The Witchwood Crown

  “Well, it does not matter,” said Jarnulf. “You may well travel at night all that you wish—but not here. The goblins are fierce this spring, more lively than ever in my memory, and they attack everything that comes near. This whole valley is riddled with their tunnels, as you discovered, and there are other nests as large as the one you stumbled into. That is why I travel only along the rocks here, not down on the snow, where footfalls sound in those creatures’ ears like the beating of a drum.”

  “Will you continue to guide us, then, stranger?” asked the one called Saomeji. “Or at least tell us where we can find safe passage across these plains that are so near our enemies’ lands?”

  Like their Hikeda’ya masters, mortal slaves of Nakkiga learned early in life to fear the minions of Akhenabi’s order, so Jarnulf would never trust this golden-eyed Norn, no matter how mildly he spoke: it was as much as he could do simply to hide his hatred of them all. But that did not stop him wondering why the halfblood Singer alone seemed to want good relations with a mortal stranger. Was he merely more practical than the rest of the stubborn Hikeda’ya? “Finding a route—such things are not done so easily in these lands,” he answered at last. “I will lead you to a safer passage if I can, but I will have to know more to do so—where you are going, for instance. And I will do it for gold, of course, or some similarly useful reward.”

  “I should have known,” said Makho. “A mortal can have no honor.”

  “What does honor have to do with this?” Jarnulf let his voice rise, mimicking pride and anger. “I have tasks of my own to perform, a trust that was placed in me just as yours was placed in you. While I am helping your hand toward whatever goal you have, it will be harder—if not impossible—to do what my masters demand of me, namely hunting down escaped slaves and others the queen wishes to see returned to Nakkiga’s justice. And even if you are to feed me, I will still lose the bounties I might have had. That is the most of my living. Should I not be rewarded for that loss?” He put his hands on his hips, aping a stubborn merchant. “One silver drop for every day I lead you safely, to be paid when we part company.” In truth, he had no use for silver drops—he would never be able to spend them unless he risked death by returning to Nakkiga itself—but if he did not ask for payment it would be as much as to announce he had some other purpose in wanting to accompany this puzzling collection.

  “We are on more important business for the queen than merely capturing a few escaped slaves!” the one called Kemme said, so enraged that a touch of color climbed into his cheeks, a weakness the Hikeda’ya rarely displayed. Kemme might be a formidable warrior but he was no diplomat. “And you demand to be paid?” He seemed unaware of Makho’s stony face beside him. “You have no idea of what we do, what honor the queen has given us! Instead of barking out insolent words, you should get on your miserable mortal knees in gratitude that we have left your misshapen head on your neck, because I can change that myself in an instant!” Kemme seemed ready to draw his blade, but this time Jarnulf did not have to engage in any dangerous demonstration, because in the moment of silence the chieftain Makho made a sound—just a small intake of air—and the soldier seemed to understand in an instant that he had said too much and too loudly. The almost invisible blush of fury drained from his cheek in the space of a heartbeat.

  “Close your mouth and go attend to the horses, Sacrifice Kemme,” Makho said in the coldest, deadest voice Jarnulf had yet heard him use. “Now. And take the Blackbird with you.”

  Kemme turned away from his master wearing a convincing mask of chastened obedience. He harshly ordered the female Sacrifice Nezeru to attend him, then walked off toward the horses, but Jarnulf guessed by a certain angle to his neck that Kemme’s now-hidden features had gone rigid with disapproval and perhaps even resentment. Jarnulf knew that the tall Sacrifice would happily murder him, but he also wondered whether there might be some way to start driving a wedge between the leader and his second-in-command.

  The chieftain now fixed Jarnulf with a look that reminded him of the violent stillness of a hawk just before it flew. Then the chieftain’s face changed like the water beneath a swimmer abruptly turning dark and deep; another heartbeat and the expressionless mask was back in place. “Very well, Huntsman. What if I told you that we had a task far to the east—in the lands your people call Urmsheim? How would we reach it from here?”

