Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga) (10 page)

Voss nodded. “If I were Edgar, I’d count on it.”

“Edgar’s mages know about the places of power, don’t they?”

“I believe so,” Penhallow replied. “Most are obvious to anyone with a hint of magic. What was valuable about Valtyr’s maps was that they located many places that weren’t crowned with a palace or a shrine. And the null places tend to be overlooked completely because they are either too unremarkable to remember or have something about them that compels people to avoid them altogether.”

“Is Rodestead House safe?” Connor asked.

Penhallow gave Connor the velvet cloth to wrap the pendant and replaced the empty chest on its shelf. “Having survived such a war once, I’ve taken precautions. My retainers and I will be leaving Rodestead House tomorrow night. Traher has made his own preparations.” He turned back to Connor. “Tell Garnoc what you’ve learned tonight. As your blood gave me access to your memories, so my bite enables you to remember my words precisely.”

And while he’s never come out and said it, I wouldn’t be surprised if it also carried a compulsion to do his will
, Connor thought.

“If Garnoc can convince Merrill of the true danger, find the map and use it to protect as many people as you can. And if you can’t convince the king, I’d advise you and Garnoc to leave the city and take the map and pendant with you.” Penhallow had turned back to the fire that danced in the hearth. As their conversation had turned to darker predictions, Connor found that the flames no longer cheered him.

“If the worst happens, if Donderath falls, look for a man named Vigus Quintrel. He’s a mage, and much more powerful
than anyone gives him credit for being. His abilities are… unusual… which is what’s enabled him to stay free of service to the crown. You can trust Vigus. Show him the map and pendant. He’ll know what use to make of them.”

“Why haven’t you given him the pendant yourself?”

“That’s part of the reason why I believe we are running out of time. Vigus Quintrel has disappeared.”

The road back to the city was deserted. Connor gripped his reins white-knuckled. His heart pounded, though not for fear of the darkness.
Will it happen again? Did Penhallow know? Have I betrayed all of us?

The night was quiet, save for the hoofbeats of Connor’s horse. Connor looked from side to side, barely controlling his desire to spur his horse into a full gallop and ride as hard as he could for home.
That won’t do
, he told himself.
There might be guards around. It would be suspicious, riding like that. They might take me for a brigand.

In the thicket to the side of the road, a twig snapped. Connor startled, but he could make out nothing in the darkness.

A black shape rose up in front of him, and his horse reared, bucking Connor into the air. He braced himself to hit the road hard, but felt himself borne up as if by invisible hands. That same force kept him pinned as the dark form loomed over him. He could make out a black cloak and cowl, but whether the figure had a face beneath, Connor could not see.

“Sleep now,” a deep voice said. “Sleep, and remember nothing.”

B
LAINE AND DAWE LEANED AGAINST ONE OF THE
wagons that had been drawn up to the edge of the festival space. Across the broad, flat common area, a wonderland of sculptures glittered, lit from inside with candles or lanterns. They were made from Edgeland’s most bountiful commodity—ice—and shaped into everything from statues of the gods to fanciful castles and mythical beasts.

“Nights like this almost make you forget where you are.” Dawe Killick stretched his lanky form and tipped back his tankard of home-brewed ale.

“With this cold, it’s hard to
ever
forget where we are,” Blaine replied, sipping from his own tankard as they watched the festivities.

For those who had survived long enough to go from inmates to convict settlers, the end of the white nights was a time to celebrate before the long dark. Here on the back acres of the homesteads, as far away from Velant’s prison as possible, the settlers did their best to enjoy both the feast days they brought with them from Donderath and events like the coming of the long dark that were unique to their new home.

Verran Danning and his fellow musicians kept up a lively series of tunes, fueled no doubt, Blaine thought, by the potent liquor that the minstrels’ female admirers kept bringing to quench their thirst. The tune Verran and the others were playing was one that had been popular back in Donderath, and for a moment, Blaine let himself hum along, tapping his toe with the music. In the center of the gathering, a lively circle dance wove its participants back and forth as they changed partners.

Blaine didn’t have to check that Kestel was among the dancers. He smiled. Even bundled up against the cold, Kestel was easy to spot in the crowd. She was shorter by a head than many of the women, tiny-boned and quick on her feet and such a good dancer that she made all of her partners look competent. Blaine doubted that the petty thieves and cutpurses who enjoyed a dance with Kestel would ever dream that she had once danced among the royal and noble. The song ended and Kestel sank, laughing, into the arms of her partner before twirling away from him with a peck on the cheek that seemed to leave the man as out of breath as the dance itself.

“A coin for your thoughts,” Dawe prodded. “You’re quiet tonight.”

Blaine shrugged. “Can’t stop thinking about the supply ships. If it’s true they won’t be back as often, we’ve got to make sure we have enough food put up to get through the winter.” He raised his face to the wind. “Once the dark comes and the shallows of the bay start to freeze, they won’t be able to take the fishing boats out as far. It’ll make for a lean winter.”

Dawe nodded. “We’ve been busy while you and Piran were out on the ships. Verran’s not the only one who can earn a living. I’ve taken in some smithing—small things like fixing locks and making hoops for the cooper.” He flexed his long fingers. “Not exactly silver work, but the idea is the same.” He stretched,
and Blaine caught a glimpse of the branded “M” on Dawe’s arm. They’d both been sent to Velant for murder, but unlike Blaine, Dawe was innocent, framed by a rival silversmith. “I’ve also been toying with bits of copper. I’ve made some simple rings and such, to appeal to the ladies.” He grinned. “So long as there are lasses in town, there’ll be men trying to win their favor or claim their hand.”

“We won’t be able to spend coin if the merchants don’t see supply ships for months.”

