The garden’s walls were crumbled, the stone walkways broken and upended. A few hardy old rosebushes had survived winter’s onslaught, and although it might be months or years before they would bloom again, their dark leaves and gray, thorny boughs looked strong and vigorous. It was hard not to wonder how long they had grown there, or who had planted them.
Vorzheva and Josua walked past the knotted trunk of a huge pine tree which grew in the breach of one of the walls. The dying sun, a blur of burning red, seemed hung in its branches.
“Do you still think of her?” Vorzheva asked suddenly.
“What?” Josua’s mind seemed to have been wandering. “Who?”
“That other one. The one you loved, your brother’s wife.”
The prince inclined his head. “Hylissa. No, not often. There are far more important things to think on these days.” He put his arm about his wife’s shoulders. “I have a family now which needs my care.”
Vorzheva looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then nodded her head with quiet satisfaction. “Yes,” she said. “You do.”
“And not just a family, but a whole people, it seems.”
She made a quiet noise of despair. “You cannot be everyone’s husband, everyone’s father.”
“Of course not. But I must be the prince, whether I wish to or not.”
They walked on for a while without talking, listening to the irregular music of a lone bird perched high in the swaying branches. The wind was chilly, but the edge seemed a little less than it had been in the days before, which might have been why the bird sang.
Vorzheva pressed her head against Josua’s shoulder so that her black hair fluttered around his chin. “What will we do now?” she asked. “Now the battle is ended?”
Josua led her toward a stone bench, fallen to shards at one end, but still with much of its surface unbroken. They brushed off a few melting spatters of snow and sat down. “I do not know,” he said. “I think it is time for another Raed—a council. We have much to decide. I have many doubts about what is the wisest course. We should not wait long after … after we have buried our fallen.”
Vorzheva looked at him, surprised. “What do you mean, Josua? Why such hurry to have this thing?”
The prince raised his hand and examined the lines on his palm. “Because there is a possibility that if we do not strike now, an important chance will be lost.”
“Strike?” She seemed astounded. “Strike what? What madness is this? We have lost one of every three! You would take these few hundred against your brother!?”
“But we have won an important victory. The first anyone has had against him since he began his mad campaign. If we strike out now, while memory is fresh and Elias is unaware of what has happened, our people here will take heart; when others see we are moving, they will join us, too.”
Vorzheva stood, her eyes wide. She held an arm around her middle as if to protect their unborn child. “No! Oh, Josua, that is too stupid! I thought you were to wait at least until the winter had passed! How can you go off to fight now?”
“I never said I was going to do anything,” he said. “I have not decided yet—nor will I, until I have called a Raed.”
“Yes, you men will sit around and talk of the great battle you fought. Will the women be there?”
“Women?” He looked at her quizzically. “Geloë will be a part of it.”
“Oh, yes, Geloë,” she said with scorn. “Because she is called a ‘wise woman.’ That is the only sort of woman you will listen to—one who has a name for it, like a fast horse or a strong ox.”
“What should we do—invite everyone from all of New Gadrinsett?” He was growing annoyed. “That would be foolish.”
“No more foolish than listening to only men.” She stared at him for a moment, then visibly forced herself to become calm. She took several breaths before speaking again. “There is a story the women of the Stallion Clan tell. It is about the bull who would not listen to his cows.”
Josua waited. “Well,” he said at last. “What happened to him?”
Vorzheva scowled and moved away down the broken path. “Go on as you are doing. You will find out.”
Josua’s expression seemed half-amusement, half-displeasure. “Wait, Vorzheva.” He rose and followed her. “You are right to chide me. I should listen to what you have to say. What happened to the bull?”
She looked him over carefully. “I will tell you some other time. I am too angry now.”
Josua took her hand and fell into step beside her. The path curled through the disarranged stones, bringing them close to the tumbled blocks of the outer garden wall. There was a noise of voices from beyond.