  Urmsheim! Jarnulf could not have guessed such a far-flung, largely empty place would have been their destination, and could not begin to guess why they wanted to visit that home of deadly beasts and deadlier storms. “That is a long distance away, through a fearful wilderness—yes, fearful even for the Hikeda’ya. Traveling there is not merely a question of directions, or of knowing what few roads lie beneath the snow, but of knowing how to avoid danger, which is everywhere there.” He did his best to pretend that he had just reached his decision. “Very well. Pay my price before I raise it, as I am tempted to do, since I gave it before I knew your destination. If you treat with me fairly, I will lead you where you wish.”

  “Why should we need you to lead us the whole way?” the chieftain said, but this time the anger was gone from his voice. Now he was bargaining. It was one of the few things Hikeda’ya did that Jarnulf truly understood. “I know the direction—east, into the rising sun. You say to walk upon the high, rocky places. We can do that just as well without the company of a mortal.”

  Pressing made no sense. “Very well,” he said. “I will leave you Queen’s Talons, then, and be on my way, back to my pursuit of Nakkiga’s fugitives. Remember, though, it is not only goblins you must avoid, but giants, witiko’ya, and yukinva as well, all plentiful in the eastern hills.”

  This time Makho looked to Saomeji and Jarnulf felt sure he saw something he had not seen from the chieftain previously, a cold, almost angry amusement. “Very well, Huntsman,” said Makho. “You shall have what you ask, but not without limits. We shall let you choose the path for a few days before sealing the bargain, so that if you prove a foul guide we will not have been taken too far from our way. But know this—if you try to lead us astray, or in any way slow our progress, I will have Goh Gam Gar pull you to pieces and devour you while you still live. Understood?”

  “It would be hard not to understand that.” He made the two-handed sign for Bargain Sealed and Makho did the same.

  I have set out on a strange path, Jarnulf thought. I must serve the creatures who destroyed my family so that I can do the Redeemer’s will. He could not help marveling at the strangeness of God’s plan. This unexpected meeting may be the answer to all my prayers—that, or the death of me.

  Perhaps it will be both.

  21

  Crossroad

  “Is that Vestvennby in the distance?” Miriamele shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare. Out of sight far ahead, royal foot soldiers and local peasant farmers, happy to earn a few coppers, were doing their best to clear the way for the procession. Snow was banked high against the Royal North Road on either side, making a tunnel with white walls and gray sky for a roof, but she thought she could see a faint outline of towers. “Blessed Elysia, I pray it’s so and that we are almost at the Erkynlandish border. I long to be home so badly—I don’t think I’ve ever wished for it so much before.”

  “But why, Majesty?” Tiamak asked.

  “Because I haven’t ridden so much in years,” she said. “To be entirely frank, my arse is sore.”

  Tiamak wasn’t quite certain what to say, but the others in the royal party laughed, even Sisqi, although Tiamak was not certain the troll woman knew the word. At the moment, Tiamak was sharing a horse with Sisqi and Binabik so that they could converse more easily with the rest of the royal company on their tall steeds. Binabik’s mighty white wolf Vaqana paced along beside them, watching her master and the strange creature on which he was riding with obvious concern and perhaps a hint of jealousy. Sisqi’s riderless ram, tethered to the horse’s saddle on a
long rope, did not seem to care much one way or the other.

  Simon frowned. “I’m not certain that’s the kind of thing a queen should say, my dear.”

  “What should I say instead?” Miriamele demanded. “Should I call it my ‘sit-upon,’ as our well-bred daughter-in-law does?”

  “I don’t think you need be quite that proper,” Simon said, amused. “Rachel and the chambermaids who raised me always said ‘hindquarters’ or ‘rump’ or just ‘bottom.’ But if you’re in pain, my dear, why don’t you ride in the carriage?”

  “And miss everybody’s talk, while you have all the pleasure?” She scowled at him. “Not likely, that.”

  “Yes, but if you did, then I could join you and claim I was doing it to give you company, instead of having to admit in front of all my soldiers that my arse hurts too.”

