"Blood of Rhynn!" Eolair screamed. "What have you done?!"

Jiriki rode forward, scanning the now empty wall cautiously. When he reached the huddled bodies, he dismounted and kneeled, then waved Eolair forward.

"Why did you do that, Jiriki?" the count demanded. His throat felt as tight as if someone's fingers were curled around it. "The Norn was gone." He stared down at the twisted, dark-robed figures. The hands and fingers protruding from their robes were splayed as though they still grabbed at a safety they would never find. "Did you think to spare them torture? What if we drove out the Norns-is there no chance we could rescue them?"

Jiriki said nothing, but reached down with surprising gentleness and turned over the nearest of the bodies, tugging a little to pull it free of the partner with which it was entwined. He folded back the hood.

"Brynioch!" Eolair choked. "Brynioch of the Skies preserve us!"

The face had no eyes, only black holes. The skin was waxy, and in places had burst from the force of the fall, but it was clear that this corpse was not fresh.

"Whoever he was, he has been dead since Naglimund's defeat," Jiriki said softly. "I do not think there are any living prisoners within the walls."

Count Eolair felt his gorge rising and turned away "But they ... moved... !"

"One of the Red Hand is lord here," Jiriki said. "That is now confirmed, for no others have the strength to do this. Their power is a part of their master's."

"But why?" Eolair said. He looked at the humped corpses, then turned his gaze outward, toward the ma.s.sing of men and Sithi in the snow. "Why would they do this?"

Jiriki shook his head, his own hair as white and fluttering as that of the creature that had mocked them from the wall. "I cannot say. But Naglimund will not fall without a full t.i.thing of horrors, that is certain."

Eolair looked at Maegwin and Isorn waiting fearfully for him to return. "And there is no turning back."

"No. I fear the final days have begun," said Jiriki. "For good or ill."

Duke Isgrimnur knew that he should be paying close attention to everything that was going on around him, to the people of Metessa, to the arrangements and manpower in the baronial hall. Metessa was the easternmost of Nabban's major outer states, and might be the place where Josua's challenge stood or fell. Success here could hinge on the smallest detail, so Isgrimnur had plenty to occupy him-but it was difficult to attend to his duties while the little boy followed him around like a shadow.

"Here," the duke said after he had almost trod upon the child for the dozenth time, "what are you up to? Don't you have somewhere to be? Where's your mother?"

The pale-haired, thin-faced little boy looked up at him, showing no fear of the large, bearded stranger. "My mother told me to stay away from the prince and you other knights. I did not agree."

The child was unnervingly well-spoken for his years, the duke reflected, and his Westerling was almost as good as Isgrimnur's own. It was odd to see how Prester John's Warinsten language had spread so thoroughly in only a couple of generations. But if things fell apart, as they seemed to be doing, would not the common tongue, like everything else, soon slip away? Empires were like sea-walls, he thought sadly, even those which embodied the best of hopes. The tide of chaos beat at them and beat at them, and as soon as no one was shoring up the stones any more ...

Isgrimnur shook his head, then growled at the young-ling a little more sternly than he intended. "Well, if your mother told you to stay away from the knights, what are you doing here? This is men's business tonight."

The boy deliberately raised himself until the top of his head reached the duke's bottom rib. "I will be a man some day. I am tired of living with the women. My mother is afraid I will run away to fight in war, but that is just what I will do."

There was something so unintentionally comic in his fierce determination that Isgrimnur smiled despite himself. "What's your name, lad?"

"Pasevalles, Sir. Foreign Knight. My father is Brindalles, Baron Seriddan's brother."

"A knight is not the only thing in the world to be. And war is not a game. It is a terrible thing, little Pasevalles."

"I know that," said the boy readily. "But sometimes there is no choice, my father says, and there must be men who will fight."

The duke thought of Princess Miriamele in the ghant nest, and of his own beloved wife standing with an ax before Elvritshalla, ready to defend it to her death before Isorn persuaded her at last to let it go and flee with the rest of the family. "Women also fight."

"But women cannot be knights. And I am going to be a knight."

