The Witchwood Crown
• • •
The main part of the storm was almost upon them now, its outrider clouds running before the wind, flinging down cold rain as Sir Aelin’s band climbed through the hills. As they made their way up the slope, through the thrashing, wind-rattled trees, Aelin heard a thin, continuous roaring from ahead of them, like the rumbling snores of some monstrous sleeping bear. When they reached the crown of the hill they could all see what made it—the mighty Inniscrich, its swollen waters dull pewter in the stormlight, busy with white wave caps as the wind made its surface froth and dance.
At the far end of the valley, still a good ride away, Dunath Tower loomed over the river, a rectangular mass of dark stone that seemed to have shrugged its way loose from the surrounding trees to take a better look. Once, long ago in the days of Tethtain’s empire, it had served as a nobleman’s house at an important boundary between the king’s land and that of the hostile northmen. Now there was peace between those two onetime enemies, but the north still offered a threat; Dunath Tower was a boundary fort now, a watchtower against the White Foxes of the Nornfell Mountains, alternately staffed by small garrisons from Hernystir and Rimmersgard.
The rain was punching down hard; the weight of the water thumping on Aelin’s hood felt more like a fall of hailstones. “One last ride, men,” he cried, “and then we will be under a roof!”
He spurred his horse, which slid a little as it found its footing, but then leaped away along the ridge of the hill. His men followed, the sound of hoofbeats on the muddy ground briefly louder than either the river or the storm.
• • •
As they drew closer to the fortress, following the course of the swollen river from a healthy distance up the hillside, Aelin was astonished to see lights burning in the tower windows. The wind and rain were too fierce to even rein up and consider, but he had seen the previous garrison return to Hernysadharc with his own eyes before he departed with Count Eolair’s message. He could only guess that the Rimmersmen had arrived earlier than he had thought they could.
The men were cheered, of course, to see signs of life in the midst of so much cold, damp, and darkness, but they were less pleased to discover the tower’s gate firmly shut and nobody answering their hale. Aelin could not guess how long they stood beside the narrow spot in the river, wrapped in the storm’s darkness, splashed not just by rain but also the floating white foam thrown up by the river’s force far below them, cold and soaked to the bone as they thumped away at the gate.
“Can no one hear me?” Aelin shouted, beating the iron-bound wood with the butt of his spear until it seemed louder in his ears than the thunder. “I am Aelin, knight of King Hugh, from Hernysadharc. Let us in, for the love of great Brynioch!”
At last a face appeared on the roof atop the guard tower.
“Ho, there! You say you are Hernystiri?”
Aelin was relieved but puzzled to recognize a countryman’s voice. “Yes. Sir Aelin, come from Hernysadharc. Will you let us in?”
The head withdrew without enlightening him.
“Are these people mad?” his squire Jarreth muttered. “They can see we are Hernystirmen like they are. Why don’t they let us in?”
At last, when it seemed as if they would be left on the desolate road outside the fort until the storm blew them away or froze them to the spot, the gate creaked open, spilling torchlight into their faces.
Aelin received another surprise when he and his men rode through into the tower’s courtyard. The armed men who surrounded them wore no insignia, not that of the Hernystiri borderers or the Rimmersmen meant to replace them, and for a moment Aelin feared they had let themselves be taken by bandits. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Who is your leader here?”
A man with a thin, weather-beaten face and a nose like the beak of a hunting bird stepped forward. “That would be me, Sir Aelin,” he said in perfect Herynsytiri.
“How do you know my name?”
“Easier to explain inside, under cover. You and your men are soaked.”
Aelin and his troop let themselves be led out of the courtyard and into the tower itself. The tower’s bottom floor was the stable; their horses joined the more than a dozen already tied up there. Then they climbed to the main hall, where a fire was burning in the great hearth and several more men waited. Here the light was better, so that Aelin could finally make out the insignia on the brooch that held the spokesman’s cloak.
“You are Silver Stags!” he said, surprised.
