A Dark Sacrifice Page 4

  “What do the heavens tell you?” asked Prince Ruan out of the darkness.

  “What do you see?” she countered. Even after all these months, King Réodan’s grandson remained something of a mystery. He was a riddle and a contradiction: half Man, half Faey, and yet paradoxically something else as well that was neither one.

  “I see the same stars that you do; I see battles and skirmishes,” he answered. “But not being a wizard, a magus, or an astromancer, I have no idea what they mean.”

  “Nor do I,” she said with a rueful shake of her head. It was not much use, after all, to know that great things were happening and not know what or where. “There are days when the Sight is more a burden than a blessing.”

  A long time followed during which neither of them said anything. Sindérian shifted her weight on the ground, relieving a cramp in one leg. “Guenloie—” she began at last, then fell silent.

  Again came his surprisingly deep and melodious voice out of the night. “What were you going to say?”

  “There is no guarantee that Guenloie will believe anything we tell her, no guarantee that she will consent to go back with us. Why should she care for our troubles, when her people are suffering, too?”

  The grass rustled as he moved a little closer. Now she could see a pale, moonlight-colored blur where his face was, catch the glint of his odd turquoise eyes. “We are here to persuade her, are we not? And you most of all. Wasn’t that the reason you were chosen?”

  And that, she realized, was the very heart of her fear. That she might fail, when others had already suffered and sacrificed so much. How could she bear it, with so much at stake? Except then Sindérian remembered that she was not likely to have to bear anything for very long. She was under Ouriána’s curse, and therefore under sentence of death.

  The next day they walked until early evening before setting up a camp. As night deepened and the sky went from dark blue to a fathomless starry black, flames like the tongues of dragons started up in the darkness to the northeast. Sindérian guessed there was a large settlement somewhere up ahead, greater than any they had passed so far, and men were lighting torches up on the walls. Then Faolein swooped down, landing on his accustomed perch on her shoulder, back from a short flight scouting ahead. A few hours’ walk in the morning and you will reach Lückenbörg.

  She drew in an unsteady breath, hope and fear warring inside her. In Lückenbörg, she and Guenloie would meet again. A bond had been forged on the first day of the little princess’s life, and all down through the years Sindérian had felt that connection tugging at her, even when everyone said—and she half believed it herself—that the child was dead. “Look to your foster sister. She has need of you,” Faolein had commanded that terrible night when death had followed birth in swift succession. And she had obeyed, taking the infant into her heart even as she lifted her out of the cradle and hushed her crying. But would Guenloie—who was now called Winloki—experience that bond, too?

  Sindérian felt a knot of doubt twist inside of her. She had not known how many hopes she was building around that recognition until this moment, on the brink of learning the truth.

  They set out walking a little after sunrise in the grey haze of morning. Soon, they had abundant company on the road. Wagons rumbled by; horsemen cantered north and south, raising the dust. Shepherds and pigherds and gooseherds converged from intersecting lanes and pathways, driving their flocks before them. Old women carrying baskets of cabbages, onions, and turnips wandered in out of the fields and tramped on toward the King’s city.

  Presently they came to immense earthworks, and not long after that to a timber palisade extending for at least a mile east and west. In the center of the wall a pair of tall wooden gates stood open, and through that gateway a great traffic could be seen constantly coming and going.

  To the east of the gate there stretched a vast encampment where the muster of the westlands had already assembled: riders, archers, foot soldiers, armorers; men who drilled with spears, pikes, axes, and short swords. On the opposite side was another camp of lesser size, where men of Arkenfell and Mistlewald had pitched their tents and affixed their woven banners to long, sturdy poles. It seemed that Skyrra did not stand alone after all—though help had not come in quite the numbers that must have been hoped for.

  Down through the centuries, the city of Lückenbörg has always resembled a market town far more than the capital of an ancient kingdom, its unpaved streets crowded three seasons out of the year with traders, trappers, dogs, donkeys, and towheaded children. They build the houses there with steeply pitched roofs and stout wooden shutters to shed the snow and keep out icy winds during the bitter northern winters, but to visit the city in summer, as Sindérian and her fellow travellers did, was to see it colorful with many small gardens. She could glimpse fruit trees and wicker beehives behind or between many of the houses, and wherever she looked, window boxes seemed to be overflowing with the hardy northern flowers that grow so swiftly while the sun still shines.

  Yet she felt her heart sink at the sight of so many groups of somber-looking people living in tents, frail little shacks, or overturned wagons on every open patch of ground. The first outriders, she feared they might be, of a great army of the dispossessed gradually moving toward Lückenbörg from the east.

  Once she and the men had familiarized themselves with the plan of the town and its thirteen separate wards divided by high wooden walls, once they had learned the direction of the Heldenhof, their next task was to buy some clean, whole garments. There was no denying, Sindérian told herself ruefully, that her own appearance was by far the worst; linen, homespun, and wool never wear so well as steel and leather. However, the Prince and Aell were looking a little threadbare, too, and they meant to present themselves at the doors of the palace as persons of quality rather than beggars and vagabonds. They bought what they needed (somebody’s castoffs, but in good condition) from stalls in the marketplace, and then found an inn willing to provide rooms and baths for the afternoon.