“I’m ahead of you on this one, Mick. Verran and I have been buying chickens and rabbits to fill the hutches out back. Kestel’s been drying the fruit and vegetables we raised, as well as everything we could buy. We set aside some extra sacks of wheat and flour as well, and paid a hedge witch to spell them against mice. Made some good homemade wine as well. With the gibbed fish you and Piran brought home, we should be able to go a while, perhaps most of the winter.”

Blaine nodded. “Good to hear. Piran was going to set some traps for fox and wild rabbits.” He gave a wan grin. “And let me guess, Kestel’s been making extra offerings to the gods.”

Dawe smiled. “How did you guess? The last sheep we slaughtered, Kestel made tallow candles, and offered the first two to Esthrane and Torven. She told me she was counting on favor from Esthrane for the last of the crops and for healthy herds this winter, and to Torven for mild storms.”

Blaine snorted. “After the storm Piran and I just saw, maybe Kestel needs to leave better offerings.”

Esthrane, one of Charrot’s two consorts, was honored at handfastings and at both planting and harvest. Esthrane was revered among Edgeland’s colonists during the unending days of the white nights. Torven, Charrot’s other consort, ruled the long dark.

Dawe’s expression turned serious. “The mood around here has changed since you and Piran went out with the fleet.” He nodded toward the laughing and clapping revelers. “You can’t tell by tonight, but there’s something on the wind. Prokief’s nervous, and cracking down.”

Blaine drained the rest of his ale. “I plan to stay out of it.”

Dawe met his gaze. “That might not be possible.”

The music changed tempo and the dancers drifted back to the edges of the festival area. Light’s End, the festival at the end of Edgeland’s six months of daylight, was also the customary time for handfastings before the long months of darkness. As the music took on a more processional tone, three young women, each accompanied by an older woman, walked into the center of the festival area. Each of the young women wore a crown woven of straw and dried flowers and each carried a small bough of fir. As the crowd watched, three nervous men walked to stand alone in front of their intended brides.

“As I recall,” Dawe drawled, “you looked about that scared yourself when you made your handfasting with Selane.”

Blaine could not resist a chuckle. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

The men did as they had been instructed, and each withdrew a hunting knife in a scabbard wrapped in a length of dyed rope or braided cloth, and presented the blade laid across their open palms to their brides. Back in Donderath, the ceremony would have involved a presentation of a sword-gift, but under Prokief’s rule, swords were reserved solely for the prison guards and the city patrols.

The brides accepted the gift and passed the knives to the older women who accompanied them, who handed each of the brides a knife-gift for the grooms. On the pommel of each knife was a ring, and as the crowd cheered, the women who
had accompanied the brides ceremoniously presented the bride and groom with their rings, then held their hands together and loosely bound their wrists with the lengths of rope. As the couples raised their twined hands, the crowd cheered once more, and Verran and the musicians began to play a familiar song. The crowd began to clap and sing, and the newly wedded couples danced one pass around the open area before the onlookers crowded toward them, joining in the dance.

The crunch of snow under running feet caught Blaine’s attention. A dark figure barreled past the wagon where Blaine and Dawe stood, hurtling into the crowd.

“Get your hands off her!” A tall young man with a shock of dark hair hurled himself at one of the new grooms and knocked him to the ground. The groom, a man who looked to be several years older than his bride, struggled to his feet as the girl screamed. Well-wishers stepped back and the dark-haired man swung a solid punch that knocked the groom back several steps, but the groom came back swinging and connected solidly with his attacker’s chin.

Friends of the bride went after the attacker, while the groom’s friends came running. Across the clearing, Blaine could see Piran turn away from his card game to take note of the altercation.

“Come on,” Blaine muttered to Dawe. “We’d better stop this before we end up with the guards called.”

Blaine and Dawe waded into the fray from one side, as Piran shouldered his way in from the other. What had begun as a fight between two men had rapidly escalated into a free-for-all. The groom was holding his own, backed up by a handful of friends. The dark-haired young man who began the fight seemed to have taken the worst of the damage, as his eye was swelling and he had a growing bruise on his cheek, but he was
still on his feet and surrounded by four angry—and more muscular—friends.

Blaine tackled the dark-haired man, while Piran lunged at the groom. The dark-haired man struggled and twisted, but Blaine held him fast. Piran’s man was taller and heavier, but no match to Piran’s experience as a soldier and bodyguard. With the help of Dawe and some of the other men who waded into the fray, the altercation came to an abrupt halt.

Blaine let go of the dark-haired man, who had stopped struggling, but Blaine drew his hunting knife from the sheath at his belt, and held it up as a warning. He turned to the groom, still restrained in Piran’s iron hold, and then looked back at the attacker.

“What in the name of the gods were you doing?” Blaine asked the sullen man.

The dark-haired man glared at Blaine. “Essie was supposed to be betrothed to me,” he spat. “She’s been pressured into this,” he said with a glare toward the would-be groom. “She doesn’t want to marry him.”

“Von,” the bride begged, “don’t do this. Please. Let it go. I’ll… I’ll be all right,” she said with a nervous glance toward the groom. The groom had stopped struggling, but he was glaring at Von with a look that told Blaine the matter was far from settled.

One of the women stepped up. She was old enough to be the bride’s mother, and wore the somber-hued clothing favored by the more mature women of the colony. In a place where none of the convicts had blood relatives, the older women banded together to look out for the youngest of the colonists, and to care for any of the colonists’ orphaned or abandoned children. It was the “wise women” who negotiated the bride prices for young women, who saw to the births and made funeral arrangements
for the dead. Regardless of what infraction had landed them in Velant’s icy grip, the wise women had become the keepers of civilization beyond the prison’s walls.