell you?”
“That if the stars in the sky are not fixed, then nothing is fixed. Nothing is eternal, all is temporary and ever-changing.” She turned away from the stars, meeting his gaze. “Nothing is fixed, my lord. No course is so set it cannot be changed.”
He gave a wry smile. “You would have us change course.”
“I would.”
“Might I ask in what direction?”
“I understand the Coldiron River is navigable to oceangoing vessels at this time of year, all the way to Alltor.”
“Which stands besieged and in dire need of relief.”
“Quite so.”
“And you command this in return for the debt we owe you?”
“You owe me nothing. My father tipped the scales and I tipped them back. I speak only sound strategy. You must know the Volarians will not just swallow this defeat and leave you in peace. This has been but one battle in a war that will end only with their utter ruin. And that ruin will start at Alltor.”
He moved closer, no smile on his lips and just honest appeal in his gaze. “I offer a counterproposal, Highness.” He nodded towards the west. “We have a fine ship, a loyal crew and all the world’s oceans to sail. The Merchant Kings have large fleets, I hear.”
Lyrna laughed, shaking her head. “You would make me a pirate queen?”
“I would seek to preserve your life. For I find it has great value to me.”
“A queen does not live, she reigns, and my reign has begun. Will you take me to Alltor?”
He moved closer still, looming above her, brows creased and eyes lost to shadow as he stared down at her. “May the gods save me, but you know I’d take you anywhere.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Frentis
He woke to find Illian and Arendil sharing breakfast, a watery porridge of oats from their diminishing supplies. Repeated movement left no time for hunting and hunger was becoming a constant companion. However, neither of them had voiced a single complaint and even their tireless bickering seemed to have abated following the battle with the Kuritai.
They had moved twice in the space of a week. Fief Lord Darnel proved tenacious in his pursuit, sending more hunters with slave-hounds and Varitai in escort, seemingly having exhausted his supply of slave elite. Frentis ordered false trails laid and traps set. At night he led small bands of the more stealthy fighters forth to cut throats and sow confusion in the ranks of their pursuers. Varitai were easier to kill than Kuritai, but they could still be formidable, especially if allowed to form ranks. He would strike in the small hours of the morning, seeking to kill as many dogs and hunters as possible, then withdrawing at speed to a pre-prepared ambush. It worked the first few times, the Varitai marching blindly into arrow storms and spiked pits. But whoever had command of the hunt soon became wise to the tactic, keeping his men together in four solid groups each numbering more than three hundred, whilst Frentis lost people every time they launched another attack and there were no more caravans to raid for recruits.
Their pursuers had evolved an unpleasant tactic of their own, loosing packs of slave-hounds at the slightest hint of a scent, thirty or more of the beasts running unfettered through the forest killing anything they could catch. Yesterday had brought them close enough to the camp to force a battle, the faith-hounds meeting their relatives headlong in a morass of tearing claws and flashing teeth. Frentis led half the fighters against their rear whilst Davoka took the others into their flank. She seemed to have a particular hatred of the slave-hounds, killing without restraint or fatigue as she cut a bloody trail through their swirling ranks. Frentis found her finishing the pack leader with a thrust through the rib cage, an ugly grimace of distaste on her face as she turned the spear to find the heart.
“Twisted,” she said in answer to his frown. “Made wrong and smell wrong.”
“We saved some for you, brother,” Illian said, offering him a bowl of the porridge.
He resisted the urge to ask if she had made it and accepted the bowl. “Thank you, my lady.” He ate the gruel and surveyed the camp. Aspect Grealin sat alone, as he usually did these days, seemingly lost in thought. Davoka and Ermund were practising again, hand-to-hand combat this time. He noticed her occasional grin as they tumbled together and wondered if he should offer some warning to Ermund, then noticed the knight’s own grin and decided it was probably redundant. Where did they find the time?
Thirty-Four, still undecided on a name, sat practising his Realm Tongue with Draker, although much of the lesson seemed to consist of the correct use of profanity. “No,” the big man shook his shaggy head. “Pig-fucker not fuck-pigger.”