“Very well,” she said abruptly. “The bull was too proud to listen to his cows. When they told to him that a wolf was stealing the calves, he did not believe, because he did not see it himself. When all the calves were stolen, the cows drove the bull away and found a new bull.” Her stare was defiant. “Then the wolves ate the old bull, since he had no one to protect him while he slept.”
Josua’s laugh was harsh. “And is that a warning?”
She squeezed his arm. “Please, Josua. The people are tired of the fighting. We make a home here.” She pulled him closer to the breach in the stone. From the far side rose the noise of the ragtag marketplace that had sprung up in the shelter of Leavetaking House’s outer walls. Several dozen men, women, and children were bartering with old possessions carried out of their former homes and new things gathered on and about Sesuad’ra. “See,” Vorzheva said, “they make a new life. You told them they fought for their home. How can you make them move again?”
Josua stared at a group of bundled children playing tug-o-war with a colorful rag. They were shrieking with laughter and kicking up puffs of snow; nearby, someone’s mother was calling angrily for her child to come in out of the wind. “But this is not their true home,” he said quietly. “We cannot stay here forever.”
“Who is staying forever?” Vorzheva demanded. “Until spring! Until our child is born!”
Josua shook his head. “But we may never have a chance like this again.” He turned away from the wall, his face grave. “Besides, I owe it to Deornoth. He gave his life, not for us to quietly disappear, but so that we could pay back the wrongs my brother has done.”
“Owe it to Deornoth!” Vorzheva sounded angry, but her eyes were sad. “What a thing to say! Only a man would say such a thing.”
Josua turned and caught her up, pulling her toward him. “I do love you, Lady. I only try to do what is right.”
She averted her eyes. “I know. But …”
“But you do not think I am making the best decision.” He nodded, stroking her hair. “I am listening to everyone, Vorzheva, but the final word must be mine.” He sighed and held her for a while without speaking. “Merciful Aedon, I would not wish this on anyone,” he said at last. “Vorzheva, promise me something.”
“What?” Her voice was muffled in his cloak.
“I have changed my mind. If something happens to me …” He thought. “If something happens to me, take our child away from this. Do not let anyone put him on a throne, or use him as the rallying symbol for some army.”
“Him?”
“Or her. Do not let our child be forced into this game as I was.”
Vorzheva shook her head fiercely. “No one will take my baby away from me, not even your friends.”
“Good.” He looked out through the blowing tendrils of her hair. The sun had fallen behind Leavetaking House, reddening the entire western sky. “That makes whatever will come easier to bear.”
Five days after the battle, the last of Sesuad’ra’s dead were buried—men and women of Erkynland, Rimmersgard, Hernystir and the Thrithings, of Yiqanuc and Nabban, refugees from half a hundred places, all laid to rest in the shallow earth on the summit of the Stone of Farewell. Prince Josua spoke carefully and seriously about their suffering and sacrifice as his cloak billowed in the winds that swirled around
the hilltop. Father Strangyeard, Freosel, and Binabik all rose in turn to say words of one sort or another. The citizens of New Gadrinsett stood, hard-faced, and listened.
Some of the graves had no markers, but most had some small monument, a carved board or rough-chiseled piece of stone that bore the name of the fallen one. After great labors to hack into the icy ground, the Erkynguard had buried their own dead in a mass grave beside the lake, crowning it with a single slab of rock that bore the legend: “Soldiers of Erkynland, killed in the Battle of Stefflod Valley. Em Wulstes Duos.” By God’s will.
Only the fallen Thrithings mercenaries were unmourned and unmarked. Their living comrades dug a vast barrow for them on the grasslands below Sesuad’ra—half believing it would be their own, that Josua planned to execute them. Instead, when the labor was finished they found themselves escorted by armed men far out onto the open lands and then set free. It was a terrible thing for a Thrithings-man to lose his horse, but the surviving mercenaries decided quickly that walking was better than dying.