  Sindérian met the men in the innyard an hour later. Thanks to a bath and clean clothing she felt wonderfully refreshed. Unfortunately, her altered appearance brought on one of the Prince’s long, cool, assessing glances, as he took in the color of her linen gown, the dull green cloth of her cloak.

  “You are in mourning again,” he said with a slight lift of his arched eyebrows.

  “I never put it aside intentionally,” she retorted, blushing in spite of herself.

  Nevertheless, said Faolein’s voice in her mind, six months is a long time to wear black when there was not even a formal betrothal. When was the last time you even thought of Cailltin of Aefri? Do you wear this now to remind yourself—or to remind Prince Ruan?

  But to this she had no reply, being unsure of the answer.

  Her companions also sported new cloaks and footgear—in Ruan’s case, a pair of high, mouse-colored boots and a long mantle of dull red velvet. While all this finery had exhausted the money from the brooch, he still had his costly golden torc, which he had resigned himself to sacrifice if the worst happened and they were forced to wait for days or even weeks before gaining an audience with the King.

  Although that would be disastrous, Sindérian said to her father as they headed for the Heldenhof. If we are left waiting too long, our mission will fail. Ouriána’s priests could arrive at any time. Yet how different it all would have been if Faolein were there in his own body, and in his customary purple robes—for who would deny entrance to a Master Wizard of the Scholia on Leal?

  You are our wizard now, he told her. It is for you to find a way.

  The Heldenhof was less like a palace than a jumble of two-and three-story timber houses all joined together, a rambling yet somehow graceful structure, with wooden balconies, outside staircases, and deep projecting eaves. The doorposts and window frames were carved with a whole menagerie of fabulous beasts, and whenever a puff of wind gusted down the lane, what looked like at least a hundred fanciful weather
vanes and lightning rods spun around and around.

  But it was no small matter, as Sindérian and her friends soon learned, for visitors to enter the King’s house without a summons from the King himself. The builders who first raised that venerable old pile had diverted a stream to either side, effectively isolating the palace in the midst of running water, and the only way to cross it was by means of a wooden bridge, guarded by men in armor of silver mail who barred the way with long-handled axes.

  Prince Ruan, however, was not intimidated. He approached the guards with his light, confident step. “Let King Ristil be told that Anerüian Pendawer of Thäerie and Sindérian Faellanëos of Leal bring greetings from the High King Réodan and the Nine Master Wizards,” he said, introducing Sindérian with a flick of his hand. “Let him be told, too, that we ask leave to enter and speak with him directly.”

  But the guards, though visibly impressed by his lordly air, had not been instructed to receive unexpected visitors, no matter how exalted or how far they had traveled. Nor could even one of them leave his post to carry a message inside.

  The Prince retreated, in a blazing state of frustration, his narrow jaw set and his lips compressed in a thin line, while Sindérian and Aell trailed soberly after him. It seemed they had no recourse but to wait at the far end of the bridge until someone who did have the right of entry happened to pass by and agreed to act as a messenger.

  And so they waited, hot and prickly in the sunlight, as the day wore on. They waited so long that Sindérian finally left the bridge in disgust and retreated to the other side of the street, where she sat on the edge of a wooden porch, chin on fist, simmering with impatience.

  A donkey cart went by, and a woman driving a flock of goats. Someone in an upper story opened a pair of brightly painted shutters. Weathercocks gyred in the wind. From across the lane, Prince Ruan glared at her, as if he would say as Faolein had, “You are our wizard now. It is for you to find a way.”

  But truly, she thought, what way was there? She could hardly force an entrance by magic, or conjure up a messenger out of thin air to carry Prince Ruan’s greetings. She might cast a spell that would put the guards into a sound sleep, but even that relatively harmless procedure was unlikely to win them any friends once they were actually inside: embassies do not come in like invading forces.

  She chewed on a ragged fingernail and glanced sideways at her father where he perched on the porch beside her. He might enter the palace easily enough, fly in through an open window with the guards none the wiser. And while he had not the power to speak with anyone once he arrived inside, he could carry a written message, supposing someone capable of reading it could be found….

  She was just opening her mouth to suggest a trip to the marketplace, to sell the torc and buy paper and ink, when there was a little commotion on the street. A group of fine ladies in silks and velvets rode up on beautiful high-stepping horses, with a swarm of servants and attendants following immediately behind them.

  With a glare and a shake of her head for the Prince, Sindérian waited for the riders to dismount, then stepped forward and made a deep obeisance before a severe-looking, fair-haired woman who appeared to be the highest in rank. “My companions and I are envoys from Thäerie and Leal. We have arrived here after a long, perilous journey, bringing messages of great urgency for the King. In truth, our errand here is so vital,” she added earnestly, “that even an hour’s delay in bringing these things to King Ristil’s attention might prove fatal. Will you help us?”

  The recipient of all this eloquence was frowning doubtfully when another woman, somewhat younger and a good deal comelier, gave a smile and a friendly nod in Sindérian’s direction. “But I know this lady, do I not?” Pulling off her riding gloves, she beckoned the young wizard to advance a little closer. “Yes, I do know you, though I don’t distinctly recall the place or the occasion.”