  Even the queen had to laugh at that, and for a while the talk was all lightness and good cheer. Tiamak was glad because his own mood had been dark of late—another reason he had decided to leave the carriage and share a horse with Binabik and his wife. But a saddle was not really meant to carry three passengers comfortably, he reflected, however small two of them might be.

  Still, he thought, it’s nice for a change not to be the little one. Usually he had to look up at almost everybody he dealt with, but now that the four trolls had joined the royal progress, he could finally enjoy the rare pleasure of being taller than someone else.

  Eolair was seldom glad to be old, but as he watched from the doorway of his tent while the soldiers and servants set up camp for the night, he was at least grateful that his age and position allowed him to leave such tasks to others. He was feeling particularly ancient and full of aches tonight.

  Too much time in the saddle, he thought. There was a time I rode all day and then danced late into the evening. He laughed quietly at his own complaints. But who would want to dance with me now, a bundle of sticks dressed in courtier’s clothes?

  A young guardsman trotted up. “Someone to see you, Count Eolair. He says his name is Sir Aelin and that you will know him.”

  “My nephew? Bagba’s Herd, of course I do! Send him to me, please!”

  Aelin was not his true nephew but the grandson of his sister—a grandnephew. Aelin had always been one of Eolair’s favorites, and the count had been sad not to see him when they had passed through Hernystir back in Marris-month.

  “Is that you?” he asked as the young man ducked through the tent flap a short time later. “By all the gods, it is! It is fine to see you, young man!”

  Aelin bowed. “And you, Uncle.”

  Eolair looked his visitor up and down and was surprised at how much the youth had changed since he had last seen him. a full four or five years earlier when the young man had spent some time at the Hayholt. For one thing, Aelin was a youth no longer: he had filled out through the chest and had the full beard worn by many of the younger Hernystiri men at the Taig these days. His clothes, though, were rough and road-worn, the bottom of his cloak dripping, his boots smeared with mud. “You have ridden from Hernysadharc?” Eolair asked him.

  “Yes, all the way across the New Frostmarch Road through the storms, with important messages for you and the High Throne—thank Mircha and the rest of the gods that the worst of the winter is over. My men and I have been riding for days, Uncle!”

  “But why you as messenger, Aelin? I am very glad to see you, but—”

  “In truth, I asked King Hugh to let me bring the letters, since I was at Nad Mullach when you came to the capitol.” Aelin looked around, making certain the tent was empty. “One is from the dowager queen, and she asked me to make certain no one but you received it, my lord.”

  “From Inahwen? You may give that to me now.” Eolair reached out and took the folded parchment, noting briefly Inahwen’s wax seal before slipping it into the pouch on his belt. “And the others?”

  “I did not look, Uncle. But I believe they are from Lord Pasevalles.” He smiled. “I hope he has made your life easier. I hear he is a good man—perhaps even the next Hand of the Throne when you return to Nad Mullach?”

  “He will be if I have my way. But I think Duke Osric, Prince Morgan’s other grandfather, might think differently. He considers Pasevalles an upstart.” Eolair called for a servant to bring wine. “But come, sit down. You have had a long, wearying ride.”

  “Long, yes, and more exciting than I’d like.” Aelin took off his cloak, swung it out to show his uncle. “See how it is torn and tattered? I was pitched off my horse just north of Vestvennby.”

  “Praise the gods you weren’t hurt! That was a piece of luck.”

  “Luckier than you might think. I was ahead of the others, and I fell out of the saddle because a giant nearly had me, except the unholy beast was as startled as I was. It stood in the middle of the road as I came around a bend.”

  “The Royal North Road? Here?” He felt something clutch in his chest. “Can it be true? They have never come so far south since the bad old days—the days of the Storm King. Are you sure it wasn’t a bear or . . . or some wandering woodsman with even more beard than you?”

  Aelin laughed at that, but his face was serious. “It was no bearded woodsman, Uncle. And no bear could swing a paw and nearly take my head off while I was standing up in my stirrups.”

  “Heavens save us.” Eolair shook his head in distress. Too many strange events, too many fell signs! “Tell me what happened.”