"Well, I suppose since I am not your father, I cannot send you back to your chambers. And I certainly can't seem to be rid of you. You might as well come with me and tell me a little about the place."

Pleased, Pasevalles bounced up and down a few times like a puppy. Then, just as suddenly, he stopped and fixed Isgrimnur with a suspicious glance. "Are you an enemy?" he asked sharply. "Because if you are, Sir Foreign Knight, I cannot show you things that might hurt my uncle."

Isgrimnur's grin was sour. "In these days, young fellow, it's hard to say who is enemy to who. But I can promise you that my liege-lord Prince Josua intends no harm to any who live in Metessa."

Pasevalles considered this for a moment. "I will trust you," he said at last. "I think you tell the truth. But if you do not, then you are no knight, who would lie to a young child."

Isgrimnur's grin widened. Young child! This mannikin could give Count Eolair lessons in politicking. Young child! This mannikin could give Count Eolair lessons in politicking. "Tell me nothing that would help your uncle's enemies, and I will try not to ask anything that would put your honor in danger." "Tell me nothing that would help your uncle's enemies, and I will try not to ask anything that would put your honor in danger."

"That is fair," said the boy gravely. "That is knightly."

Metessa was more than just another Nabbanai hedge-barony. Situated beside the outermost edges of the Thrithings, it was a wide and prosperous piece of country, hilly and wide-meadowed. Even after the unseasonal snows, the rolling terrain gleamed greenly. One of the Stefflod's branches wound through the gra.s.slands, a ribbon of silver foil bright even beneath the dull gray skies. Sheep and a few cows dotted the hillsides.

Chasu Metessa, the baronial keep, had stood atop one of the highest hills since the days of the later Imperators, looking down on these valleys full of small farms and freeholdings just as Isgrimnur did now.

He turned from the window to find Pasevalles pacing impatiently. The boy said: "Come and see the armor."

"That sounds like the kind of thing I shouldn't see."

"No, it's old old armor." He was disgusted by Isgrimnur's obtuseness. "Very old." armor." He was disgusted by Isgrimnur's obtuseness. "Very old."

The Rimmersman allowed himself to be tugged along. The child's energy seemed without bound.

If Isorn had been this demanding, he thought wryly, he thought wryly, I would likely have taken him out to the Frostmarch and left him, like they did in the old days when they had one mouth too many to feed. I would likely have taken him out to the Frostmarch and left him, like they did in the old days when they had one mouth too many to feed.

Pasevalles led him through a warren of hallways, past more than a few of the keep's inhabitants, who looked at Isgrimnur with alarm, to a comer tower that seemed a fairly late addition to the ancient hill fortress. After they had climbed far more stairs than were good for Isgrimnur's aching back, they reached a cluttered room near the top. The ceiling had not been recently swept-a canopy of cobwebs hung down almost to head height-and a heavy patina of dust covered the floor and all the crude furnishings, but Isgrimnur was nevertheless impressed with what he saw.

A series of wooden armor-stands ranged the room like silent guardsmen. Unlike the rest of the objects in the circular chamber, they were comparatively clean. On every stand hung a set of armor-but not modern armor, as Pasevalles had so crossly pointed out: the helmets and breastplates and curious metal-strip skirts were of a type that Isgrimnur had seen before only in very old paintings in the Sancellan Mahistrevis.

"This is armor from the Imperium!" he said, impressed. "Or d.a.m.n clever copies."

Pasevalles drew himself up to his full height. "They are not not copies! They are real. My father has been keeping them for years. My grandfather bought them in the great city." copies! They are real. My father has been keeping them for years. My grandfather bought them in the great city."

"In Nabban," Isgrimnur mused. He walked along the rows, examining the various costumes, his warrior's eye seeing which were flawed in design, which simply missing pieces from the original arrangement. The metal the old Imperatorial craftsmen had used was heavier than that now used, but the armor was splendidly made. He leaned close to examine a helm with a twining sea-dragon crest. To get a better look, he puffed away a fine layer of dust.

"These have not been polished in some time," he said absently.

