‘That’d be us,’ Camlin said.
‘Well then, think it’s time we had that talk now,’ Rath said, sliding from his saddle and striding over to Halion. Rath’s band followed him, and soon the two companies were standing close together, all listening to the two men speak.
Halion told Rath of the fall of Dun Carreg and their escape by sea, of their landing in Cambren and a brief outline of the flight that had led them here. Edana rose and stood beside Halion as he spoke. When Halion had finished, a silence filled the glade.
‘I thought I recognized you, under all that dirt,’ Rath said to Edana. ‘My lady.’ He dipped his head and lifted her hand to his lips.
He doesn’t look used to doing things like that, Corban thought. It looked as if Edana agreed, as she had a faint smile on her lips.
‘I shall escort you to Dun Taras and Eremon,’ Rath said. ‘You can rest easy now — you are out of danger.’
For the time being, thought Corban.
‘You hear that, lads? We’ve a queen amongst us. Show some respect.’ Rath bowed lower to Edana. His rugged band did the same, some cheering, all except the girl, Coralen. She remained upright, a frown creasing her face.
‘And welcome home, Halion,’ Rath said. ‘Your da’ll be pleased to see you.’
‘Will he?’
‘Well, we’ll find out soon enough,’ Rath said. ‘I for one am.’
‘And so am I.’ Coralen grinned at Halion.
They gathered around Heb and Anwarth’s cairn, then. Edana spoke kind words over the stones, tears running freely down her cheeks. Farrell stood beside her, head bowed.
He has just lost his da.
He remembered that pain, a distant echo of it twisting inside him, and his sympathy went out to his friend. Are they the last to die? Are we safe now? He wished it were true — so many had died since that night in Dun Carreg, he had lost count. And here, now, looking at Heb and Anwarth’s cairn he felt. . numb. He had liked Heb always — his stories had felt magical to Corban as far back as he could remember, but over the course of the journey he had come to care for the old man, to think of him as a mentor, and as a friend. And yet no tears came.
Am I becoming numb to all this murder and death? The thought bothered him. He remembered Dylan, his friend — murdered, his body burned — remembered the ocean of tears he had cried for him. And then the overwhelming grief at the death of his da, and so many others when Dun Carreg fell. Life was so frail, and he had not just seen men die, an impartial observer; he had taken lives himself. More than I can remember. That thought shocked him. What am I becoming? He looked about the faces of his companions, all lost in their own thoughts, Edana’s voice a wordless blur now.
His eyes settled on Brina, appearing suddenly older, frailer than he had ever noticed. Devastation was scribed upon her face. Finally he felt grief stir in his gut, an empathy for this harsh, sharp-tongued old lady whom he had come to love; he felt the urge to go and stand next to her, to squeeze her hand, or something, but the silence felt almost like a physical thing, a purity to it, so he did not move. Instead a tear rolled down his cheek.
When Edana had finished speaking, Rath’s men brought up their horses. Rath and two other men — one the warrior with the scar where his eye should have been, Baird, Corban heard him called — gave their mounts up for Edana, Brina and Gwenith. Craf perched on Brina’s saddle, the black raven on Edana’s, its wing now with a makeshift bandage about it.
Coralen turned her horse and spurred it over to Halion. ‘Where’s Conall? Why did he stay in Ardan? You haven’t quarrelled again?’
‘He fell,’ Halion said.
He was a traitor; he killed Cywen, thought Corban.
A look of horror swept Coralen’s face. ‘I thought he was indestructible, that he would live forever.’
‘I did not,’ Rath said, who was nearby.
‘How did he. .? Did he die well?’ Coralen asked, a tremor in her voice.
‘No’, another voice said. His mam.
‘Not now,’ Halion said. ‘Please.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Coralen snapped.
‘It’s complicated. I’ll explain another time,’ Halion said.
‘No. She’ll explain now.’ Coralen rode closer to Gwenith. ‘Won’t you?’
Gar stepped between them. ‘Let her be, girl.’
‘Don’t be telling me what to do,’ Coralen said. ‘And who are you, anyway?’
She has her brother’s temper, thought Corban, seeing the colour rise in her cheeks.
Storm growled.
Coralen glanced at Storm. ‘Hal, who are these people you ride with? Bird-lovers and wolven-tamers.’
‘She’s not tame,’ Corban said.
‘She’d make a good cloak, keep me warm in the winter.’
Corban felt his own anger stir at that.
‘That’s enough, girl,’ Rath said, riding closer.
‘But-’
‘Enough, Cora. Ride on.’ He stared her down, waiting until the fire went out of her eyes. She yanked on her reins and rode ahead.
‘You’ll tell me about Conall soon,’ Rath said to Halion. It was not a question.
‘I will.’
‘She had a good point, though. It is strange company you keep,’ Rath observed, looking between Storm and the two black birds perched on saddles. ‘Lad, your wolven’s not going to eat any of my men, is it?’
‘She, not it,’ said Corban, feeling his anger still lurking, with no obvious target for it now that Coralen had ridden off. He took a long breath. ‘Her name is Storm. And the answer’s no, she’ll not hurt any of your men, unless they try to harm us. We are her pack, you see, and she’s protective.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ Rath said.
With a click of his tongue Corban called Storm closer. A good cloak, indeed. He looked back at the glade, the cairn of stones in its middle, the corpses of wolven and giants scattered around. His eyes came to rest on the body of a wolven, dark furred and sharp clawed, and he remembered the night attack that he and Storm had been part of. A good cloak. The seeds of an idea stirred in his mind.
‘Move out,’ Rath called.
‘Hold a moment,’ Corban said, marching across the glade.
‘What is it?’ Camlin said to him, bloodied but still vigilant.
‘Just an idea — one that I may need some help with.’ Corban pulled his knife from his belt as he crouched beside the dead wolven.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
VERADIS
Veradis focused on his opponents’ blades, all three of them, his body automatically moving to defend and attack. He combined a long sweep to block two different blows, pivoting suddenly and cracking his practice blade into one opponent’s ribs, then striking another on the wrist, sending his weapon spinning. Then there was only Bos left and Veradis pressed forwards against the taller man, one blow turning into another — neat, economical, and deadly until Bos stumbled and fell, Veradis’ blade at his throat.
‘All right, you win,’ Bos said good-naturedly. He held his hand out and Veradis pulled him up.
‘I think you’re getting faster,’ Bos said, wiping sweat from his bald head. He waved a hand at the other eagle-guard that Veradis had called out to spar with, both nursing bruises on ribs or wrist.
‘Feel like I need to,’ Veradis said. He knew that the recent battles were won, but something about this whole situation felt unsafe to him, and a voice in the back of his mind was telling him to sharpen up, to be ready, prepared. What for, he did not know, but he had learned to listen to that voice before. Maybe it was just the politicking of the last few days, which always made him feel uncomfortable, or the sword-crossing between Conall and Morcant. Both masters with a blade — that was obvious. Things were so fluid in these lands, it was not a great stretch of the imagination that one day soon it could be him facing either one of them, or someone equally skilled in the Court of Swords. He would not be found wanting.