"The whole thing's daft," Badan concluded. "Riding back for something that ain't even happened."
At the head of the line, one of Guthred's boys was shouting up through the drizzle to the gatekeepers. Only tension kept Durand's head from falling against the gelding's neck.
'Then they'll head down to the docks," Heremund was saying. It took Durand a moment to remember. He had an image of the nobles crowded atop the round watchtower. "The whole wellborn mob and a dozen gilded priests all tramping down the cliff stairs, dragging their fur hems behind them. I think it's wine they pour then. Every man in the company."
A face appeared among the battlements.
Guthred's man shouted something like: "Lord Lamoric, son of Abravanal, Duke of Gireth."
Durand kept his eyes on the guards: two now. It should have been easy. Durand could make out little more than the curve of their wide-brimmed kettle-hats. Wind and rain snatched words away. Abruptly, the helmets switched. It looked like the two guards had turned around, putting their backs to the bridge.
It made no sense.
Just then, a shiver ran down the spine of the stone bridge under their feet. Someone inside had started winching up the old gate.
No one moved.
For several heartbeats, they just sat there, every man wondering what would come next, but no sign came from the gatehouse. Finally, Lamoric spurred his palfrey forward and the whole company marched under the gates.
Durand made his way under, muddy rain dripping from the teeth of the portcullis to slither down his neck, but then the head of their line seemed to ball up. Men in the gatehouse jostied, their horses spooked by the sudden stop in the cellar dark of the place. They might nearly have been underwater.
Durand slipped the gray through and into the courtyard where every one of Lamoric's retainers stared up at a tower on the seaside wall. Half the magnates of old Errest stood there, still as stone or tapestry. It was hard to make them out. Everyone had rushed to the parapet, crowding close. Every mouth gaped and every eye bulged, staring out on the Broken Crown.
Up the inner wall to that tower swung a stair.
Though no word passed between Lamoric's men, each one slid from his saddle and crossed to the stair. Durand found himself a step behind Ouen up the wall, but then, suddenly, the big man stopped, as frozen as all the others who had reached the battlements before him. Durand ducked behind him and slipped into a place at the parapet where he could see out over the Crown.
It came like a pond skater: a warship shimmering over the black Broken Crown. Two banks of long oars pulsed down its sides while every silver-pale plank and spar glimmered. A ram reached over the waves. A sail black as caverns hung against the night, the Eye of Heaven picked out on its midnight surface. Just as Durand understood that the warship was aiming to land at
Solan's
quay, an unheard order twitched her sweeps up: four standing rows.
She was coasting in now, and she must be
Eagle.
Through fathoms of rain and spray, a shape was plain on
Eagle's
jutting forecastle: the figure of a tall man standing. The people around Durand were moving now, but Durand could not go. He leaned into the embrasure, narrowing his eyes. A long mantle swung round the man's shoulders, and, on his head, Durand thought he made out a metal glint.
He must get closer.
"Ah," said Heremund, tugging on Durand's cloak, "Now look here."
Heremund smirked. Around them, the crowd was draining away. Some flapped down the stair, making their way to the quay. He picked out another line darting across the courtyard and the safety of shrines and stone walls. King Raghal had gone.
"Something's coming, that's certain," said Heremund, shoving his nose back through the parapet. "And not only the ship."
Durand launched himself for the stairs. Here was
Eagle
slipping through a fissure in the world, an apparition before the magnates of the kingdom. She might be gone at any time. Somehow, Durand knew the vision to be as fragile as a tinder flame in the palm. He had to know what it meant.
Only as he dodged past Heremund did something cause him to look back. Behind the skald, Prince Biedin stood alone, the last man on the watchtower. He stared down on
Eagle's
decks, his bearded chin caught in a curl of gloved fingers. The uncanny radiance of the Lost ship was in his face.
Durand hit the wet cliff stairs so quickly his smooth-soled boots, nearly pitched him into space, but it was worth the stab of panic when he caught sight of
Eagle
once more. She had not blown out or flickered away. Durand thought of the long voyage to this shore from the Throne of Heaven. Creation had been turning more than two centuries since the Lost Princes set sail, and only through this narrow crack, this anniversary day as it swung round, had light slipped through from beyond.
He ran, slapping down the open stairs as the great warship slid into the sheltered blackness below, its hull and sweeps throwing cold light mirroring deep. He saw bearded fighting men standing at their oars, colorless as lead and quicksilver.
Just a few paces separated
Eagle
and the quay.
Durand charged. He leapt around slow-footed courtiers. He plunged ten steps at a time. Then, just as his feet slapped the quay,
Eagle
touched the shore, and, in an instant, the eerie light winked out.
In the sudden gloom, sound stretched. The waves hissed and rolled. The wind moved under the cliffs. Finally, Durand heard the shuffle of other feet: soft boots from the stairs behind him. The last he or anyone had seen of the great warship and its crew was the face of the man on the forecastle. Its image swam in Durand's eyes: long, all jaw blade and cheekbones. On the brow, a chill crown, and two black pits where the shadows swallowed the eyes. He could almost see the man stepping ashore, but the gap between earth and sea had been too far.
A prodigy.
As
the wind
lashed the headland, every man among Lamoric's retainers mucked in to pitch the tents. Hammers pounded stakes into the sod. Callused hands held center-poles. Despite cuts and gashes from his fight with Waer, Durand caught hold of the heaviest rolls of canvas, lugging them like corpses, and burying himself in
hard work like a penitent. Wh
en the carts were empty, he tramped toward Guthred by the heap of trunks and barrels. The old shield-bearer stood with one of Biedin's men: a serving man sent along when Biedin's seneschal gave them the patch of ground the Knight in Red left behind.
