The Dark Throne (37 page)

“The Bearer has tasted the hatred of the Dark,” said the deity inhabiting the body of the almost-woman who had been Vell’s sister. She swiveled her head back toward the table, dead eyes resting on Calliea. “You, Laedrek, felt it at the Saemhradall.” The spots of color on Calliea’s cheeks spread hotly as her eyes kindled with a deeper rage. Arcana shifted her gaze to Luca. “You know the voice of hatred.” Luca’s shoulders tightened. Arcana’s eyes slid to Finnead. “And you, most esteemed of Knights, have felt its touch.” Her full lips smiled humorlessly. “You bear its scars.”

Finnead said nothing, his beautiful face inscrutable. No one gave any indication that they knew specifically about Finnead’s scars; perhaps the deity had somehow gleaned the fact of their existence from their connection through Vell. Gray maintained her mask of quiet dignity, but I thought I saw a flash of something like irritation, just for an instant, in her emerald eyes. Out of all gathered, she was the least experienced in tangible encounters with Malravenar’s creatures.

“Words of caution that we will heed,” said Finnead smoothly after a long moment of silence, “but caution cannot be our byword in this war, as the Laedrek has already said.” He nodded gracefully at Calliea.

Vell leaned over the table again, spreading her fingertips over the map as though she wished to draw the ink through her skin, absorbing every detail of the coming battlefield into her body. Her golden eyes scanned the routes again. Arcana withdrew into the shadows, like a sea snake sinking back into its murky cavern.

“Arrisyn,” Vell said, “how long for these routes?”

The navigator dutifully considered the map. “A fortnight will take each vanguard to the foothills of the southern reaches of the Edhyre here.” He pointed to the mountain range that stretched from the Deadlands to the Far North in a curving arc. “But I must say that my estimation is for the ground forces. I am not well acquainted with the speeds of our flying steeds yet.”

“Ensure that is rectified.”

Merrick blinked but recovered. “Yes, my queen. I will discuss it with the Laedrek.”

Vell nodded, still studying the map. Finally she straightened and crossed her arms. “Three days, and you will ride out. Bring me the list of the warriors embarking this journey in the morning, and then I will meet with the wing and vanguard commanders tomorrow at dusk, and each night until departure.” She looked at me. “Lady Bearer, since you’ll be traveling with them as well, would you attend?”

“Happy to contribute,” I replied with a little smile. Vell’s queenly façade slipped and she grinned at me, teeth gleaming.

“Any other contributions?” she asked the tent at large. All she received in reply were a few smiles, so she nodded briskly. “Right then. Time to go see what our formidable camp cooks have produced for tonight.”

And with that, the war council was summarily dismissed. Merrick began rolling the maps on the table, trying to remain indifferent when Calliea stepped forward to help him. Farin hovered over their heads, offering advice on the methodology of storing maps in her high, bright voice. I suppressed another smile—the Glasidhe were experts of a sort in the storing and preservation of delicate objects, as their size dictated; I was equally sure that Merrick possessed some knowledge on the subject as well, but he accepted Farin’s advice seriously, only a faint smile betraying his good-natured amusement.

Over to the side of the tent, Gray spoke to Finnead, her eyes flashing angrily. Though I tried to catch the words of their conversation, all I heard was the tight, rapid rhythm of Gray’s words, contrasting sharply with Finnead’s low, measured responses. A light touch at my elbow drew my attention.

“I’ve heard tell eavesdropping isn’t polite,” said Luca, a glimmer of amusement in his ice-blue gaze. “But then again, I’m mostly a savage, so I know little about these things.”

I grinned despite myself, feeling my cheeks heat slightly. “You’re right. It’s not polite. But sometimes I forget myself.”

He shrugged a little. “It means you aren’t a slave to etiquette and all the rules of proper behavior. It’s not a bad thing.”

“But it
is
rude,” I agreed. “And slightly awkward, so thanks.”

“No thanks needed.” He gestured toward the entrance of the tent. “Join me for dinner?”

“Only if you brought your specially crafted utensils,” I replied with a grin.

“Of course. I am always prepared.”

“The mark of a true warrior.”

“We should practice your bladework after the meal, and then perhaps find you a bow.”

