The Gray Wolf Throne (6 page)

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They spent the night in Delphi, the city-state between Arden and the Fells that supplied coal, iron, and steel to all the nations of the Seven realms. The city seethed with refugees from Arden and Tamron, since only fools and desperate people would venture into the pass when snows still howled around the peaks, and piled up in the high valleys.

Byrne took Ghost to a horse trader and swapped him for a sturdy mountain pony, better suited for travel through the pass in this season. The trader was so astonished at the bargain she’d made, she threw in a fine clan-made saddle and bridle with silver fittings.

raisa’s new pony was a shaggy dappled gray mare with a white mane and tail. raisa promptly renamed her Switcher, as had become her custom. She’d changed horses too many times in the past six months, and this way it was easier to remember.

That night, raisa slept alone in a lumpy bed in a room rented to all eleven of them at the outrageous price of a crown a head.

Her guard sprawled on the floor all around her like a litter of overgrown puppies. They were older than she, but not by much.

Some lay fast asleep, snoring and mumbling in their dreams.

She envied their ability to drop off as soon as they stopped moving. others played at cards or read by candles purchased for another crown apiece. if raisa even went to the privy, Captain Byrne sent an escort along. She was never sure if this was to protect her or to prevent her running off. when she asked him, he replied, “To protect you, your Highness. of course.” They left long before dawn the next morning, while stars still pricked the sky. Byrne hoped to make it through the pass by nightfall. in summer, that would be a challenging and arduous 41

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journey. in winter or spring, unlikely. possibly foolhardy.

Above Delphi, the paved road became wheel-rutted dirt, and finally little more than a game trail, hedged on both sides by great granite boulders, the way so narrow, only one rider could pass between. Before long, patches of snow appeared in the shaded areas to either side of the trail. By midday, the ground was covered, and they traveled over packed snow and ice. By afternoon, the trail was drifted over in places where the wind swirled through.

Snow sifted down on them from junipers that overhung the trail, perfuming the air with their sharp, sweet scent. The forest would break the wind, at least, until they climbed above the tree line.

A storm the night before had glazed each twig and branch with ice, and they glittered in the sunlight as the breeze stirred them. The tracks of snowshoe hares and other small game criss-crossed the trail. raisa flexed her fingers in her gloves, wondering if she should string the bow Byrne had given her, which she carried in her saddle boot.

They’d probably prefer she be unarmed, given that she was angry enough to shoot someone.

She had missed riding the mountain trails of the Fells more than she’d realized. in oden’s Ford, she’d been consumed by work, with little time for pleasure riding. Her equestrian classes reflected the flatland style of warfare. Flatland cadets rode across a broad, featureless landscape in precise formation, wheeling their horses like so many deadly court dancers, bristling with weapons.

raisa urged Switcher to greater speed, her lighter weight allowing her to outpace her guard. Up, up, up they climbed, 42

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splashing through rippling sunlight and shadow, icy evergreen branches whipping across her face, her breath pluming out and crystallizing in her hair and on her wool hat.

raisa crested the upslope and reined in her mare.

The Spirit Mountains spread before her, fully visible for the first time across a wide valley: rank upon rank of peaks shrouded in snow and cloud. Green spires of fir and brilliant birch smudged the lower slopes. The cool blue of shadow on snow filled the valleys where the sun had not yet penetrated. Frowning gray granite summits were concealed, then revealed by streaming mist. The cold voice of the Spirits called to her, and something within her answered.

This was the dwelling place of her ancestors, blood and bone of the upland queens. And, somewhere ahead, the city of Fellsmarch lay hidden in the Vale. Somewhere ahead, her mother waited—the mother who might be planning to disinherit her.

Switcher stood splay-legged and breathing hard, despite raisa’s slight weight. “i’m sorry,” she murmured, stroking the mare’s neck, knowing they had a tougher road ahead of them.

The southernmost Queen peaks were gentle, ancient matriarchs ground down by the witch winds that stormed down out of the north after solstice. These mountains were so old, their names had been forgotten.

But ahead lay brooding Hanalea, greatest and most terrible of all. plumes of steam rose from the hot springs, geysers, and mudpots that dotted her shoulders where the fiery Beneath broke through the thin crust of the earth. Her name would never be forgotten, not as long as her people remembered the Breaking, and observed the næ´ming.

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To the south and west lay Tamron Court, where Amon Byrne was trapped by Montaigne’s army. Further east was oden’s Ford, where raisa had left Han Alister without saying good-bye.

once again, the pain settled beneath her breastbone, squeezing off her breath. not grief, exactly, but . . . well, yes, grief for the words that would never be spoken, for a love that would never be consummated, and for a friend whose life was in desperate peril.

Maybe it was better that way. Better for Han, at least. Assuming raisa survived, she was destined for a political marriage.

Han had already lost his family and most of his friends. Further involvement in the treacherous politics of the Gray wolf court would likely get him killed. He’d been doing well at the academy in oden’s Ford. Better that he stay there and forget about her.

Maybe he already had.

Gripping the reins hard, she stared straight ahead, drawing deep breaths, biting her lower lip, no longer seeing what lay before her.

As her guard surrounded her, she heard the creak of saddle leather, the rattle of hooves against rock, the soft greetings of horses. She breathed in the scent of damp wool and soldiers too long on the road.

“your Highness.”

raisa flinched, still staring straight ahead.

“your Highness, please,” Byrne said. “i wish you would not insist on racing so far ahead.”

This time, she twisted in her saddle, looking into his wind-burnt face, now etched with concern.

“i thought you said we were in a hurry,” raisa said.

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“Aye. we are. But you should be riding in the middle of the triple, not breaking trail out in front. we cannot protect you if you ride out of sight of us.”

