The Stone of Farewell (71 page)

The witch woman had returned to the bull run to tend the prince. The guards had stepped back quickly to let her pass: something of her nature had traveled through the camp in swift whispers. Fikolmij's daughter had not come with her. Vorzheva had been locked in her father's wagon, tears of sorrow and anger still damp on her face.

“But you had him at a disadvantage,” Deornoth said to the witchwoman. “Why did you not strike then? Why did you let him send guards?”

Geloë's yellow eyes glittered in the torchlight. “I had no advantage at all. I told you once, Sir Deornoth, I cannot make warlike magic. I escaped this stockade, yes, but other than that it was all bluff. Now, if you will be silent about what you do not know, I will put my true skills to their proper use.” She returned her attention to the prince.

How
did
she escape the stockade?
Deornoth could not help wondering. One moment Geloë had been wandering in the shadows at the far end of the bull run, the next she had been gone.

He shook his head. It was useless to argue, and he had been little else but useless of late. He touched Josua's thin arm. “If I may be of any help, my prince, only ask.” He dropped to his knees, then looked briefly to the witch woman. “I apologize for my unthinking words, Valada Geloë.”

She grunted an acknowledgment. Deornoth rose and walked away.

The rest of the starveling band was seated by the other fire. The Thrithings-men, being not entirely without mercy, had given them brush and twigs with which to build it. They were not merciless, Deornoth thought, but not stupid, either: such poor fuel would provide heat—barely—but could not be used as a weapon, as could a flaming brand. The thought of weapons set him to musing as he seated himself between Sangfugol and Father Strangyeard.

“This is a foul way to end things,” he said. “You have heard what has happened to Josua?”

Strangyeard swung his slender hands. “They are untutored barbarians, these grasslanders. Mother Elysia, I know all men are equal in God's eyes, but this is atrocious! I mean to say, even ignorance is not an excuse for such ... He trailed off fretfully.

Sangfugol sat up, wincing at the pain in his leg. Anyone who knew him would have been astonished: the harper, previously meticulous in grooming and dress almost to the point of comedy, was as ragged, soiled, and burr-covered as a haystack vagabond. “And if Josua dies?” he said quietly. “He is my master and I love him, I suppose, but if he dies—
what happens to us?”

“If we are lucky, we will be little better than slaves,” Deornoth said, hearing his own words as if from another's lips. He felt quite hollow. How had things come to such a point? A year earlier the world had been as regular as supper bread. “If we are
unlucky ...”
he continued, but did not finish his thought—nor did he need to.

“It will be worse on the women,” Sangfugol whispered, looking over to Duchess Gutrun, who held sleeping Leleth on her lap. “These men are ungodly brutes. Have you seen the scars they give themselves?”

“Isorn,” Deornoth called suddenly. “Come here, if you please.”

Duke Isgrimnur's son crawled around the meager fire to sit near them.

“I think,” Deornoth said, “that we must prepare ourselves to do something tomorrow when Josua is made to fight.”

Strangyeard looked up, worried. “But we are so few ... half a dozen in the midst of thousands.”

Isorn nodded, a grim little smile showing on his wide face. “At least we can choose the way we die. I will not let them have my mother. The smile vanished. ”By Usires, I swear I would kill her first.”

Sangfugol looked around as if hoping they would reveal their joke. “But we have no weapons!” he whispered urgently. “Are you mad? Perhaps we might live if we do nothing, but if we make trouble we will certainly die.”

Deornoth shook his head. “No, harper. If we do not fight, we will certainly be less than men, whether they kill us or not. We will be less than dogs, who at least rip the bear's guts as he kills them.” His gaze traveled from face to face. “Sangfugol,” he said at last, “we must plan. Why don't you sing a song against the chance of any of these cow-herders wondering why we are gathered or what we speak of.”

“A song? What do you mean?”

“A song. A long, boring song about the virtues of quiet surrender. If it comes to an end and we are still talking, begin again.”

The harper was plainly agitated. “I know no tune like that!”

“Then make one up, Song-bird,” Isorn laughed. “We have been too long without music, anyway. If we die tomorrow, we should live tonight.”

“Make it a part of your plans, if you will,” Sangfugol said, “that I would prefer not to die at all.” He sat up straighter and began to hum tunelessly, searching for words. “I am frightened,” he said at last.

“So are we,” Deornoth replied. “Sing.”

Fikolmij swaggered into the bull run soon after dawn touched the gray sky. The March-thane of the High Thrithings wore a heavy embroidered wool cloak and a rugged gold stallion on a chain around his neck. He seemed to be in an expansive mood.

“So the reckoning comes,” he laughed, then spat upon the ground. His wrists were weighty with metal bracelets. “Do you feel fit, Josua Lackhand?”

“I have felt fitter,” Josua said, tugging on his boot. “Do you have my sword?”

Fikolmij waved; Hotvig stepped forward bearing Naidel in its sheath. The young Thrithings-man watched the prince curiously as Josua drew the sword belt around his hips, managing adroitly despite his missing hand. When it was buckled, Josua drew Naidel out, holding the slender blade up to catch the morning light. Hotvig stepped back respectfully. “May I have a whetstone?” Josua asked. “The edge is dull.”

The March-thane chuckled and produced his own kit from a pouch on his wide belt. “Sharpen it, stone-dweller, sharpen it. We want the only the best sport, as you have at your city tournaments. But this will not be quite the same as your castle-games, will it?”

Josua shrugged, smearing a thin film of oil along Naidel's cutting surface. “I have never cared much for those, either.”

Fikolmij's eyes narrowed. “You seem very fit indeed, after the lesson I gave you last night. Has this witch cast some spell on you? That would be dishonorable.”