“Every man of us,” said the hawk-faced one. “I am Samreas, the lieutenant of this company. I recognized you from the court, Sir Aelin.”
“But what are the royal guards doing here?” Aelin thought he saw a few smirks among the waiting soldiers, which seemed a strange response to an obvious question. The Stags were King Hugh’s handpicked troop, most of them hardened veterans of the second Thrithings War. It was even said that some had remained behind in the grasslands when the rest returned to Hernystir, working as hired swords for various of the local thanes.
“The king’s business, of course. Sit down by the fire and warm yourselves. I will tell the captain you’re here.”
Aelin could only stare as Sir Samreas made his way up the stairs. Aelin’s men were already pulling off their soaking cloaks and pushing toward the fire, but their leader was disturbed. What would soldiers of the king’s elite guard be doing in such a remote place? Was the king also here? Surely Hugh would never travel with such a small force: judging by what he had seen, Aelin thought less than half an ordinary company were in the tower.
A few moments later Samreas returned with a burly, middle-aged man who wore his mustaches and sidewhiskers long in the grasslands tradition that many Hernystiri soldiers had brought back from the Second Thrithings War. Aelin recognized the man, but did not know him well.
“Baron Curudan,” he said. “Brynioch’s blessings for this roof and this fire. You command these men, then?”
“For my many sins, yes.” The baron grinned and stretched out his hand. “Welcome, Sir Aelin. I fought with your great-uncle at the Stefflod. How is he? Is he well?”
Aelin clasped his hand. The baron had a strong grip. “Count Eolair goes on like a man half his age. He has only recently returned from one long journey and now is off on another, all on behalf of the High Throne.”
“Ah, yes. I saw him at Hernysadharc only a month ago.”
“I beg your pardon, Baron, but what are the Silver Stags doing here?”
Curudan waved his large hand. “I might ask you something similar, sir—what brings kin of the famous count to this remote spot? Let us drink together and talk. I imagine we can find something to feed your men, as well as to wet their throats, eh, Samreas?”
“I think so, Baron,” said the hawk-nosed man.
“Well, see to Sir Aelin’s folk, then. Aelin, you come with me.”
Thunder rattled the skies outside as Curudan led him up the stairs to a wide chamber with a table and several well-made chairs. A few moments later one of the baron’s soldiers appeared with a platter of bread, cold meat, and cheese, and a beaker for Aelin already poured. The man refilled the baron’s own beaker from a pitcher, then set it down on the table before departing. Aelin had inherited more than blood from his great-uncle Eolair—he had taken some of his caution, too. In a strange situation like this, he did not like drinking something unless he knew he shared it with his host, so he only pretended to sip from his own wine as Curudan spoke.
“We are here because the king has heard rumor that someone might take advantage of the garrison being withdrawn,” the baron told him. “He wants to make certain it is handed over to the Rimmersman as the High Ward dictates.”
“Then why did he withdraw the garrison at all? Why not just wait for the northerners to get here?”
“Perhaps because King Hugh did not hear the rumor until after our troops had left.
” Curudan shrugged. “You have many questions, sir. Why are you here? It seems strange that the illustrious Eolair’s nephew should arrive just when the tower was thought to be empty.”
Aelin had to struggle to keep anger from his voice. “I promise you, we had no intention of stopping here until a few hours ago. The storm overtook us on the road. We are headed for Carn Inbarh—I have messages for Earl Murdo. I can show them to you.”
“Murdo, eh?” Curudan cocked an eyebrow. “Well, the seals will show me who they’re from.” He threw back his head and took a long swallow of his wine, then refilled his glass from the pitcher.
“Do not make yourself too free with my communications, Baron.” Aelin did not like the offhand power Curudan was flaunting. “They are from Count Eolair, and he is not a man to be trifled with, even by the Silver Stags.”
“Huh.” Curudan wiped his mouth. “Because he is the Hand of the Throne, yes. Because he is an important servant of our masters in Erkynland.”
