Trinity Rising: Book Two of the Wild Hunt (Wild Hunt Trilogy 2) (16 page)

The Amhain laughed. ‘More than you’ve ever seen, faithless! You’re dead men, all of you.’

Duncan swung up into the saddle and reined his restive horse to a standstill so Sor could buckle his saddlebags’ flaps closed over their bulky cargo of provisions.

‘You’re sure about this?’ said Sor, slapping the last strap through its retainer. His breath steamed on the bitter air.

‘I’m sure. Aradhrim knows me as well as he knows you.’

Planting his hands on his hips, Sor squinted at him in the early sunshine. The blizzard had moved on overnight; now the sky had cleared, the snowy mountains were dazzling, too bright to look at for long. Even the sky looked polished, so blue it was almost silver.

‘It’s my duty. I’m the Clansman for the Morennadh.’

‘And I’m the Clansman’s brother.’ Duncan grinned. ‘The Warlord won’t know Cara, and you need to stay with Kael to rein him in when he figures out where that Hound is going. He listens to you.’

‘Sometimes,’ Sor muttered, pulling a face.

‘More than he ever listens to me, at any rate.’ Leaning down from the saddle, Duncan gripped his brother’s shoulder. ‘Stop fretting. I’m the best person to go and that’s that.’

Sor seized his wrist. ‘Take care of yourself. If anything happens to you, Mother will kill me.’

‘I’ll make sure nothing happens, then.’

‘Ride straight for Fleet. If what that Amhain said is true, we have to tell Aradhrim as soon as possible. The clans will miss their scouts eventually and send more.’

‘It’s the wrong time of year to be starting a war.’

‘Maybe the right time if you plan to catch your enemy unawares.’ Face grim, Sor stepped back. ‘Go on. Get a few leagues behind you.’

With a click of his tongue, Duncan set his heels and the horse bounded into the snow, kicking up ice crystals that sparkled in the bright air. It was more than seven hundred miles to Fleet as winter closed in. He hoped the old saw was true and bad news really did travel fastest.

11

BLOOD SCRYING

Thirty-one days. Teia had counted them. A full moon’s turning and more since the Crainnh had reached their winter quarters, and still Ytha had not come for her. She’d cleaned the chief’s chamber and furnished it as comfortably as ever his tent had been, working doggedly through the pain in her rib. She’d taken her turn at the work in which all the Crainnh’s women participated: tending the smoke-room, laying in the stores of food and fuel for the season upon them. And she’d waited, eking out her store of bidewell root to hide her baby-sickness and dreading each new day in case it would be the day when the Speaker came to claim her Talent.

But still Ytha had not come.

She would not be able to conceal her pregnancy for much longer, not in the close quarters of the caves. By Firstmoon her belly would have begun to swell; a month after that and she’d be hard pressed to hide it even with her thick winter skirts. One of the women would surely notice, and then everyone would know. Secrets like that were hard to keep in the clan.

Drwyn was another matter. He paid scant attention to her body except when he wanted to use it, and when he did he liked to mount her from behind the way a stallion mounts a mare, spending so little effort on anything but his own pleasure that she doubted he’d notice her roundness even when she was six moons gone.

Besides, he was away with the hunters most of the time – more often than not, she saw more of the two warriors who stood guard at the cave than she did of him. One of them was invariably Harl. She’d begun to wonder if he traded duties with the other men, since he appeared to be the one watching over her most frequently. Watching her beat the dust out of the carpets, bend over the cook-fire. He even watched her carry out the night soil each morning, which was particularly unnerving as the task was her opportunity to throw up undisturbed if the bidewell root failed. She didn’t think Harl had seen her vomit but couldn’t be sure, and that only added to her anxiety.

Thirty-one long days. Domestic tasks kept her hands occupied but did little to stimulate her mind, which trod over the same ground again and again until it had worn a path through her thoughts the way horses going to the river wore a path through the grass. Nothing new could grow there before the same hard hooves trampled it down. Ytha would come for her soon, and then the truth would be out.

A prod in the small of her back jolted her from her fears and back into reality. A queue of soot-streaked clanswomen with their hair up in kerchiefs had formed behind her and Sorya, the wizened old bird in charge of the smoke-room for the day, glared at her over a basket laden with bunched strips of elk-meat ready for the stores.

‘Oh! Forgive me, I was away with the wind.’ Chastened, she took the basket and hoisted it onto her hip. Her slowly-healing rib throbbed in protest.

Someone behind her snorted. ‘Away with the chief, more like.’

‘Aye, but which one?’ added another, and then the whole flock of them were cackling and hooting.

Cheeks burning, Teia ground her teeth and tried to hurry away, but the basket was heavy and no matter how tightly she gripped, her sweaty hands kept slipping on the handles. Laughter followed her all the way along the passage, its echoes capering and leaping off the walls to poke at her ears like some malign sprite.

