PROLOGUE (34 page)

Wolfhere examined him. The firelight played over his expression, brushing light and dark across his features as if one never quite overpowered the other.” How do you mean to look for Liath, my lord prince, when it took eight years for Anne and me to find her before? With what magic do you intend to seek out a woman stolen away by unearthly creatures who fly on wings of flame?"

"If she loves me and the child," said Sanglant grimly, "she'll find a way back to us. Won't she? Isn't that the test of love and loyalty?"

"Perhaps. But what do you intend to do meanwhile? You didn't ride south with your father's army. Had you done so, you would discover soon enough that Anne and the others traveled south to Darre."

"Ah! Is that why Anne sent you? To spy on me? Very well. I'll take up her challenge, because I mean to defeat her now that I understand what she is and what she means to do to my mother's kin." As usual, now that Sanglant knew what his objective was, a plan unfolded before him.” I'll need griffin feathers and sorcerers to combat her magic. And an army."

"All of which will be useless, my lord prince." Wolfhere was far too old and wily to be won over by the excitement of such a bold plan; no doubt he expected a full-grown eagle, not just a fledgling.” You do not understand her power. She is Taillefer's granddaughter, and a mathematicus of unequaled strength and mastery."

"I respect her power. But you forget that I am married to her daughter, and that her granddaughter bides in my care. Blessing is half of my making. I am not without rank and power in my own right."

"You no longer wear the gold torque that marks your royal lineage."

"Liath wears the torque that once was mine, as is her right. My daughter wears one."

"But will you wear one again? Or have you turned your back on what Henry gave you, as was his right as your father?"

The cool words irritated him.” I will take what I need and deserve when I am ready, not before! My father does not own me." But irritation could be turned into something useful, just as anger makes splitting wood go faster.” Help me restore Taillefer's line to its rightful place, Wolfhere, in preparation for the return of the Aoi, so that we can face them from a position of strength. Help me find Liath. Help me defeat Anne. In truth, your experience would prove valuable to me."

"You would risk your precious daughter so near to me, my lord prince?" Yet was there a glimmer of vulnerability in the old Eagle's expression as he leaned forward to stir the fire with a stick? Sparks drifted lazily up into the night, flicking out abruptly where they brushed against the stone.

"I can't trust you, it's true. This might all be a ruse on your part. But my daughter is well guarded by a creature that never sleeps, and who will soon know what manner of threat you pose. And it seems to me, my friend, that when we first met this night you had snuck into my camp without being seen. You were close enough to my daughter to kill her, had that been your intent. A knife in the dark offers a quick death. Yet she lives, despite my carelessness."

Was that a tear on Wolfhere's cheek? Hard to tell, and the heat of the fire wicked away all moisture.

Sanglant smiled softly and glanced at Heribert, who only shrugged to show that, in this case, he had no advice to offer.” Travel with me and my company of thistles, Wolfhere. What better option do you have? You don't trust Anne. King Henry has pronounced you under ban. At least I can protect you from the king's wrath."

Wolfhere smiled mockingly.” It isn't the king's wrath I fear," he said, but he raised no further objection.

STRONGOAND had seen in his dreams that it was the habit of humankind to make their festivals an interlude of excess and self-gratification. They let fermented drink addle their minds. They ate too much. Often they became noisy, contentious, and undisciplined, and they spent their resources extravagantly and as though their cup of plenty ran bottomless.

Even the chieftains of his own kind had grown into the habit of celebration after each victory. They might command their warriors to parade treasure before them, or they might lay bets on fights staged between slaves and beasts. By such means, and in the company of their rivals, they boasted of their power.

He had no need of such displays. The ships of his dead rivals lay beached on his shores and now swelled the numbers of his fleet. Weapons he hoarded in plenty, and the ironsmiths of twenty or more tribes hammered and forged at his order. The chieftains of twenty tribes had come to Rikin Fjord at his command to lay their staffs of authority at his feet. They had accepted him—some willingly—as ruler over all the tribes: first among equals, as the humans styled the regnant who reigned over those who called

themselves princes and lords. He had named himself Stronghand, by the right of naming given by the OldMother of his tribe. He was, after all, the first chieftain to unite all the tribes of the RockChildren under one hand.

But he felt no thrill of triumph, no ecstacy of power. He had no wish to celebrate. He nursed in his heart and mind only the chill knife of ambition and the cold emptiness that marked the absence of the one whom he had known as a brother in his heart: Alain, son of Henri, now vanished utterly from mortal lands.

Stronghand no longer dreamed. This lack was a nagging source of bitterness and sorrow.

But dreams were not all of his life. He did not need his dreams. He had thought through his desires with all due calculation. Not even the loss of his heart would divert him from his purpose. After all, ambition and will serve best the one who is heartless.

From his chair, staff in hand, he surveyed the assembly gathered before him: a host of RockChildren spread out on the gently sloping land that descended toward the strand that marked the water's edge. Twenty-two staffs lay at his feet, and the chieftains who had surrendered their staffs to his authority stood at a respectful distance. The warriors of Rikin tribe stood behind them, intermingling with those warriors who had sailed to Rikin with their war leaders. Beached on the strand and anchored farther up and down the fjord lay at least eighty ships, each one manned with no less than fifty warriors. Yet even this large assembly represented only a portion of the army he could call on now.

They were many, and more waited in the fjords that were home to the other tribes. But the humans still had greater numbers in their own country than all of the RockChildren leagued together.