Joshua shrugged again to show how little he cared about Fikolmij's ideas of honor, but Geloë stepped forward. “There have been no charms, no spells.”

Fikolmij eyed her distrustfully for a moment, then turned back to Josua. “Very well. My men will bring you when you are ready. I am glad to see you up. It will make for a better fight.” The March-thane strutted out of the paddock, followed closely by three of his guard.

Deornoth, who had watched the whole exchange, cursed quietly. He knew what effort it had taken his prince to act so unconcerned. He and Isorn had helped Josua climb to his feet in the hour just before first light. Even after the healing draught Geloë had given him—an unmagical concoction to bolster Josua's strength; Geloë had bitterly regretted the lack of a sprig of mockfoil to make it truly efficacious—the prince had still found it difficult to dress himself. The beating Fikolmij had given him had taken a terrible toll on his undernourished frame. Deornoth secretly doubted that Josua would even be able to stand after swinging a blade for a short while.

Father Strangyeard approached the prince. “Your Highness, is there truly no other way? I know the Thrithings-men are barbaric, but God despises none of His creations. He has put the spark of mercy in every breast. Perhaps...”

“It is not the Thrithings-men who wish this,” Josua told the one-eyed priest kindly, “it is Fikolmij. He bears an old hatred for me and my house, one that even he will not fully admit.”

“But I thought the Stallion Clan fought for your father in the Thrithings War,” Isorn said. “Why should he hate you?”

“Because it was with my father's help that he became war-thane of the High Thrithings. He cannot forgive the fact that it was the stone-dwellers, as he calls us, who gave him the power his own people would not. Then his daughter ran from him and I took her with me, losing him a bride-price of horses. To our friend the March-thane, that is a terrible dishonor. No, there are no words, priestly or otherwise, that will make Fikolmij forget. ”

Josua took a last look at Naidel's keen blade, then slid it back into its sheath. He gazed around at his assembled people. “Heads high,” he said. The prince seemed strangely clear-eyed and cheerful. “Death is no enemy. God has prepared a place for us all, I am sure.” He walked to the gate in the fence. Fikolmij's guards opened it, then formed a spear-bristling escort as Josua walked across the wagon-city.

A swift, cool breeze was blowing across the grasslands, an invisible hand that ruffled the meadows and thrummed in the tentlines. The low hills were dotted with grazing cattle. Scores of grimy children who had been dodging in and out among the wagons left their games to follow Josua and his makeshift court as they trudged toward the March-thane's paddock.

Deornoth looked at the faces of children and their parents as they came to join the swelling procession. Where he expected to see hatred or bloodlust, he found only eager expectancy—the same eagerness he had seen as a child on his brothers' and sisters' faces when the High King's Guard or a painted peddler's wagon had passed their Hewenshire freeholding. These people hoped only for some excitement. It was unfortunate that it would take somebody's death, most likely that of his beloved prince, to provide it.

Golden ribbons flapped on the fenceposts of Fikolmij's enclosure, as if this were a festival day. The March-thane sat on a stool before his wagon door. Several more bejeweled Thrithings-men-other clan leaders, Deornoth guessed—were seated on the ground beside him. Several women of various ages stood nearby, and one of them was Vorzheva. The March-thane's daughter no longer wore the rags of her court dress. She had been dressed in a more traditional clan costume, a hooded wool dress with a heavy belt studded with colorful stones and a band across her forehead that tied at the back of her hood. Unlike the other women, whose bands were of dark hues, Vorzheva wore a white ribbon—no doubt indicating, Deornoth reflected sourly, a bride for sale.

As Josua and his followers stepped through the gate, the prince and Vorzheva caught each others' eyes. Josua deliberately made the sign of the Tree on his chest, then kissed his hand and touched it to that spot. Vorzheva turned away as if to hide tears.

Fikolmij stood and began to speak to the assembled crowd, slipping back and forth between Westerling and the harsh Thrithings dialect as he held forth to the seated dignitaries and the other clanfolk gathered around the paddock fences. As the March-thane roared on, Deornoth slipped forward between the half-dozen spearmen who had followed Josua into the enclosure and moved to his prince's side.

“Highness,” he said quietly, laying a hand on his shoulder. The prince started, as if woken from a dream.

“Ah. It's you.”

“I wanted to beg your forgiveness, my prince, before ... before whatever happens. You are the kindest lord a man could want. I had no right to speak to you as I did yesterday.”

Josua smiled sadly. “You had every right. I only wish I had more time to think about the things you said. I have indeed been far too self-absorbed of late. It was the act of a friend to point that out.”

Deornoth fell to a knee, pulling Josua's hand to his lips. “The Lord bless you, Josua,” he said quickly. “Bless you. And do not close too swiftly with that brute.”

The prince thoughtfully watched Deornoth rise. “I may have to. I fear I have not the strength to wait long. If I see any chance at all, I must take it. ”

Deornoth tried to speak again, but his throat was too tight. He clasped Josua's hand, then retreated.

A ragged volley of shouts and cheers rose from the crowd as Utvart climbed over the paddock fence and took his place before Fikolmij. Josua's adversary stripped off his cowhide vest and displayed his muscular torso, which had been rubbed with fat until it glistened. Seeing this, Deornoth frowned: Utvart would be able to move quickly, and the fat would help him keep warm.

The Thrithing-man's curved sword had been thrust scabbardless through his broad belt, his long hair pulled into a knot at the back of his head.

Utvart wore a bracelet on each arm, and several earrings dangled against his jaw. He had daubed his scars with red and black paint, making himself seem a kind of demon.

Now he pulled his sword from his belt and lifted it over his head, engendering another chorus of shouts. “Come, Lackhand,” he boomed. “Utvart is waiting.”