"My father has been ill." Little Pasevalles' voice was suddenly querulous. "I try to keep them clean, but they are too tall for me to reach and too heavy for me to lift down."

Isgrimnur looked around the room, thinking. The uninhabited armor suits seemed like watchers at a Raed, waiting for some decision. There were still many things for him to do. Surely he had spent enough time with this boy? He walked to the tower window and peered out into the gray western sky.

"We will not eat for some hour or so yet," he said at last, "and your uncle and Prince Josua will not be speaking of the other important things that must be discussed until afterward. Go and get your father's cleaning things-at least a whisking broom to get the dust off. You and I can make short work of this."

The boy looked up, eyes wide. "Truly?"

"Truly. I am in no hurry to go back down all those stairs, in any case." The boy was still staring. "Bless me, child, go on. And bring a lamp or two. It'll be dark soon."

The boy sped out of the room and down the narrow stairwell like a hare. Isgrimnur shook his head.

The banqueting hall of Chasu Metessa had a fireplace along each wall, and was warm and bright despite the chilliness of the season. The courtiers, landed folk from all over the valley, seemed to be dressed in their finest: many of the women wore long shimmery dresses and hats almost as weirdly inventive as those to be seen at the Sancellan Mahistrevis itself. Still, Isgrimnur noted the air of worry that hung like a fog in the huge, high-raftered chamber. The ladies talked swiftly and brightly and laughed at tiny things. The men were mostly quiet; what little they did say was spoken behind their hands.

A cask of Teligure wine had been breached at the start of things and its contents shared out around the room. Isgrimnur noticed that Josua, who was seated at the right of their host Baron Seriddan, had raised his goblet to his lips many times, but had not yet allowed the page beside him to refill it. The duke approved of Josua's forbearance. The prince was not much of a drinker at the best of times, but since the chance of dislodging Benigaris from the ducal throne might rest on the knife-edge of tonight's doings, it was doubly important that Josua's wits be sharp and his tongue cautious.

As he surveyed the room, the duke was stopped short by a pale glimmer in the doorway, far across the room. Squinting, Isgrimnur suddenly smiled deep in his beard. It was the boy Pasevalles, who had doubtless once more escaped from his mother and her ladies. He had come, Isgrimnur had no doubt, to watch Real Knights at table.

He may just get an eyeful.

Baron Seriddan Metessis rose from his seat at the head of the table and lifted his goblet. Behind him a blue crane, symbol of the Metessan House, spread its long wings across a wall banner.

"Let us salute our visitors," the baron said. He smiled ironically, his sun-browned, bearded face wrinkling. "I am doubtless a traitor already, just for letting you inside the gates, Prince Josua-so it does no further harm to drink your health."

Isgrimnur found himself liking Seriddan, and respecting him more than a bit. He little resembled the duke's fondly-held image of an effete Nabbanai baron: his thick neck and seamed peasant face made Seriddan look more a genial rogue than the hereditary master of a great fiefdom, but his eyes were shrewd and his manner deceptively self-mocking. His command of Westerling was so good that little Pasevalles' fluency no longer seemed surprising.

After the gla.s.ses were drained, Josua rose and lifted his own cup to thank the folk of Chasu Metessa for their hospitality. This was greeted by polite smiles and murmurs of approval that seemed more than a little forced. When the prince sat down, the whisper of table talk began to grow once more, but Seriddan gestured for quiet.

"So," he said to Josua, loud enough for everyone at the table to hear. "We have fulfilled the obligations that good Aedonites owe to their fellows-and some would say we have done far more than that, considering you appeared in our lands unasked for, and with an army at your back." Above the smiling mouth, Seriddan's stare was cool. "Will we see your heels in the morning, Josua of Erkynland?"

Isgrimnur suppressed a noise of surprise. He had a.s.sumed that the baron would send the lesser folk of his household away so that he could talk to the prince in privacy, but apparently Seriddan had other ideas.

Josua, too, was taken aback, but quickly said: "If you hear me out and are unmoved, Baron, you will indeed see our heels soon after sunrise. My people are not camped outside your walls as a threat to you. You have done me no wrong, and I will do you none either."