It had been the same since the Crainnh had returned to the mountains. The weather had held tolerably fair so the men had been able to hunt almost continuously. They were away before dawn every day and on their return each evening, steaming and raucous as if they’d vanquished their blood enemies in battle, there was butcher-work to be done. After the jointing and flensing, which needed a man’s weight behind the blades, the Crainnh women took up their tasks. Hides had to be scraped for the tanning kettles, fat rendered, blood puddings and sausage made.

Being the chief’s bed-mate did not grant Teia any special privilege in this work, but apparently it gave the others the right to stare and whisper, to ignore her to her face and then make pointed remarks behind her back. She scowled, lugging the creaking basket into the vaulted cavern of the store-chamber. It was unfair. She worked just as hard as they did, raking the smoke-room ash-pit, stretching hides on frames until her hands were curled like claws from tugging on the thongs. Maybe harder. So why did they feel entitled to treat her so disparagingly?

She thumped her basket down next to the others by the wall, shoved it into line then dealt it a last kick for good measure. After days of this, her back was near to breaking and her temper not much better. At least it was cool in the stores, after the smoke-room: new ice had been piled in the cold larder where the fresh meat was kept until it could be preserved. Teia mopped her face with her sleeve, then flapped her bodice to try to pull in some air to freshen her sticky skin.

Two more women with baskets appeared in the entrance to the stores, nudging each other as they came towards her. They didn’t appear to be struggling with their burdens, and as they drew closer she could see why: their baskets were little more than half-full. Teia sighed. Was it envy that drove them to such spite – even women like Sorya, who was old enough to have changed Drwyn’s swaddling?

She took the long way around the chamber to avoid crossing their paths, then started back up the passage, kneading her aching back. Near the smoke-room, the gossips’ heads were bobbing like chickens around a pile of grain. Someone saw her and smirked, then nudged the woman next to her, and the whole group fell into silent stares.

Head high, Teia walked straight past them.

‘Hie!’ shouted Sorya, grabbing at her sleeve. ‘Where are you going? These still need taking to the stores!’ She waved at several full baskets piled by the leather-draped entrance to the smoke-room.

Teia shook her off. ‘I have other chores to attend to,’ she said, and gestured towards the other women. ‘Send them. They’ve nothing to do but flap their tongues.’

Smutty faces creased into scowls. ‘Just because you’re in the chief’s bed doesn’t make you better than us,’ spat one. ‘We all have to work here!’

‘I just have to work harder. Yes?’ That shocked them into silence just long enough for Teia to smile sweetly and add, ‘I’ll be sure to tell the chief why his supper isn’t ready.’

Then she turned and walked away.

In the chief’s chamber, the discarded shirt on the bed and the open clothes chest said Drwyn had come and gone again, no doubt to celebrate a successful hunt with his men. Raucous laughter echoed back from the meeting place. The
uisca
was flowing freely, by the sounds of it; perhaps enough would be poured down Drwyn’s throat to dampen his ardour. After the long hours lugging baskets to the stores, she had no energy to feign enjoyment and avoid a beating.

She eyed the bed. All to herself, it would be cosy and comfortable. A nap would do her good, if only to make up for the sleep she would surely lose later. Drwyn was a grown man with two strong arms, after all. If he returned and wanted anything, he could fetch it himself.

Stiffly Teia stripped off her clothes. Even through her shift she could see her shape was changing. Her belly showed the beginnings of a hard, high dome, and there was a little less room in her bodice. Now when Drwyn took his pleasure her breasts jounced uncomfortably together beneath her, making her feel like an unmilked goat unless she could contrive to have a cushion to rest on. Thick skirts and bulky shawls would only be able to conceal her condition for a little while longer.

In Teia’s dream she was a fish on a line being drawn through a dark river. The hook bit painfully into her cheek and the harder she fought it the worse the pain became. Not that it did any good to struggle; the unseen fisherman drew her in yard by yard. A will as relentless as the march of time itself dragged her towards the surface, and all her thrashing was in vain.

Exhausted at last, she lay limp and let herself be towed to her fate. The choking dread that had consumed her eased away, becoming resignation. In that there was calm of a sort, and the pain eased. Through the water she saw the glow of a lamp overhead – no, a moon, bluish-pale and full in a sky devoid of stars. Distantly, she heard a voice call her name.

Teia opened her eyes and gasped with fright. A ball of pale-blue light the size of her fist hovered above her face. On heels and elbows she scrambled back away from it, her heart thumping in her chest, before she realised it was only one of Ytha’s lights. The globe did not move. Smooth and perfectly spherical, it shed a cool, shadowless glow, although something inside it twisted restlessly.

Come to me
, said the voice in her head. Ytha.

She looked around for Drwyn. He had returned from drinking with the rest of his men and was now sprawled snoring on his belly in a fug of
uisca
fumes. Just as well the orb wasn’t dangerous; she’d have got no help there.

The voice spoke again.
Come to me. Dress warmly
.

It was more insistent now. Teia slid out of bed and the globe of light drifted a few feet away from her, hovering by the curtained entrance. By its light she dressed and pulled on her boots, jerkin and a thick coat, then lifted the curtain. The globe darted out ahead of her and paused in the passageway beyond, waiting for her to catch up. Then it led the way down the passage towards the meeting place.