Aelin now felt sure he did not want to drink from his own beaker. He rose and carried it to the shuttered window. “Yes, my great-uncle is an important, powerful man. And he has earned that distinction. Do you think otherwise?” As he spoke, he hid the cup with his body and poured the wine into the crack between the window and the wooden shutter, letting it run down the rain-splashed wall outside.
“No, no,” Curudan said, laughing. “You misunderstand me. Come and have something to eat—you must be hungry after your long ride.” But Curudan did not explain how the young knight had misunderstood.
Aelin poured himself wine from the pitcher that the baron had been using, and for the rest of the conversation, which Curudan carefully kept to uncontroversial subjects, he ate only what foods the baron had already eaten.
“You must be tired, Sir Aelin,” said his host at last, sliding back his chair. “You and your men can have a safe, dry night’s sleep here. Then on the morning you can set out refreshed for Murdo’s lands.”
“Thank you, Baron.” Aelin did his best to smile and look grateful, but he was more unsettled than ever. Not even a word about “When the storm breaks,” but instead the plain suggestion that they would not be welcome more than this one night.
Downstairs, his men were yawning and curling up on their now dry cloaks, making themselves comfortable close to the fire as it burned down to coals. The plates and cups scattered about the room showed that they too had been given food and drink. Only young Evan, the local lad, seemed alert. Aelin made himself a place to lie down near him.
“Did you drink the wine?” Aelin asked quietly.
Evan looked around to see if anyone was watching, then gave a small, discreet shake of his head. “I do not drink wine, sir,” he whispered. “I am an Aedonite. I hope that does not give you offense.”
“No offense at all,” said Aelin. “But it is the first I have heard that Aedonites drink no wine.”
“My family belongs to a very severe sect.” They were both whispering now. A few of the baron’s men looked over at them, but without curiosity. “Water—Aedon’s Ale, as we call it—is our only drink.”
“Good news, that. We will take turns watching, then. I have an ill feeling about what goes on here.”
“Something is strange,” Evan agreed. “One of them said they are the protectors of this tower until the Rimmersmen come, but I have never seen such a lax garrison.” He looked around the room. “They act as if they are waiting for something.”
“You are right.” Aelin’s heart beat faster. Until now, he had not been able to give his uneasy feeling a name, but the young soldier had done it. The baron’s men seemed to be expecting something . . . or someone. “I will take first watch. Sleep now. I drank very little wine myself, and only from the baron’s own jug.”
“Do not let them know you are awake, Sir Aelin,” the young man whispered. “I think they expect us all to sleep soundly tonight.”
“I could not sleep now if I had to,” Aelin told him. “Rest while you can.”
He lay back and closed his eyes, feigning sleep, but his heart was rabbiting and his thoughts were chaotic. Outside, the storm bellowed and hissed like some monster that the gods might have fought at the dawning of the world.
• • •
In his dream a forest had grown over him as he slept. He could feel the clutching roots, ancient and cold, as they tangled his limbs and dragged him ever deeper into the ground.
“Ours,” the trees whispered, though he could barely hear them because he was surrounded by dark, damp earth, which crept not only into his ears but his mouth and nose and, somehow, even beneath his skin. He was becoming soil, a man-shaped clod of dirt that would fall to pieces beneath the blade of the first plow. “All this is ours.”
He tried to fight loose, to dig his way toward the surface, hoping that in the world he imagined outside the forest the sun would still shine, that he would be able to see to make his escape. But as he surfaced, pulling back the roots like stiff curtains, he felt the slap of freezing wind. Darkness was all there was, darkness and the moaning of the air, stirred to madness.
Then a face came to him through the tangled roots, a pale, corpse-like face. It was his own. He was not digging upward, he was digging down, and he had found his own grave.
• • •
Aelin lurched up, fighting against the strangling clutch of the forest floor, only to discover the heavy taproot that held him down was a hand across his mouth, and the face he had thought his own belonged to the young soldier Evan, eyes wide, cheeks fishbelly white with fear. He was moaning, too, or was that just the wind . . . ?