So, at last, all the dead were buried and the ravens were cheated of their holiday.
As solemn music played, vying with the harsh wind to be heard, the thought came to many of those who watched that although Sesuad’ra’s defenders had won an improbable and heroic victory, they had paid dearly for it. The fact that they had defeated only the tiniest portion of the forces arrayed against them, and had lost nearly half their number in doing so, made the winter-shrouded hillcrest seem an even colder and lonelier place.
Someone caught Simon’s arm from behind. He turned swiftly, tugging his arm loose, and raised it to strike.
“Here, lad, here, don’t be so hasty-quick!” The old jester cowered, hands held over his head.
“I’m sorry, Towser.” Simon rearranged his cloak. The bonfire was glowing in the near distance and he was impatient to be going. “I didn’t know who it was.”
“No offense taken, laddie.” Towser swayed slightly. “The thing is … well, I was just wondering if I could walk with you a way. Over to the celebration. I’m not as steady on my feet as I was.”
Not surprising, Simon thought: Towser’s breath was heavily scented with wine. Then he remembered what Sangfugol had said and fought down his urge to hurry on. “Of course.” He extended a discreet arm for the old man to lean on.
“Kind, lad, very kind. Simon, isn’t it?” The old man looked up at him, his shadowed face a puzzle of wrinkles.
“That’s right.” Simon smiled in the darkness. He had reminded Towser of his name a dozen different times.
“You’ll do well, you will,” the old man said. They moved toward the flickering light, walking slowly. “And I’ve met them all.”
Towser did not stay with him long once they reached the celebration. The old jester quickly found a group of drunken trolls and went off to reintroduce them to the glories of Bull’s Horn—and himself to the glories of kangkang, Simon suspected. Simon wandered for a while on the periphery of the gathering.
It was a true feast night, perhaps the first that Sesuad’ra had seen. Fengbald’s camp had proven to be groaningly full of stocks and stores, as though the late duke had plundered all Erkynland to insure he would be as comfortable in the Thrithings as if he had remained at the Hayholt. Josua had wisely made sure that most of the food and other useful things were hidden away for later—even if the company was to leave the Stone, it would not be tomorrow—but a generous portion had been made available for the celebration, so that tonight the hilltop had a genuinely festive air. Freosel, in particular, had derived no little pleasure from breaching Fengbald’s casks, draining off the first mug of Stanshire Dark himself with as much pleasure as if it had been the duke’s blood instead of only his beer.
Wood, one of the other things not in short supply, had been piled high in the center of the vast flat surface of the Fire Garden. The bonfire was burning brightly, and most of the people were gathered on the wide field of tiles. Sangfugol and some of the other musical citizens of New Gadrinsett were strolling here and there, playing for knots of appreciative listeners. Some of the listeners were more enthusiastic than others. Simon had to laugh as a particularly sodden trio of celebrants insisted on joining the harper in his rendition of “By Greenwade’s Shore.” Sangfugol winced but gamely played on; Simon silently congratulated the harper on his fortitude before wandering away.
The night was chilly but clear, and the wind that had bedeviled the hilltop during the burial rites was all but gone. Simon, after pondering for a moment, decided that considering the time of the year, the weather was actually rather nice. Again he wondered if the Storm King’s power might somehow be slipping, but this time the thought was followed by an even more worrisome question.
What if he’s only gathering his strength? What if he’s going to reach out now and do what Fengbald couldn’t?
That was not a line of thought Simon wished to pursue. He shrugged and readjusted his sword belt.
The first cup of wine offered to him went down very nicely, warming his stomach and loosening his muscles. He had been part of the small army put to work burying the dead—a ghastly task made worse by the occasional familiar face glimpsed beneath a mask of hoarfrost. Simon and the others had worked like demons to breach the stony ground, digging with whatever they could find—swords, axes, limbs of fallen trees, but as difficult as it had been to scrape in the frozen earth, the cold had slowed putrefaction, making a horrible job just a little more bearable. Still, Simon’s sleep had been raddled by nightmares the past two nights—endless visions of stiffened bodies tumbling into ditches, bodies rigid as statues, contorted figures that might have been carved by some mad sculptor obsessed by pain and suffering.