The baron stared at him for a long moment, then turned to his brother. "Brindalles, what do you think? Does it not seem odd that an Erkynlandish prince would wish to pa.s.s through our lands? Where might he be going?"

The brother's thin face bore many similarities to the baron's, but the features that looked roguishly dangerous on Seriddan seemed merely tired and a trifle unsettled on Brindalles.

"If he is not going to Nabban," came the mild reply, "he must be planning to walk straight to the sea." Brindalles' smile was wan. It was hard to think that such a diffident man could be the father of bright-burning Pasevalles.

"We are are going on to Nabban," said Josua. "That is no secret." going on to Nabban," said Josua. "That is no secret."

"And what purpose could you have that is not dangerous to me and dangerous to my liege-lord, Duke Benigaris?" Seriddan demanded. "Why should I not make you a prisoner?"

Josua looked around the now-silent room. Chasu Metessa's most important residents all sat at the long table, watching with rapt attention. "Are you certain you wish me to speak so openly?"

Seriddan gestured impatiently. "I will not have it said that I misunderstood you, whether I let you pa.s.s through my lands or hold you here for Benigaris. Speak, and my people here will be my witnesses."

"Very well." Josua turned to Sludig, who despite having drained his wine cup several times was watching the proceedings with a wary eye. "May I have the scroll?"

As the yellow-bearded Rimmersman fumbled in the pocket of his cloak, Josua told Seriddan: "As I said, Baron: we go to Nabban. And we go in hopes of removing Benigaris from the Sancellan Mahistrevis. In part, that is because he is an ally of my brother, and his fall would weaken the High King's position. The fact that Elias and I are at war with each other is no secret, but the reasons why are less well-known."

"If you think they are important," Seriddan said equably, "tell them. We have plenty of wine, and we are at home. It is your little army that may or may not be leaving with the dawn."

"I will tell you, because I would not ask allies to fight unknowing," said Josua.

"Hea! Allies? Fight!?" The baron scowled and sat straighter. "You are walking a dangerous road, Josua Lackhand. Benigaris is my liege-lord. It is mad even to contemplate letting your people pa.s.s, knowing what I know, but I show respect for your father by letting you speak. But to hear you talk of me fighting beside you-madness!" He waved his hand. Some two dozen armed men, who had been standing back against the shadowed walls all during the meal, came rustlingly to attention. Allies? Fight!?" The baron scowled and sat straighter. "You are walking a dangerous road, Josua Lackhand. Benigaris is my liege-lord. It is mad even to contemplate letting your people pa.s.s, knowing what I know, but I show respect for your father by letting you speak. But to hear you talk of me fighting beside you-madness!" He waved his hand. Some two dozen armed men, who had been standing back against the shadowed walls all during the meal, came rustlingly to attention.

Josua did not flinch, but calmly held Seriddan's eye. "As I said," he resumed, "I will give you the reasons that Elias must be driven from the Dragonbone Chair. But not now. There are other things to tell you first." He reached and took the scroll from Sludig's hand. "My finest knight, Sir Deornoth of Hewenshire, was at the battle of Bullback Hill when Duke Leobardis, Benigaris' father, came to relieve my castle at Naglimund."

"Leobardis chose your side," Seriddan said shortly. "Benigaris has chosen your brother's. What the old duke decided does not affect my loyalty to his son." Despite his words, there was a certain veiled look in the baron's eyes; watching him, Isgrimnur suspected Seriddan might just wish that the old duke were still alive and that his loyalty could be more comfortable. "And what does this Sir What-may-be-his-name have to do with Metessa?"

"Perhaps more than you can know." For the first time there was an edge of impatience in Josua's tone.

Careful, man. Isgrimnur tugged anxiously at his beard. Isgrimnur tugged anxiously at his beard. Don't let your sorrow over Deornoth betray you. We're farther along than I had thought we'd be. Seriddan's listening, anyway. Don't let your sorrow over Deornoth betray you. We're farther along than I had thought we'd be. Seriddan's listening, anyway.