My fingers twitched in anticipation as I thought about holding a bow again, nocking an arrow, drawing the string back in one smooth long pull. I loved handling a sword, but there was a nameless sweet satisfaction in sending an arrow sailing through the air to pierce a target at a long distance. I imagined it was much like the satisfaction a sniper gained from their work. Liam’s voice rippled through my mind.
Reaching out and touching a target hundreds of yards away, there’s nothing like it.

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” I said. “Except….um. I’ll meet you outside.”

“I’m in no rush,” said Luca easily.

My face heated further as I crossed the tent and pulled aside the curtain to Finnead’s sleeping quarters, hurriedly snatching up my plain blade from where I’d forgotten it, buckling the belt about my waist as I walked back toward the table. Luca grinned at me. I narrowed my eyes and he softened his grin into a smile.

“Tess, I saw the tail end of that whole mess with the smoke creature,” he said almost gently. “Finnead almost had to carry you to his quarters. You needed rest.”

“He didn’t carry me,” I muttered defensively as we emerged from the tent into the dusky evening light. I blinked. The day had slipped by me while I’d been sleeping. We walked toward the center of camp, past the smaller fire-rings toward the large, main fire pit that had been appropriated for the cooking of meals.

Luca paused and reached out, lightly holding my shoulders. His hands were warm through my shirt, and I had to look up to meet his earnest gaze. “I am not some stripling given to fits of jealousy and pettiness.” The
ulfdrengr
smiled reassuringly. “I have told you before, and I will tell you every time you need to hear it, I will always be your friend. If someday you decide you want more from me, I will gladly give you all that I have. But if that day never comes…” He shrugged slightly. “That is the way of life sometimes.” His eyes turned grave. “There was a time that I would have welcomed death. I thought the world had lost its wonder. I had seen so much death, done such terrible things…” He shook his head and smiled again. “No doubt you have had some version of this conversation with Finnead.”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “That’s…. disarmingly perceptive,” I finished honestly, at a loss for any other words.

Luca chuckled. “We are alike in many ways, your knight and me.”

“Well,” I said as we walked toward the enticing scent of roasting meat, “I’ll tell you one thing that’s different, you’re a much better sparring partner. Finnead tried to teach me something about handling a blade, back in the early days of my time in Faeortalam. I think the word he used was ‘hopeless.’” I grinned at Luca’s laugh. I realized I liked making him laugh. The Sword hummed contemplatively.
Quiet, you
, I thought good-naturedly at it, and its amusement rippled through my ribs as we drifted into the line behind a great steaming cauldron of stew.

“Your hand-crafted spoon, as demanded,” said Luca in mock seriousness, handing me the wooden spoon I’d used our first night in camp. With a grin, I took it, and we talked about different approaches to swordplay as we waited for our meal in the fading gray light of the Deadlands.

Chapter 20

A
fter an evening meal of stew and a hard chunk of bread—apparently there were limits even to the High Queen’s ability to keep stores fresh—Luca and I made our way over to the open practice fields. At the edge of the camp proper, just before the fields, we passed what I recognized after a moment as an armorer’s forge, or as close an approximation as they could build with rough materials. Two Sidhe stoked the fire with intent focus, a blade resting on a black anvil a small distance away. Through the smoke and air-wavering heat, I glimpsed a lithe figure approach the anvil, and I heard him speak in a low voice to the two Sidhe manning the fire. I slowed to watch, and Luca matched my pace, smiling. There was a rack of weapons by the smith’s forge, some plainly waiting to be repaired but others whose owners no longer had need of them. I shivered a little as Luca examined the bows, selected two longbows and two quivers, slinging them over his shoulder.

I realized that one of the Sidhe stoking the fire was a woman, though she wore her flaxen hair shorter than some men. The other assistant handed the smith a pair of heavy gloves, and then the woman gripped the sword in a pair of tongs and slid it into the hottest embers of the fire. In what seemed to me like a strangely short amount of time, she withdrew the blade, now white-hot, and laid it on the anvil. The smith hefted a hammer and struck the blade in a shower of sparks. I blinked, took a few more steps to get a better look, and stopped.

