He took me, not through the main streets of town, but away from the centre of town. I wondered where we were going, but dared not reach forth to touch minds with him. I curbed my Wit, though it dulled my senses not to share the wolf’s awareness. We ended up in a rocky field near the river’s edge. He took me to the edge of it, where large trees grew. The tall dry grasses had been tramped down flat there. I caught a whiff of cooked meat and cold ashes. Then my eyes pieced together the length of rope still hanging from a tree, and the burned-out fire beneath it. I stood very still. The night wind off the river stirred the ashes and suddenly the smell of cooked meat sickened me. I put my hand over the extinguished coals. They were sodden and cold. A fire deliberately set and deliberately drowned. I poked at them, and felt the tell-tale greasiness of dripping fat. They had been more than thorough. Hung, cut in quarters, burned, and the remains thrown in the river.
I moved well away from the fire to the shelter of the trees. I sat down on a big rock there. The wolf came and sat beside me. After a time, I remembered his meat and gave it to him. He ate it without ceremony. I sat with my hand over my mouth, wondering. Coldness moved through me where blood had once flowed. Townsmen had done this, and now they ate and laughed and sang songs at the inn. They had done this to someone just like me. Perhaps to the son of my body.
No. The blood does not smell right. It was not him.
It was a small comfort. It only meant that he had not died today. Did the townsfolk hold him somewhere? Was the lively night at the inn an anticipation of more blood-sport on the morrow?
I became aware of someone coming softly through the night towards us. She came from the direction of the town lights, but did not walk on the road. She came through the trees at the edge of the road, moving near-soundlessly.
Huntingwoman.
Laurel stepped from the shadow of the trees. I watched her as she moved purposely towards the burned patch. As I had earlier, she crouched over it, sniffing, and then touching the ashes.
I stood, making just enough sound to let her know I was there. She flinched, spinning to confront us.
‘How long ago?’ I asked the night.
Laurel sighed out a small breath as she recognized us. Then ‘Just this afternoon,’ she answered quietly. ‘My maid told me about it. Bragged, actually, of how the lad she is to marry was right in the thick of it, getting rid of the Piebald. That’s what they call them in this valley. Piebalds.’
The river wind blew between us. ‘So you came out here …?’
‘To see what was left to be seen. Which isn’t much. I feared it might be our prince, but –’
‘No.’ Nighteyes was leaning heavily against me, and I shared what we both suspected. ‘But I think it was one of his companions.’
‘If you know that much, then you know the others fled.’
I hadn’t known that, but I was shamefully relieved to hear it. ‘Were they pursued?’
‘Yes. And the men who chased them off have not returned yet. Some chased, some stayed to kill the one they had caught. It is planned that the ones who did this,’ and she indicated the rope and the fire circle with a disdainful kick, ‘will ride out in the morning. There is some anxiety that their friends have not returned yet. Tonight they’ll drink, and build up both their courage and anger. Tomorrow they’ll ride.’
‘Then we had best ride out before them, and swifter.’
‘Yes.’ Her glance travelled from me to Nighteyes and back again. We both looked around at the trampled ground and the dangling rope and the burned out-place. It seemed as if there should have been something for us to do, some gesture to make, but if there was, it escaped me.
We walked back to the inn together in near silence. I marked her dark garments and the soft-soled boots she wore, and once again I thought that Queen Kettricken had chosen well. I dirtied the night with a question whose answer I dreaded. ‘Did she tell you many details? How or why they were attacked, if the boy and the cat were with them?’
Laurel drew a deep breath. ‘The one they killed was not a stranger. He was one of their own, and they had suspected him of beast-magic for a long time. The usual stupid stories … that when other lambs died of the scours, his survived. That a man angered him, and after that, the man’s chickens died off. He came to town today with strangers, one a big man on a warhorse, one with a cat riding behind him. The others with him were also known to these folk, boys who had grown up on outlying farms. There are usually dogs at the inn. The innkeeper’s son keeps rabbit-hounds, and he had just returned from the hunt. The dogs were still excited. At the sight of the cat, the dogs went mad. They surrounded the horse, leaping and snapping. The man with the cat – our prince, most likely – drew his blade to defend the cat, and slashed at the hounds, cutting an ear off one. But that was not all he did. He opened his mouth wide, and snarled, hissing like a cat.
‘At the commotion, other men boiled out of the inn. Someone shouted “Piebald!” Another cried for a rope and a torch. The man on the warhorse laughed at them, and put his horse to kicking out at both dogs and men. One man was kicked to the ground by the horse. The mob responded with rocks and curses, and more men came out of the tavern. The Piebalds broke the circle and tried to ride off, but a lucky stone caught one of the riders on the temple and knocked him from his saddle. The mob closed on him, and he yelled at the others to ride. The girl made them all out to be cowards for fleeing, but I suspect that the one they caught delayed the mob so his companions could escape.’
‘He bought the Prince’s life with his own.’
‘So it would seem.’
I was silent for a moment, tallying my facts. They had not denied what they were. None of them had attempted to placate the mob. It was confrontational behaviour, a harbinger of things to come. And one of their company had sacrificed himself, and the others had accepted it as necessary and right. That indicated not only the value they placed on the Prince, but deep loyalty to an organized cause. Had Dutiful been won to their side? I wondered what role these ‘Piebalds’ had assigned to the Prince, and if he concurred in it. Had Dutiful accepted that the man should die for him? Did he ride on, knowing the man they left behind faced an agonizing death? I would have given much to know that. ‘But Dutiful was not recognized as the Prince?’
She shook her head. The night was growing darker around us and I felt more than saw the movement.
‘So. If the others caught up with him, they would not hesitate to kill him.’
‘Even knowing he was the Prince would not delay them. The hatred of the Old Blood runs deep here. They would think they were cleansing the royal line, not destroying it.’
Some small part of me marked that she called them Old Blood now. I did not think I had heard her use the phrase before. ‘Well. I think time becomes even more precious.’
‘We should ride on tonight.’
The very thought made me ache. I no longer had the resilience of youth. In the past fifteen years, I had grown used to regular meals and rest every night. I was tired and sick with dread of what must come when we caught up with the Prince. And my wolf was weary beyond weariness. I knew it was a false strength that moved his limbs now. Soon, his body would demand rest, no matter how hard the circumstances. He needed food and healing time, not to be dragged on tonight.