  Sindérian herself hardly knew what to say, until Faolein’s voice spoke with quiet conviction inside her head: It is Luenil.

  Even then it took a moment before that name had any meaning. Then a fragmentary memory surfaced. Luenil—Guenloie’s wet nurse?

  She is called Sigvith now, answered Faolein. It is easy to see that she has risen in the world since the last time we saw her. Nevertheless it is the same woman.

  Sindérian blinked and cast her mind back more than nineteen years. Yes, there was a strong resemblance—but more than that, she knew that her father was infallible in the matter of names. It was his great gift. Gathering her wits, she sank into another curtsy. “Lady, we have met, but it was so long ago I scarcely dared hope that you would remember.”

  Luenil (or Sigvith) smiled again, an expression that brightened her whole face and made her appear many years younger. The resemblance, elusive before, was now unmistakable. “Then you are very welcome here. If you and these friends will follow us inside, I will try to arrange an audience with the King.”

  And so, under the aegis of no less a person than Ristil’s queen, Sindérian and her companions entered the Heldenhof, a turn of events that left her head spinning. “You managed that very cleverly,” Prince Ruan hissed in her ear as they crossed the threshold. “But how did you do it?”

  Sindérian shook her head and gave no answer. She was not altogether certain herself how this fortunate meeting could possibly have occurred—and even if she had known, this was hardly the time for complicated explanations.

  4

  Reluctantly at first, Kivik’s refugees began to move indoors and find quarters for themselves in the ancient buildings. A pair of bedraggled old women hunkered down in a pantry inside the keep; a blind woodcarver, his daughter, and five skinny grandchildren settled in a nearby scullery; before the day was over, a dozen more had trickled in through the worm-eaten doors. In contrast, the fighting men, more accustomed to obeying orders, packed up their gear immediately and took up residence in the seven gatehouses, an old barracks, and a row of houses in the outer bailey.

  Over the next two days, more and more of the dispossessed gathered up their scanty belongings, their blankets, cooking pots, and rough bits of crockery; deserted the rapidly diminishing city of tents and hovels; and joined their relatives and neighbors indoors. Kivik did not deceive himself as to the reason, which was a certain habit of loyalty more than any conviction that the buildings were really safe, and he was more grateful than he could say for their show of faith.

  But this time their faith will be justified, he told himself. This time I’ve chosen well for them. It never occurred to him to wonder at his own confidence, or to ask how a single night inside the keep had banished all his doubts.

  One evening at sunset, he decided to join some of the men who patrolled the battlements on the outermost wall. After climbing a long, windy stair, he discovered Skerry already there ahead of him, stationed by the jagged parapet wall on the south side, looking out across the valley with an expression of intensest concentration on his face.

  Waving the others on, Kivik walked over to join him, curious to discover what held his cousin’s attention so completely that it kept him standing there in a gale, which, if it were any stronger, might have blown him right off the battlements.

  For a time neither spoke. They had been friends for so long that they sometimes divined each other’s thoughts by a hundred small clues of stance and expression, so that words were unnecessary.

  Down below, the snow was ruddy with sunset. If he listened carefully, Kivik could hear the quarrelsome evening voices of the crows in the pinewoods. Higher up the mountain, rocks crumbled in the cold, setting off a minor avalanche. Between the woods and the fortress a company of ice giants was stamping around in the drifts, performing some species of maneuver. In the wan light, their immense, rough-hewn faces, every shade of grey from almost black to a muddy ashen hue, looked craggier than ever; their uncanny blue hair took on a faint purple cast.

  Kivik shifted his weight from one foot to the other, threw a corner of his cloak over his shoulder to
keep out the wind. No amount of gazing at the giants could make them less fearsome. Their size alone was enough to terrify, their prodigies of strength and ferocity, their unfathomable power over the weather. Though they had never attempted to attack the fortifications or batter down the gates, they gave a vigilant impression of watching the fortress as closely as those inside watched them. They appreared to be waiting for something.

  The Prince scowled. A parley was impossible, for there was no way of communicating with them. Perhaps worst of all was how little he and his people knew about them. He wanted to ask: Why did you attack us? What are we to you? A year ago you were only a legend. Why do you make common cause with the Eisenlonders and the skinchangers against us?

  But he and they had no common language. Their speech was no more to him than the booming of the wind, the cracking of stones up in the heights; he imagined that any words of his would be as the squeaking of mice or the twittering of birds to them. A wizard might speak to them, perhaps, but not a prince of Skyrra.

  “I think,” said his cousin, coming unexpectedly out of his reverie, “that I am learning to recognize some of them. That old fellow there: I have an idea he is one of their chieftains.”

  Kivik’s scowl turned thoughtful. Compared to the other giants, the one Skerry pointed at was positively gaunt and stooped—if still many times the size of the biggest man in King Ristil’s army—and his hair was the color of blue smoke. An elder, he might be, or a clan patriarch, supposing the creatures even knew such concepts. “Anyway, he seems to keep the others in order.”