'Truth be told," the seneschal's man said, "I thought we was going to lose half of them when I saw them running for the shrine."
"The shrine?" Guthred asked.
"It's all in pieces. His Highness has the lads tearing it up. It's in with the new, and everything's out: icons, altar, tiles, and floor. All these high lords and ladies they come rushing in, the ones running from the watchtower. We don't have light in there. And the floor's all up. Nothing but pits. The young Duke of Cape Ernes, I think he's got his wing in a sling for it now."
Guthred nodded, but, as the pair saw Durand, the stranger shut up. Durand picked up a trunk. The thing felt like they'd packed it with anvils.
"There," Guthred said, pointing, "Berchard's tent." Durand passed other conversations, killing most with a step into earshot. Badan, though, was chasing off anyone who got close, and he found Durand almost right away.
"I've just been talking with the boys next door, Durand," he said, breathless. "You know what they tell me? Our Moryn's Marshal of the North, sure, but Baron Brudei Hearkenwald is South Marshal. The man's got sixty winters on his roof."
Badan stabbed ten stiff fingers into Durand's chest, knocking him back a step under the weight of Berchard's trunk.
"Brudei Hearkenwald, ox. You reckon His Lordship's going to grin when he wakes up and it's old Brudei he's come back for? And all with his last horse and mail coat wagered on the end of it? And half the peers knowing he's the Knight in
Red, likely, and knowing him for a bad loser who can't play his own game by his own rules?"
Durand dropped the trunk and raised his hand. He wanted to roar back at the fool, to snap a fist into his toothless jaw. But his hand was full of blood. Waer's long cut had opened.
Durand bent and hoisted up Berchard's trunk, turning from Badan with the man's scorn blazing on the back of his neck.
Sleep would not
come.
Was Lamoric's Red Knight game one of these open secrets? After five moons riding, someone must have caught on, hearing the man's voice or catching loose talk. Men drank, and the peers of Errest were, half of them, family. Durand had betrayed Lamoric, and now Lamoric looked a fool, crawling back on his father's name where his own would not take him.
But now they were back in the same mud waiting for the same battle.
Only it wasn't the same battle at all. This was no game. If they won, they'd keep Moryn off his knees and Radomor off the throne.
Durand rolled onto his shoulder.
Under this storm of strategy and politics, worse things slid in the deeps of Durand's soul. He tried to conjure up the faces around him as Waer spat those words on the headland. He saw sneering Waer and Agryn looking on, and Berchard. H
e re
membered Ouen arguing. All of them would know.
He wondered how many others. He wondered about Lamoric.
Durand mumbled a profanity, and forced it all back down long enough for other doubts to rise.
What if the whole treason plot was madness? What if he dragged these men here for nothing? What would become of them then? With a long winter swinging down and their lord destitute and finished, the last thing they wanted was to lame a horse or lose their arms to some rich lord. Every man's fist was tight around his last few pennies now there might be no more. Who knew what might happen when the last was gone?
Once, he had seen the Heavens when a king died. He had seen the Banished stir in their chains when royal blood was
spilt. With the king cast down and a usurper on the Hazelwood Throne, only Heaven's King knew what Hells would be loosed in the land. It would be better if Durand Col were a fool, his friends starving, and the people safe.
27 Leopard on the Green
He must have slept, for now he woke in the dark.
Breathing rose and fell from two hundred sleeping men beyond the tent walls. The air was still as caverns, but he heard the horses: anxious stamps and snorts. Animals saw the spirits, and smelled them. Cats were always watching
something
move through a room when no human eye could see. Something was coming.
Rolling silently to his forearms, Durand moved to the tent flap and looked into the cool stillness. Horses, tents, palings— everything seemed to be in its place. The Blood Moon hung above Tern Gyre.
Durand set his palms flat on the ground.
And flinched back. It was alive.
Worms and grubs and maggots stood, wavering like a second crop of grass. They were beads and fingers and phalluses—white veins meshing the sod.
One spasm had Durand on his haunches, sword in hand.
As the worms crawled over sleeping men and bedclothes, he forced himself to stay in the doorway with his eyes wide even as his mind wrestled with memories. This was why he had dragged them all back.
He forced himself out under the moon, feeling the slime under his soles. The serving men too poor for tents lay under slithering cauls. He walked in widening circles through tents and cold fires, certain beyond reason that the worms were the first breath of the coming storm.
He could feel eyes on him.
Back toward Lamoric's tents, one horse whinnied.
Only a few paces from the spot where Sir Waer fell stood a gathering of tall men and dark horses. Durand was suddenly conscious of the headland's height above the sea and the fields south. He was standing alone on the top of the world with these strangers.
A profanity slipped out on Durand's breath. They had stepped from the Otherworld, and the Blood Moon's glow did little but sink shadows deeper into their manties.
Plain under the moonlight, Durand stiffened but held his ground.
They were knights, all mantled and all still. A pair of low shapes stole from shadow to shadow with the sleeves of their black robes dangling like the wings of carrion birds. Some manner of hunchbacked brute knelt before the lord of the company. And the stooped figure of a new Duke of Yrlac hulked at the center of it all, his skull gleaming like a shield boss.