Ead crouched beside her with one of the spades, and they dug. For a time, it seemed Margret had misremembered—but suddenly, their spades broke through the snow, into a hollow.
Ead dislodged the snow from its edges. The coney-hole was by now too small even for a child. They scooped with the spades and their hands until it was big enough to admit them. Margret was eyeing the opening nervously. “I will go first,” Ead offered. She kicked loose soil from the hole and slid in, leaving the lantern at the entrance.
It was barely wide enough inside for a well-fed coney, let alone a woman. Ead lit her magefire and pushed herself forward on her belly. She crawled until the tunnel, just as Margret had promised, simply dropped away, into a well of darkness. Unable to turn around, Ead had no choice but to go into it headfirst.
The drop was short and bruising. As she straightened, her magefire flared, unveiling a tunnel with sandstone walls and an arched ceiling, just high enough to stand in.
Margret joined her. She held up her lantern in one hand and a tiny knife in the other.
The walls of the tunnel had alcoves chiseled into them, though only the stumps of candles remained. There was a chill in this secret burrow, but nothing close to the ice on the surface. Margret was still shivering in the swathes of her cloak.
Before long they reached a chamber with a low ceiling, where two iron vats flanked another slab, cut from blackstone. Margret bent to sniff one.
“Eachy oil. A vat this large would burn for a season,” she said. “Someone has been tending to this place.”
“Remind me how long ago your father took his fall,” Ead said.
“Three years.”
“Before that, did he ever go to the haithwood?”
“Aye, often. Since the haithwood is in our province, he would sometimes walk with his servants through it, to make sure all was well. Sometimes he would even go alone. I thought it made him the bravest man alive.”
By the light of her magefire, Ead read the inscription on the slab.
I AM THE LIGHT OF FIRE AND STAR
WHAT I DRINK WILL DROWN
“Meg,” she said, “Loth explained my magic to you, did he not?”
“If I have it right, yours is a magic of fire,” Margret said, “and is attracted, in some way, to the magic of starlight—but not as much as the magic of starlight attracts itself. Do I have it right?”
“Just so. Galian must have known the sword would be drawn to sterren, and that Kalyba had a supply of it. He did not want her to hear that call. Whoever buried Ascalon surrounded it with fire. I imagine that for the first few centuries, whoever was the Keeper of the Leas was charged with keeping the entrance open and the braziers lit.”
“You think Papa was doing that.” Margret nodded slowly. “But when he took his fall—”
“—the secret was almost lost.”
The two of them looked down at the slab. Too heavy to pry up with their hands.
“I’ll ride back to Serinhall and fetch a greathammer,” Margret said.
“Wait.”
Ead took the waning jewel from around her neck. It was cold as hoarfrost in her hand.
“It senses Ascalon,” she said, “but the pull is not enough to drag it from the stone.” She thought. “Ascalon is of starlight, but it was shaped with fire. A union of both.”
She held up her magefire.
“And it responds to what is most like itself,” Margret said, catching on.
The tongue of flame licked at the jewel. Ead feared her instinct was misplaced until a light glowed in it—white light, the kiss of the moon on water. It sang like a plucked string.
The slab of stone cracked down the middle with a sound like a thunderclap. Ead threw herself back and shielded her face as the blackstone ruptured into pieces. The jewel flew from her hand, and the broken slab vomited a streak of light across the chamber. Something clanged against the wall, loud enough to make her ears ring, and came to rest, steaming, beside the jewel, which quivered in response. Both were glowing silver-white.
When the light dimmed, Margret sank to her knees.
A magnificent sword lay before them. Every inch of it—hilt, crossguard, blade—was a clean, bright silver, with a mirror shine.
I was forged in fire, and from comet wrung.
Ascalon. Made of no earthly metal. Created by Kalyba, wielded by Cleolind Onjenyu, blooded on the Nameless One. A double-edged longsword. From pommel to tip, it was as tall as Loth.
“Ascalon,” Margret said hoarsely, her eyes wick with reverence. “The True Sword.”