“Sir Aelin!” the youth whispered. “Wake up! Do you hear that?”
The sound that rose to his ears was not made by any wind, or if it was, it was the strangest gale that had blown since Brynioch made the skies. The high, pulsing moan seemed to have words, almost, or at least the sound of them, regular patterns that rose and fell, woven into the howling winds and thunders of a real storm but unmistakably something else. “Bagba’s Herd, what is that?”
“I don’t know, sir.” The young soldier’s face was slack with fear. “All the guards but that one have gone upstairs to see, I think.” He gestured to one of the Silver Stags, who sat with his chin on his chest not far from Aelin’s other soldiers, fast asleep and snoring.
“Then we follow them up,” said Aelin, slipping his knife from its sheath as quietly as he could, though in truth, with the storm howling outside and the men nearby sawing and buzzing in their sleep, it would have been hard to hear a tray full of plates and cups dropped on the stone floor.
Evan drew his own blade, then followed Aelin upward past the drawing room where they had met Baron Curudan. The great room was empty now, not even a single soldier on guard, so they continued upstairs. As they made their way past rooms meant as living space and storage for the tower’s usual garrison, the noise of the storm outside grew louder, not just the screech of winds but also those odd sounds threaded through the clamor, a dim sense of words and melodies, neither of them natural, neither of them familiar in any way. Aelin thought the singing in the storm felt more dreamlike than even his dream had been.
As they neared the uppermost story and the viewing gallery that commanded the entire Inniscrich valley, Aelin heard the more familiar sounds of men’s voices, specifically that of Sir Samreas, Curudan’s hawk-faced lieutenant. As Aelin and Evan stepped out of the stairwell the roil of wind and wet smacked them across the face.
“Shut your mouth,” Samreas was telling someone. “The baron knows what he’s up to. The king chose him careful.”
“What if the storm just rides him down?” asked one of his men.
“Don’t worry about what you don’t understand,” Samreas said.
Most of the Silver Stags were on the northeast side of the gallery, pressed together against the battlement as if for warmth or comfort,
staring down across the mouth of the valley and the great ford that the tower protected. Because the soldiers were on the opposite side of the chamber with their attention directed outward, Aelin signaled for Evan to follow him. He stayed as much as possible in shadow as he edged toward the closest part of the battlements to try to see for himself what the Stags were watching.
It was hard to see much of the valley below—the sky was so clotted with storm that the stars were invisible, and the moon appeared and disappeared behind the streaming clouds like a winking eye. The strangest thing, though, was that the thickest part of the storm seemed to have settled on the ground, filling the river valley with tendrils of darkness like mud in a puddle of water. But not all was darkness: at the edges and in the hidden center of this ground-hugging storm, lightning flickered. During one such flash Aelin had a momentary glimpse of a single armored rider and his stamping mount, revealed on the headland above the ford. Was that Baron Curudan wearing the antlered helmet of the great god Hern? And if it wasn’t him, then who was waiting there for the storm as though it were a living thing?
Evan stole silently forward, leaving the shelter of the stairwell for a better view. Aelin wanted to stop him, but dared not make a sound. Lightning raced along the top of the storm like a stone skipped on a lake’s smooth surface. The lone rider did not move, but waited as the darkness seethed and loomed and at last, closed him in.
“Yes, there is a man!” shouted Samreas as he watched, his voice barely audible above the sharp whining of the wind. “Ah, by Murhagh’s bloody wounds, is it any wonder that King Hugh loves him? Curudan!” he yelled, waving his fist in the air. “Hail to the baron, master of the Stags!”
Aelin could only stare, dumbfounded. What was going on here? Had the Silver Stags all lost their minds? He turned to Evan to suggest a tactical retreat, but realized after a dumbstruck second that it was not Evan at all, but one of the Silver Stags who had just come out of the stairwell. For a moment Aelin and the Stag only gaped at one another, then Curudan’s man shoved hard against Aelin’s chest, sending him stumbling back against the battlement so that for a moment he actually feared he might fall over into the swirling, windy black.