“Am i a prisoner who must be watched constantly?” Unable to control the quaver in her voice, she clapped her mouth shut and stared down at the ground.

Byrne gazed at her for a long moment, then turned in his saddle, waving the others back with his gloved hand, clearly preferring that they not overhear this conversation. “Take fifteen to rest the horses before we push on,” he called.

He dismounted, dropping his reins so his horse could lip at the sparse vegetation. raisa dismounted also, taking shelter from the wind between the two horses.

“we are here to serve and protect you, your Highness, not confine you,” Byrne said. The gray eyes reproached her.

raisa knew she was being unreasonable, but she couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t even trust herself to reply. instead, she yanked her gloves off with her teeth. working quickly, before her hands went numb, she tucked in the ends of frosted hair that had been ripped free by the wind. The skin on her cheeks and hands was already chapped, despite the layers of lanolin cream she applied morning and night.

“The Queen’s Guard serves the queen and the princess heir and the Gray wolf line,” Byrne persisted, squinting into the distance, hunching his broad shoulders against the raw wind.

“And if our interests diverge?” raisa dabbed at her eyes, hoping the cold would explain her sniffling.

To this the captain made no answer, for there was none. picking a fight with Captain Byrne was as unrewarding as assaulting 45

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a brick wall. He stood, solid and unmovable, while you skinned your own nose.

“perhaps we should talk about what happens when we arrive,” Byrne suggested, still graciously averting his eyes.

raisa nodded, pulling her gloves back on. That seemed to be a safe topic, at least—her arrival in the Fells. Since it was beginning to seem like it would actually happen.

“i’ll stay a night, at least, at Marisa pines Camp, until i know if it’s safe to go down into the city,” raisa said. That, of course, presented its own risks, if what her mother had believed was true—that the Demonai clan favored setting Marianna aside and putting raisa on the throne instead. raisa was suddenly glad they’d decided to take the eastern route, rather than traveling past Demonai Camp. except . . .

“was my father in residence in the palace when you left, or at Demonai?” raisa asked. “i’ll want to meet with him as soon as we arrive.” raisa’s father was a clan trader, and patriarch of Demonai Camp. He split his time between the city, the highland camps, and trading expeditions throughout the Seven realms.

He would fill her in on the latest news.

“The royal consort was staying at kendall House,” Byrne said.

“or at least he was when i left Fellsmarch three weeks ago.” kendall House, raisa thought, frowning, wishing he were lodged in the palace. kendall House was an elaborate mansion within the castle close. it represented a kind of way station in her mother’s affections—not exiled entirely, but not admitted to full intimacy, either.

raisa’s father, Averill Lightfoot, Lord Demonai, was a steadying influence on her mother, when she let him get close enough.

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A counterpoint to Lord Bayar’s influence.

“what about the Demonai warriors?” raisa said. “what have you heard from them?”

Byrne shrugged. “i don’t have the connections to the clans that you and your father do.” He paused. “rightly or wrongly, the Demonai seem convinced that Marianna intends to set you aside. i think we can assume that they are preparing for war.” raisa drew her cloak more closely about her. The sun passed behind a cloud, and suddenly the wind seemed more cutting.

This exchange seemed to remind Byrne of the urgency of their mission. “we’d best be on our way so we can make use of the light.” He laced his fingers, offering raisa a boost up, and this time she accepted.

47

C H A p T e r F o U r

A Welcome

Home

By late day, they were still climbing toward Marisa pines pass, the great southwestern gateway into the Fells. To the east, the blue sky turned indigo, and a few stars appeared, low on the horizon.

But Byrne had his eye on a streak of gray cloud to the northwest. “Blood of the demon,” he muttered. “More snow. And it’ll be here before morning. That’s all we need—to be held up by a storm.” He scanned the tops of the trees, judging the wind speed and direction. “There’s no way we’ll make it through the pass tonight, so we’d better be under cover when it hits.” They increased their pace, making for a way house Byrne knew of at the southern end of the pass that would provide shelter against wind and drifting snow. raisa rode in a kind of frozen stupor, her hood pulled low over her face, drawing what heat she could from Switcher.

The wind began to rise long before they reached their destination, swirling the fine, powdery snow up from the ground, 48

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raking it free from the trees and flinging it into their faces. Soon it was full dark, and then darker than that, as the racing clouds devoured the stars. They never saw the rising moon. it began to snow, lightly at first, and then more heavily, tiny ice pellets that stung their exposed skin and increased their misery.

in oden’s Ford, raisa had never needed anything heavier than kidskin gloves. She tucked first one hand, then the other under her cloak, guiding Switcher with her knees alone. But Byrne, who did not miss much, handed her a pair of long woolen riding gloves with deerskin palms. Clanwork, no doubt. raisa pulled them on gratefully.

The horses were now mere shades in the swirling darkness.

Byrne strung a rope between them so they would not lose each other. He seemed to find his way by instinct. They had no choice but to go on—they had to find shelter from the growing storm.

it was oddly reminiscent of the day the previous spring when raisa, her mother, her sister Mellony, Byrne, and Lord Bayar had gone hunting in the foothills. A forest fire had rushed down from the mountains, and they’d taken refuge in a canyon. They’d ridden, roped together, through the smoke and ash, scarcely able to see the horse in front. Then, it had been blistering hot, the air too thick to breathe. now the air seemed too thin, lacking suste-nance, crackling in their noses. it was numbingly cold.

Last spring, the wizards Lord Bayar, Micah, and his cousins, the Mander brothers, had saved their lives, magically putting the fire out.

Had it really been less than a year ago?

Switcher plowed forward doggedly in the gelding’s wake, her nose and mane crusted with ice, her flanks steaming in the frigid 49

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air. The snow was so powdery fine and deep that it seemed at times the horses were swimming, flank high, in a milk-white ocean.