  Aelin described the surprising encounter on the road, a mere few miles south of the royal encampment. “I did not look back for the monster, I simply limped after my horse as fast as I could and dragged myself back into the saddle. By the time I turned the giant was long gone, but the rest of my company saw its footprints.”

  The wine came, and after a few more questions Eolair turned the talk to other, less disturbing things, asking after his sister Elatha’s health, and how life fared at Nad Mullach, the ancestral home that Eolair had not been able to visit this trip because of the demands of the royal progress. Talking about the place filled him with melancholy. More and more, the count was looking forward to the day when he could lay down his burdens and return there to spend his last years in peace—a gentleman farmer caring for his forefathers’ land, the way he had always wished to be.

  “Will you stay only this night, or can you stay and ride with us for a while on our way south?” he asked Aelin at last.

  “I would love a more leisurely trip back,” the younger man said, “and I’m fairly certain the presence of some hundreds of Erkynguards would keep any giants at bay, but Queen Inahwen said she hopes for an answer from you quickly. I fear that tomorrow, after you have had time to write back to her, my men and I must hurry back across the Frostmarch to Hernysadharc.” Aelin was one of King Hugh’s favorite young courtiers, known like his great-uncle as a man who could tread the measures of an intricate Dillathi ring dance or, with equal facility, the even more courtly steps of arguing preferment and royal favors. But what Eolair liked best about his young relative was Aelin’s careful intelligence. The world was full of people quite certain they already knew the answer to every important question. The older Eolair got, the more he valued men—and women, too, most definitely—who thought for themselves, who asked questions, who were not satisfied with seemingly easy answers to difficult problems.

  • • •

  Some time later, when Aelin had gone to catch up with some of his friends among the Erkynlandish nobility, Eolair took up the letter from Inahwen, but not without trepidation. They had spoken so recently that it seemed strange she should send him a message, and even stranger she should go out of her way to send it with his own grand-nephew to keep it safe. What matter was so pressing that it could not wait until Eolair was back in the Hayholt?

  My dearest Count,

  I hope you will forgive me for troubling you, especially with such a difficult request, when you ha
ve been so long traveling and away from Erkynland, where the high king and high queen depend so much upon you. But I am fearful, otherwise I would not trouble you, despite our long friendship.

  You will remember, I hope, that when you visited me in the Queen’s Little House, we talked much about the Lady Tylleth and her influence upon King Hugh. I said something about her, and you asked me if that were really true, or only my dislike speaking.

  Inahwen had called the king’s betrothed a witch, a bizarre word to come from the usually mild dowager queen. Eolair had certainly not forgotten.

  I will leave it to you to decide whether I spoke harshly or not. You remember in the bad old days after my husband the king’s death, when Skali of Rimmersgard and his army ruled our land and the remnants of the royal family hid in the mountains, what happened to my step-daughter Maegwin, may the gods preserve her spirit? Do you remember the place she found? She took you there, and you once told me that what she found in that place added to her sad state, perhaps even increased the madness that eventually overcame her.

  The Silverhome, it was called, that place under the mountains that the Sithi or their servants built, though poor Maegwin believed it the home of the gods. I confess I do not remember all you told me, and since at your suggestion we sealed those tunnels up years ago, I have not thought much upon it. Until now.

  The tunnels have been now opened again. Tylleth and certain of her followers, for lack of a better word, have convinced King Hugh to unblock the ways into the earth that Maegwin found, saying that the caverns are sacred to our people and should not be hidden from them.

  I have never gone there myself, because I am too frail for such clambering, but I have heard from others that the king’s mistress and her friends have made it into a sort of shrine (although not an Aedonite shrine, which would be bad enough) and that Tylleth and others conduct strange ceremonies there in the caverns under the Grianspog Mountains. They say they are merely restoring the worship of Cuamh the lord of the dark places underground (who, as you well know, the rest of us have never stopped venerating) but others say that the rituals are more serious than any mere worship of the Earthdog. In fact, I have heard tales from those I trust that they are worshipping someone else. I will not sully this letter with her foul name, for fear of her hearing it in her dark hall and bringing bad fortune upon us all, but you know the one I mean—she who was once called The Maker of Orphans and the Crow Mother.