Last Battle of the Icemark (47 page)

Only Cressida and Leonidas seemed as self-contained, talking quietly and helping each other to titbits from their plates. “It'll be a little awkward constantly travelling between the Icemark and Romula, but I'll have a word with Mother and see if we can establish a household in one of the southern towns near the border,” said Cressida as she sipped from her goblet of wine. “That way everyone can come to see us whenever I come home.”

“That . . . er . . . that . . . er, seems a little unfair, don't you think?”

“Not at all. I
am
the Crown Princess, you know.”

“Well, yes. But, er . . . you know, Grishmak's a king, Tharaman and Krisafitsa are Thar and . . . er . . . Tharina respectively, and your mother's the Queen of the Icemark. So if you're talking social precedent here, we're . . . er . . . you know,
we're
the ones that should be doing the visiting.”

“Are you going to be as argumentative as this all of our married life?” Cressida asked sharply.

“Well . . . er . . . yes . . . probably.”

“Good,” she said. Leaning across, she kissed him on the nose. She couldn't remember ever being so happy; she was just
sorry that her father couldn't have been with them all to share the day. It seemed so unfair that, after everything he'd been through, he couldn't have been allowed a little time to enjoy the peace he'd been instrumental in creating.

For a moment tears threatened to well up, but, fearing a bad omen for her big day, she determinedly pushed aside the sadness and filled Leonidas's goblet to the brim with wine.

“Come on, drink up. There's lots more to come!”

Of all the huge gathering of wedding guests, only Thirrin seemed a little quiet, her hand resting gently on the arm of the empty throne that stood beside hers. It had been months now since Oskan had died, and, despite what everybody kept telling her, the pain hadn't got any easier to bear. He'd been with her since before she'd become Queen of the Icemark, and had shared with her the terrible burdens of rule and warfare and general everyday life. He'd kept her sane, lent support, and, most importantly, made her laugh just when it was most needed. And now he was gone.

She still woke up every morning expecting to see his head on the pillow next to hers, and she still lay on the left side of the mattress, as though he'd climb in beside her at any moment and make some ridiculous remark about one of the visiting dignitaries who'd arrived that day. But that was never going to happen again, and she began every morning in the awful knowledge that he was gone.

With an effort she cleared her throat and sat up straight. She was determined not to brood; this was Cressida's day, and she'd smile and look happy if it killed her! And anyway, she wouldn't be allowed to remain pensive for too long; Emperor Titus was too busy bouncing up and down on the cushions
that bolstered his chair and asking Thirrin to explain exactly what some of the ruder housecarle songs meant. Having a young child to look after again had helped to give her day a purpose and structure, and she smiled as he stared around at the Great Hall drinking it all in. He repeated his question about the songs.

“You're a little too young to understand,” Thirrin answered, in a voice she hoped was firm enough to put off further questions.

“No, I'm not. Go on, I won't be embarrassed. Just translate a bit of it, then!”

“Later.”

“That's just adult-speech for ‘never ever',” he said disappointedly. But then he suddenly brightened up. “Never mind, I'll ask Eodred and Howler. They'll tell me.”

“Not if I get to them first, they won't.”

Titus sighed heavily. “All right, then, if I'm not allowed to know what the housecarles are singing about, can I ride your new warhorse tomorrow?”

Thirrin threw up her hands in despair. “Yes, all right, anything to stop you pestering! But I'll hold the reins.”

“All right,” he answered, then began to bounce on his cushions again. “What does it mean when the men housecarles and male werewolves make that movement with their arms and then wink?”

Thirrin slumped on her throne. She'd forgotten just how demanding a child could be. “It means that if little Emperors don't stop asking questions their tongues will wear out.”

“Does it? Funny, I was almost sure it had something to do with ladies.”

Suddenly the Queen of the Icemark giggled, quietly at first,
but then slowly the sound grew and once started it could not be stopped but developed into full-blown laughter that echoed back from the rafters and filled the Great Hall with joy. As one, all of the guests turned to look at Thirrin in silence. This was the first time she'd laughed since the death of Oskan Witchfather, and, quite rightly taking it as the best of omens for Cressida's marriage, the healing of the land and all its peoples, the guests stood and cheered.

Eating and drinking now began again with renewed vigour, but at the back of the hall several witches sat watching events unfold and chatting quietly to each other. Tomorrow they'd finally be selecting a new leader to take over from the much-missed Witchfather. But for now they were happy just to watch him behind his family at the High Table, his face alight with smiles and his head crowned with a silver light.

“Well, he'd have to come for this, wouldn't he?” said Old Meg. “I'm sure the Goddess wouldn't have expected otherwise. Here, I think this calls for more beer than is strictly good for us. Come on, you lot, let's raise a tankard to Oskan Witchfather. The Goddess bless him.”

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks are definitely long overdue to Julian, Jane and Peter for years of listening to me moan on the phone, and also for keeping my wonderfully co-operative computer in line and on line.

I'd also like to thank Immers and all the editorial team for their patience and for politely ignoring my barbed comments scribbled in reply on the typescripts.

Also to Nigel; in thanks for long years of support.

And finally to the G and the G, TM, TG and all the Ts.

From The Chicken House

First, Stuart sent me his battle scenes, and they felt even more exciting than the thrilling clashes he'd created in
The Cry of the Icemark
and
Blade of Fire
, then, gradually, he revealed the ‘extra dimension' behind the family conflict.

This is a brilliant climax to this amazing trilogy – you'll be blown away, it's truly awesome (and a bit sad, in a good way).

Barry Cunningham

Publisher

To Clare

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Text © Stuart Hill 2008.
Cover design by Ian Butterworth.
Cover illustration © Mark Edwards and Carol Lawson.
Inside illustration © Carol Lawson 2008.
First published in Great Britain by The Chicken House in 2008.

This electronic edition published by Scholastic Australia Pty Limited in 2013.

E-PUB/MOBI eISBN 978 1 925063 04 2

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