“And you.” He nodded at Spit, now nuzzling a gorse bush with studied indifference to his master. “He likes you. Usually he hates everyone on sight.”
Not hate, her hands said. Anger. His memory is long for a horse. He remembers the plains where he grew up. Endless grass, boundless skies. Hungers to return.
She paused to press a kiss to Nortah’s lips as he pulled her close with easy familiarity, provoking a moment of unease. So, she has touched him.
Spit gave an abrupt whinny of alarm when Snowdance came bounding into view and would have fled if Sella hadn’t calmed him with a hand-stroke to his neck. She turned her gaze to the war-cat, halting her in mid-stride. Vaelin felt a whisper of the blood-song as Sella’s gaze remained locked on the cat. After the briefest pause Snowdance blinked, shaking her head in confusion, then bounded off in another direction, quickly disappearing into the ruins.
Wants to play with your horse, Sella said. She’ll stay away from him now. She moved to the campfire, lifting the stew pot from its tripod.
“Will you eat with us, brother?” Nortah asked.
Vaelin realised he was fiercely hungry. “Gladly.”
The stew was goat meat seasoned with thyme and sage which apparently grew in abundance amidst the ruins. Vaelin wolfed down a bowl with his customary lack of manners, noting Nortah’s wince of apology in Sella’s direction. She just smiled and shook her head.
“How’s Dentos?” Nortah asked.
“Bruised, you nearly broke his cheekbone.”
“He damn near broke mine. The Crows didn’t get him then?”
“He made it safely back to the High Keep.”
“I’m glad. He and the others, were they angry?”
“No they were worried. I was angry.”
Nortah’s smile was tight, almost wary. “Did you come here to kill me, brother?”
Vaelin met his gaze squarely. “I knew you wouldn’t let me take you back.”
“You were right. And now?”
Vaelin pointed to the medallion chain around Nortah’s neck and gestured for him to hand it over. Nortah hesitated briefly then took out the small metal icon of the blind warrior, hooking the chain over his head and tossing it into Vaelin’s palm.
“Now there is no need,” Vaelin said, putting the chain around his own neck. “Since you unwisely fled into Lonak territory weakened by your wound. Having fought off several Lonak attacks you sadly fell victim to an unnamed but famously savage beast known to dwell near the fallen city.” He touched a hand to the medallion. “I could scarcely recognise your remains but for this.”
Will they believe you? Sella asked.
Vaelin shrugged. “They believed what I told them about you. Besides, it’s the King’s belief that matters, and I suspect he will choose to take my word without further investigation.”
“So you do have the King’s ear,” Nortah mused. “We always suspected. Did the Battle Lord live?”
“So it seems. The Realm Guard have returned to Asrael and Lord Mustor is now installed as Fief Lord in the Cumbraelin capital.”
“And the Cumbraelin prisoners?”
Vaelin hesitated. He had heard the story from Brother Artin and wasn’t sure how Nortah would react to the news, but decided he deserved to hear the truth. “The Battle Lord is popular with the Crows, as you know. After what you did to him they rioted, the prisoners were slaughtered to a man.”
Nortah’s face sagged with sorrow. “All for nothing then.”
Sella reached over to clasp his hand briefly. Not for nothing, her hands told him. You found me.
Nortah forced a smile and got to his feet. “I should hunt.” He planted a kiss on her cheek and shouldering his bow and quiver. “We’re running short of meat, and I suspect you both have much to discuss.”
Vaelin watched him walk off towards the northern edge of the city. After a moment Snowdance emerged to pad alongside him.
I know what you’re thinking, Sella said when he turned back.
“You touched him,” Vaelin replied.
Not how you think, her hands insisted. You have something of mine.
Vaelin nodded, fishing inside his collar for the silk scarf she had given him. He untied it from his neck and handed it to her, feeling oddly reluctant. It had been his talisman for so long its absence felt strange, unnerving.
Sella smiled sadly as she laid the scarf out on her knees, her fingers tracing over the delicate gold thread pattern. Mother wore this all her life, she signed. When she passed it came to me. Its message is precious to those who believe as we do. See. She pointed at the sigil woven into the silk, a crescent encircled by a ring of stars. The moon, the sign of calm reflection, from where reason and balance are derived. Here. She pointed to a golden circle ringed with flame. The sun, source of passion, love, anger. Her finger traced to the tree in the centre of the scarf. We exist here, between the two. Grown from the earth, warmed by the sun, cooled by the moonlit night. Your brother’s heart had been pulled too far into the realm of the sun, fired with anger and regret. Now he has cooled and he looks to the moon for guidance.