Chael wielded the hammer expertly, his amethyst eye glittering as he hit the glowing metal with a series of precise blows, each impact ringing with the sweet symmetric sound of a bell. Sweat gleamed on his forehead, and he wore a strip of cloth tied like a bandanna to keep his silver hair well out of his eyes. His shirt clung to him and I saw that though Chael had been truly skeletal when we’d rescued him, he was now well-muscled—lithe and lean, though not as slender in build as some of the Sidhe. His shoulders, broad for his size, still spoke of his
ulfdrengr
blood.

“Out of the two of you, I’d have guessed
you
were the smith,” I said to Luca.

“I can forge a blade readily enough,” replied Luca with a grin, “but Chael, he’s truly got the touch.”

I smiled as I heard the pride in Luca’s voice.

“His weapons are works of beauty,” Luca continued. “Deadly as one could wish a weapon to be, but still made with art.”

“I’m guessing that Chael helped Conall at the Hall before we rode out,” I mused.

“Helped him? Probably taught him a thing or two.”

I nudged my elbow into Luca’s ribs. “Cockiness is not attractive.”

“That’s not true.” He grinned devilishly. “There’s a thin line between cockiness and arrogance, and I walk it deftly.”

“Deftly,” I repeated with a chuckle. We watched Chael for a moment more; the
ulfdrengr
didn’t notice us, he was so absorbed in the blade before him. I touched the hilt of my plain blade and wondered if Chael had helped to forge the fine blade that bore the names of our valiant dead.

Women like bright, shiny objects, but apparently for me that means those of the sharp and deadly variety,
I thought with a wry smile. The Sword’s chuckle vibrated through my ribs.

“It took him a while to get back to making blades,” Luca said, quietly now, “after they took his eye with one of his own-made daggers.”

A horrible thought struck me. “Did he make the dagger that was bound to your hand?”

Luca’s eyes went distant. “No. He could not have crafted such a thing.”

Something like a growl escaped me. “They’ll pay for torturing him, and you.”

“Oh yes.” An animal light sparked in his eyes and his reply was more answering growl than words. His jaw tightened. “But the one who tortured Chael is already dead, though her body is still used by Arcana.”

I swallowed hard, my mind conjuring Chael’s beauty before the scars—how he must have shone among the children of the
ulfdrengr.
Had his hair always been silver-white, or was that from the torture as well? I firmly clamped down on my wandering thoughts. “Let’s go practice,” I said, voice slightly ragged.

Luca gave a last look at Chael, then turned and led me to the practice fields. Enterprising warriors had crafted makeshift archery targets by stuffing a few shirts with rags and mounting them on spear shafts. Warriors had marked the featureless land into rings, mostly just by carving lines into the dirt; other than the archers’ makeshift targets, there was really no other requirement for sword practice other than a blade, a willing partner and space. The Sword hummed softly in anticipation as we passed small groups of Sidhe: pairs sparring, a group of younger warriors listening intently to a teacher whom I recognized as one of the Firstscore, and some individuals running through drills on their own, all moving their blades with singular focus. A few archers sent arrows sailing through the air, shifting their position between three lines drawn farther and farther from the targets. Though dusk began to dim the gray light of the Deadlands, it was still bright enough for practice, and I noticed torches already prepared to light a few of the rings past dark.

We found an empty practice ring; to my gratification, few of the warriors paused in their drills or sparring as we walked past. I still caught surreptitious glances from a few of the younger Sidhe, but they quickly returned to their practice, especially after a few of them caught blows from their sparring partners as reward for their distraction. I slipped the strap of the Sword over my head and coiled the leather neatly, laying the hilt of the Sword on the bundled strap. The emerald in the pommel winked at me, as though the Sword would be observing our practice through its one green eye. Luca deposited the longbows and quivers at a respectful distance from the Sword. Then he drew his blade, smiling at the sound.

“Give me a few minutes to warm up,” I said, drawing my blade from its sheath as well. The gray light shone on its silver length, highlighting the names engraved in flowing script near the hilt. I ran my finger lightly over the names; the forge-magic warmed to my touch, like a cat purring. Though the names looked etched into the surface of the sword, the blade remained silky smooth, still as unmarred as the day it had been forged. I thought in appreciation yet again of Conall’s skill, and his generosity in making me such a fine blade imbued with sorcery. The runes laid into my plain blade, though, were just runes, crafted to respond to a very specific set of instructions. No sentient power lurked in this sword.