War’s rewards, Simon thought as he walked through the noisy throng. And if Josua were to be successful, the battles to come would make this look like an Yrmansol dance. The corpses would be piled higher than Green Angel Tower.
The thought made him feel cold and sick. He went in search of more wine.
The festival had a certain air of heedlessness, Simon noted. Voices were too loud, laughter too swift, as though those who talked and made merry were doing so for the benefit of others more than themselves. With the wine came fighting, too, which seemed to Simon as though it should be the last thing anyone would desire. Still, he passed more than a few clumps of people gathered around a pair or more of swearing, shouting men, calling encouragement and mockery as the combatants rolled in the mud. Those in the crowd who were not laughing looked disturbed or unhappy.
They know we are not saved, Simon thought, regretting his own mood on what should be a wonderful night. They are happy to be alive, but they know the future may be worse.
He wandered on, taking a drink when it was offered. He stopped for a while near Leavetaking House to watch Sludig and Hotvig wrestle—a friendlier kind of combat than he had seen elsewhere. The northerner and the Thrithings-man were stripped to the waist and grappling fiercely, each trying to throw the other out of a circle of rope, but both men were laughing; when they stopped to rest, they shared a wineskin. Simon called out a greeting to them.
Feeling like a lonely seagull circling the mast of a pleasure boat, he walked on.
Simon was not sure what time it was, whether it was just an hour or so after dark or approaching midnight. Things had begun to grow a little blurry somewhere after his half-dozenth drink of wine.
However, at this exact moment, time did not seem very important. What did seem that way was the girl who walked beside him, the light of the fading bonfire glinting in her dark, wavy hair. She wasn’t named Curly-Hair, but Ulca, as he had recently learned. She stumbled and he put his arm around her, amazed at how warm a body could feel, even through thick clothing.
“Where are we going?” she asked, then laughed. She did not seem terribly worried about possible destinations.
“Walking,” Simon replied. After a moment’s thought he decided he should make his plan more clear. “Walking around.??
?
The noise of the celebration was a dull roar behind them, and for a moment Simon could almost imagine that he was in the middle of the battle once more, on the frozen lake, slick with blood. …
His hackles rose. Why would he want to think about something like that!? He made a noise of disgust.
“What?” Ulca swayed, but her eyes were bright. She had shared the wineskin Sangfugol had given to him. She seemed to have a natural talent for holding her wine.
“Nothing,” he replied gruffly. “Just thinking. About the fighting. The battle. Fighting.”
“It must have been … horrible!” Her voice was full of wonder. “We watched. Welma ’n’ me. We were crying.”
“Welming you?” Simon glared at her. Was she trying to confuse him? “What does that mean?”
“Welma. I said ‘Welma an’ me.’ My friend, the slender one. You met her!” Ulca squeezed his arm, amused by his clever jest.
“Oh.” He reflected on the recent conversation. What had they been talking about? Ah. The battle. “It was horrible. Blood. People killed.” He tried to find some way to sum up the totality of the experience, to let this young woman know what he, Simon, had experienced. “Worse than anything,” he said heavily.
“Oh, Sir Seoman,” she cried, and stopped, losing her balance for a moment on the slippery ground. “You must have been frightened!”
“Simon. Not Seoman—Simon.” He considered what she had said. “Little. A little.” It was hard not to notice her proximity. She had a very nice face, really, full-cheeked and long-lashed. And her mouth. Why was it so close, though?
He refocused his eyes and discovered that he was leaning forward, toppling toward Ulca like a felled tree. He put his hands on her shoulders for balance, and was interested by how small she felt beneath his touch. “I’m going to kiss you,” he said suddenly.