That was what Bloodheart and the old chieftains had always failed to understand. The humans might be weaker in body, but they had the implacable strength of numbers.

The assembly waited. Distantly, wind sang down from the fjall, where the WiseMothers conferred in the silence that is the privilege of stone. Behind, the SwiftDaughters shifted restlessly. They did not have the patience of their mothers and grandmothers. Not for them the slow measure of eternity. Like their brothers and cousins, they would tread the Earth for no more than forty or so winters before dissolving under the press of time.

Rikin's OldMother stood at the entrance to her hall, witnessing, as was her right and obligation. He felt her respiration on his neck, although she neither spoke nor made any sign.

This was his day. After all, even when she relinquished the knife of authority to the YoungMother and began her slow trek up to the fjall, she would live far longer than any of her children. His great endeavor must seem to her like the sport of young ones, briefly fought and briefly won.

Yet he intended to make of it as much as he could.

Hakonin's chief came forward, last of all, and laid his staff atop the careful pile, last to come because Hakonin's OldMother had been first to understand the scope of Stronghand's ambition and to offer alliance. Then Hakonin's chief, too, stepped back to wait at the fore of the assembly, beside Tenth Son of the Fifth Litter, Stronghand's helmsman and captain, his own litter mate.

Stronghand rose. First, he cut into the haft of each staff the doubled circle that signified his rale. He stained these cuts with ocher to make each incision clearly visible. None spoke as he confirmed his authority in this manner: the staffs of these chieftains would be permanently marked with the sigil of Stronghand's overlordship.

When he had finished, after each chieftain had come forward to receive his staff, he stared out over the fjord. The waters ran cold and still. Nothing broke that calm surface.

Nothing broke the hush cast over the assembly.

Let them wonder at his lack of expression. Let them fear him because he did not howl in triumph, as any of them would have. What need had he for howling and shrieking, yammering and outcry? Let those he struck against cry and wail. Silence was his ally, not his enemy.

While they watched, he walked through their ranks down to the shoreline. From the water's edge, he threw a stone into the water. The stone, like any action, created ripples. What his allies did not know was that he had prearranged this signal.

They burst from the quiet waters all at once, more than he could count. Arching upward, thrust there by the pumping strength of their hindquarters, the merfolk twisted in the air and spun down. Those waiting up by the hall saw only silvery bodies, a brief glimpse of fearsome heads and hair that slithered and twined in the air, then the massive splash as the heavy bodies of the merfolk hit

the water. With a resounding slap of their tails, the merfolk vanished. Water churned, stilled, and lay as calm as a mirror again. On that surface he saw the reflection of trees and a single, circling hawk. A thread of smoke streaked the sky: the watchfire set on the bluff that guarded the mouth of Rikin Fjord.

A murmur swept the ranks of the assembly, and died away. They all knew how his last enemy, the powerful Nokvi, had met his end. After losing his hands and his victory, he was thrown into the sea to be devoured by the merfolk. It was not a glorious death.

Stronghand walked back to his chair and hoisted his staff. He had no need to shout: let the wind carry his words as far as it was able and let those in the back strain to hear him.

"Hear my words. Now we will act. Already my ships hunt down those of our kind who refuse to stand with us. Yet none of us can rest while others do this work. We must build and make ready."

Along the high slopes of the valley, scars in the forest cover marked where his human slaves had opened up new land for farming. Not much, truly, but enough to give plots to each one of the slave families that were part of his original slave-holding. He had plans for them as well. War was not the only way to create an empire.

Tenth Son of the Fifth Litter called out the necessary question.” For what do we make ready?"

"Can it be that we will turn our backs on the tree sorcerers of Alba, who thought to make one of our own chieftains into their puppet and slave?" Stronghand let his gaze span the crowd.” They made a fool and a corpse of the one who called himself Nokvi. Are we to let these tree sorcerers believe that we are no better than Nokvi and his followers? Or will we take revenge for the insult?"

They roared out their answer in a thousand voices. He let it die away until silence reigned again. At his back, the steady presence of Rikin's OldMother weighed on his shoulders.

"Go home to your valleys. During this autumn and winter, fit out your ships and forge your weapons. When the winter storms have blown out their fury, we will strike at the island of Alba. In the summer to come, I ask this of you: strike hard and strike often. Hit where you can. Take what you want. One sixth of your plunder deliver to me, and bring me word when you meet the tree sorcerers. I will find them and root them out, and when that time

comes, the island of Alba and its riches will belong to our people. This is how it begins."

They hailed him loudly and enthusiastically, with the howls and shouts appropriate to a ready and dangerous host. Best of all, they dispersed swiftly and with an efficiency brought about by anticipation and forethought. Already they moved less like a bestial horde intent on momentary satisfaction and more like thinking beings who could plan, act, and triumph.

He turned, to approach the OldMother, but she had gone back inside her hall. Her door was shut. She had no need to interfere, after all. She had already made her pronouncement on the day she had allowed him to take a name:
"Stronghand will rise or fall by his own efforts."

He gestured, and Tenth Son came forward.” When our allies have all left the fjord, let the ones assigned as reavers go forth to harry in Moerin's lands. Let them make sure that none of those who once gave allegiance to Nokvi still live. But let a few skiffs patrol the coast, and let some of our brothers, the quiet and wily ones, travel where they can. They must listen. It may even be that some who claim to be our allies now will talk against us. I must know who they are."

"It will be done." Tenth Son beckoned, and certain of his trusted lieutenants hurried forward to carry away Stronghand's chair.” Are there any you trust less than the others?"