Ead closed a hand around the hilt. Power thrummed within its blade. It shivered at her touch, silver drawn to her golden blood. As she stood, she lifted it with her, speechless with wonder. It was light as air, chill to the touch. A sliver of the Long-Haired Star.
Mother, make me worthy. She pressed her lips to the cold blade. I will finish all that you began.
They climbed out of the coney-hole and retraced their steps through the haithwood. By now, the sky was dredged with stars. Ascalon, scabbardless, seemed to drink their light. In the chamber, it had looked almost like steel, but now there was no mistaking its celestial origins.
No ships left during the night. They would have to rest at Serinhall and make for Caliburn-on-Sea at dawn. The thought of another journey weighed on Ead. Even with the sword in hand, the haithwood wound its creepers about her heart and squeezed the warmth from it.
“Hail, who goes there?”
Ead looked up. Margret had stopped beside her, and was holding up her lantern.
“I am Lady Margret Beck, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Goldenbirch, and these are Beck lands. I shall brook no mischief in the haithwood.” Margret sounded firm, but Ead knew her voice well enough to hear the fear in it. “Come forth and show yourself.”
Now Ead saw it. A figure stood between the trees, its features obscured by the oppressive darkness of the haithwood. A drumbeat later, it had melted into the shadow, as if it had never been there.
“Did you see that?”
“I saw it,” Ead said.
A whisper of wind unsettled the trees.
They returned to their horses, moving quickly now. Ead buckled Ascalon on to the saddle.
The wolf moon was high over Goldenbirch. Its light glistered on the snow as they rode back to the corpse road. They had just passed one of the coffin stones that marked it when Ead heard a sharp cry from Margret. She yanked the reins, turning her horse around.
“Meg!”
Her breath snared in her throat. The other horse was nowhere to be seen.
And Margret was standing, a blade at her throat, in the arms of the Witch of Inysca.
This kind of magic is cold and elusive, graceful and slippery. It allows the wielder to cast illusions, control water … even to change their shape …
“Kalyba,” said Ead.
The witch was barefoot. She wore a diaphanous gown, white as the snow, which gathered at her waist.
“Hello, Eadaz.”
Ead was tense as a bowstring. “Did you follow me from Lasia?”
“I did. I watched you flee the Priory, and I saw you leave with the Inysh lord on the ship from Córvugar,” Kalyba said, expressionless. “I knew then that you had no plans to return to my Bower. No plans to honor your oath.”
In her grip, Margret trembled.
“Are you afraid, sweeting?” Kalyba asked her. “Did your milk nurse tell you stories of the Lady of the Woods?” She slid the knife along the nut of Margret’s throat, and Margret shuddered. “It seems it was your family who concealed my sword from me.”
“Let go of her,” Ead said. Her horse stamped its hooves. “She has not to do with your grievance against me.”
“My grievance.” Despite the bitter cold, no gooseflesh had risen on the witch. “You swore to me that you would bring me what I desire. On this isle in ages past, you would have had your lifeblood spilled for breaking such a vow. How fortunate that you have something else I desire.”
Ascalon was aglow again. Hidden under shirt and cloak, so was the waning jewel.
“It was here all along. In the haithwood.” Kalyba watched Ascalon. “My sword, laid to rest in dirt and darkness. Even if it had not been buried too deep for me to hear it calling, I would have had to crawl to it on my belly like an adder. Galian mocks me even in death.”
Margret closed her eyes. Her lips moved in silent prayer.
“I suppose he did it just before he went to Nurtha. To his end.” Kalyba raised her gaze. “Hand it to me now, Eadaz, and your oath will be fulfilled. You will have given me what I desire.”
“Kalyba,” Ead said, “I know I broke my oath to you. I will pay for it. But I need Ascalon. I will use it to slay the Nameless One, as Cleolind did not. It will quench the fire within him.”
“Yes, it will,” Kalyba said, “but you will not wield it, Eadaz.”
The witch threw Margret into the snow. At once, Margret began to claw at her own arms, and she retched as if there was water in her chest.
“Ead—” she gasped out. “Ead, the thorns—”