All his childhood Pasevalles had devoured stories of heroism and knightly ideals, but after his father’s death, those stories no longer made sense. It was not only people that had died in the Storm King’s War.
Pasevalles stared down at the tide of men on foot and horseback preparing to make their way out of the Middle Bailey and down to the castle gates. From high above, the small army looked almost like a single creature, one of the weird little monstrosities that lived in pools along the shores of the Kynslagh, something with no guiding thought that nevertheless reached for and grasped and consumed what it needed. What were the Sithi going to make of this party of armed mortals? Would they welcome them in, as the king and queen hoped, or would they avoid them as unwanted intruders? Worse still, would they see them as something more dangerous? Pasevalles was not happy that Prince Morgan, the heir-apparent, was being sent on such a mission. Everything he had fought for since becoming Lord Chancellor, every piece of hard work and subtle negotiation, would come to nothing if the prince was lost. And yet King Simon and Queen Miriamele insisted on sending him away. It seemed so careless to Pasevalles, so foolish, that he was just as glad he had exiled himself to this high perch in the castle’s tallest tower.
Do they not understand how close they are to loss at every moment? Do they not understand how suddenly Fate can take their loved ones—just sweep them away, like crumbs brushed from a tablecloth?
He saw a flash of dull gold below—the prince’s hair: Morgan had pulled back his hood to kiss his grandmother’s cheek. Pasevalles felt like a thief or spy, watching their private moment from above.
Is that how God feels sometimes? When He watches but does nothing? Like a spy?
It was a strange, disturbing thought, and Pasevalles shook it off. He walked to the next window, then leaned out until he located Count Eolair, who was talking with the commander of the Erkynguards platoon that would accompany them. Pasevalles knew he would miss Eolair: The lord steward was someone Pasevalles understood, someone who had experienced tragedy in his life and been chastened by it. Like Pasevalles, Eolair recognized the power of Heaven to knock down anything that a man could create, to make a mockery of all hopes and plans. And yet there was Bishop Gervis, only a few yards from Eolair, waving his censer and reciting prayers as though his reedy voice might make God Himself sit up and take notice.
I am angry today, Pasevalles told himself. I must be careful. That is no mood in which to make decisions.
But some days the old wounds simply ached, and there was nothing he could do to soothe them except to take himself away from other people.
He looked up at the sky. That, at least, augured well. A few clouds blew past overhead like sheep who had lost their flock, carried on a wind from the Thrithings, but otherwise the sky was a serious, solemn blue.
A single trumpet’s blare wafted up from below, then several more. He watched the procession, led by the prince and Eolair, as it made its way toward the Nearulagh Gate and the journey down Main Row through Erchester. How small they were already becoming! How distant! From this height, he could still make out Prince Morgan, but like all the rest of the company, when he turned to look back at his home, the prince had no face. He was nothing more than an actor in all this, as they all were.
As we all of us are, Pasevalles thought. Taking whatever role God gives us and being grateful for it, without ever knowing if we are to be the hero of the story or the butt of the jest.
Too much bitterness, Pasevalles told himself—in fact, too much thinking. He had work to do.
The lord chancellor turned away from the window. He did not watch as the prince, the count, and their company passed through the Hayholt gates and out into the wide, dangerous world.
PART THREE
Exiles
. . . Bring the lute—I will sing,
Fashioning a song of the Desolate City.
The song says:
Border winds hurrying
Above the castle cold.
Well and pathway gone from sight,
Hill and grave mound crumbling.
A thousand years,
Ten thousand ages,
All end thus—
What is there to say?
—Pao Chao
Inhale, exhale
Forward, back
Living, dying
Arrows, let flown each to each
Meet midway and slice
The void in aimless flight—
Thus I return to the source.
—Gesshu Soko
This final scene I’ll not see
to the end—my dream
is fraying.
—Choko
41
Hern’s Horde
A spring storm was rushing across the Frostmarch. The horizon was black and full of swirling movement, the mountains invisible, as if someone had dumped a bucket of pitch across the northern world. Aelin thought the great wavefront of clouds looked like something alive.
“That’ll be on us soon, sir,” said one of the soldiers as he caught up with Aelin on the hillcrest. “Long before we reach Carn Inbarh.”
“Can’t be helped.” Like the others, Aelin had pulled his hood up against the growing wind. Just in the last hour the day had gone from ordinary to stormy and dark as ink. “We need to reach the earl with my uncle Eolair’s message, and we need to do it swiftly. We’ll just have to ride faster and stay ahead of the worst of the weather.”
His squire Jarreth shook his head. “Not Brynioch in his silver chariot could stay ahead of that, sir. It will bring darkness within the hour, I warrant. The meadows are still wet and muddy from the winter, and full of holes. The horses’ will break their ankles or we will break our necks.”
“Bagba’s Belt!” Aelin reined up, turned to look directly at the northern sky. Jarreth was right, of course—the storm looked more like an avalanche than any ordinary weather, something that would roll over them and not just soak them, but crush them. Still, his great-uncle Eolair had been very firm that his letter must reach Earl Murdo as quickly as possible. Aelin only wished he knew what was in it, so that he could judge how much risk was necessary, but Count Eolair had been very firm: no one but Murdo was to open it, and if it seemed likely to fall into anyone else’s hands it was to be destroyed first. Sir Aelin did not know what the message contained, but he felt certain it had something to do with King Hugh, and Hugh had already shown himself not to be the forgiving sort, so Aelin had kept its existence secret even from his own men. But hanging onto that secret would do no good if they lost their way in the dark, or tumbled into a ravine. And outlaws also roamed this part of the southern Frostmarch. Aelin’s band of well-armed men would discourage ordinary cutpurses but not an organized troop of brigands like Flann’s Crows or even the Skalijar, who did sometimes range this far south.
One of the younger soldiers, a fellow who’d grown up in this outlying part of Hernystir, cleared his throat and said, “Sir?”
“What is it, Evan?”
“We are not so far from Dunath Tower.”
“The border station? How near are we?”
The young man lifted his visor and squinted across the glen. “Unless I miss my guess, that is the valley of the Inniscrich just beyond these hills.”
“The Inniscrich? So near?”
“We have been riding fast, Sir Aelin.” He said it almost as an apology.
“Well, by old One-Arm, I believe you’re right.” He almost thought he could make the tower out, but knew it must be a trick of the storm: in truth, it had to be too far away to see. Still, they could be there in only an hour or so of hard riding. They would get wet, but they would have somewhere to dry off and stay the night while they waited for the storm to pass. Important as the message to Earl Murdo must be, it could wait until the next day, surely. What other choice did they have?
Aelin turned to the others. “Let us thank the gods that we have Evan with us, who has the sense to know where in the world he is. And while we’re at it, let us pray that Mircha will hold back the worst of her downpour until we’ve reached the border station.”
Jarreth pulled his cloak tighter. “And let us pray also that they have their cookfires burning and a spigot in the ale cask. We’ll need a lot of warming by the time we get there.”
Aelin smiled, but shook his head. “I’m afraid you will be building your own fires, my friend. The tower will be empty. King Hugh recalled the Dunath Tower garrison, and I doubt the replacements from Rimmersgard will reach it until the roads are dry up north. Except for a few bats and an owl or two, we’ll have the place to ourselves.”