As if he heard his old friend's silent thought, Josua paused and took a breath. "Forgive me, Baron Seriddan. I understand your loyalty to the Kingfisher House. I only wish to tell you things you deserve to know, not tell you where your duties lie. I want to read you Deornoth's words about what happened near Bullback Hill. They were written down by Father Strangyeard ..." the prince pointed to the archivist, who was trying to make himself un.o.btrusive down near the long table's far end, "and sworn to before that priest and G.o.d Himself."

"Why are you reading some piece of parchment?" Seriddan asked impatiently. "If this man has a story to tell, why does he not come here before us?"

"Because Sir Deornoth is dead," said Josua. "He died at the hands of Thrithings mercenaries King Elias sent against me."

At this there was a small stir in the room. The Thrithings-folk were objects of both contempt and fear to the outland baronies of Nabban-contempt because the Nabbanai thought them little more than savages, fear because when the Thrithings-men went into one of their periodic raiding frenzies, outland fiefdoms such as Metessa bore the greatest part of the suffering.

"Read." Seriddan was clearly angry. Isgrimnur thought that the canny baron might already sense the snare into which his own cleverness had delivered him. He had hoped to deal with the odd and difficult situation of the prince by forcing Josua to speak his treason in front of many witnesses. Now the baron must sense that Josua's words might not be so easily dismissed. It was an awkward spot. But even now, Metessa's master did not disperse the other folk sitting at table: he had made his gambit and he would live with it. The Duke of Elvritshalla found himself appreciating the man anew.

"I had Deornoth tell his story to our priest before the battle for New Gadrinsett," Josua said. "What he saw was important enough that I did not wish to chance it might die with him, as there seemed little likelihood we would survive that fight." He held up the scroll, unrolling it with the stump of his right wrist. "I will read only the part that I think you need to hear, but I will gladly give the whole thing to you, Baron, so that you may read it at your ease."

He paused for a moment, then began. The listeners along the table leaned forward, greedy for more strangeness on what was already a night that would be discussed in Metessa for a long time.

"... When we came upon the field, the Nabbanai had ridden after Earl Guthwulf of Utanyeat and his men of the Boar and Spears, who were falling back with great swiftness to the slope of Bullback Hill. Duke Leobardis and three hundred knights came at them in such a wise as to pa.s.s between Utanyeat and the High King's army, which was still some way distant, as we thought."Prince Josua, fearing that Leobardis would be delayed too long and that thus the king could come against him in the unprotected open lands south of Naglimund, brought many knights out of the castle to save Nabban from the king, and also perhaps to capture Utanyeat, who was the greatest of King Elias' generals. Josua himself led us, and Isorn Isgrimnurson and a score of Rimmersmen were with us too."When we struck against the side of the Boar and Spears, we at first did bring them great woe, for they were outnumbered manyfold. But Guthwulf and the king had prepared a trap, and soon it was sprung. Earl Fengbald of Falshire and several hundred knights came down a-horse from the woods at the top of Bullback Hill."I saw Duke Leobardis and his son Benigaris at the outermost edge of the fighting, behind their men-at-arms. As Fengbald's falcon-crest came down the hill, I saw Benigaris draw his sword and stab his father in the neck, slaying him in the saddle so that Leobardis fell across his horse's withers, bleeding most piteously... "

At this last sentence, the silence abruptly dissolved into shocked cries and rebukes. Several of Baron Seriddan's liege-men stood, shaking their fists in fury as though they would strike Josua down. The prince only looked at them, still holding the parchment before him, then turned to Seriddan. The baron had retained his seat, but his brown face had paled except for bright spots of color high on each cheek.

"Silence!" he shouted, and glared at his followers until they sank back onto their benches, full of angry muttering. Several of the women had to be helped from the room; they stumbled out as though they themselves had been stabbed, their intricate hats and veils suddenly as sad as the bright flags of a defeated army. "This is an old story," the baron said at last. His voice was tight, but Isgrimnur thought there was more than rage there.

He feels the snare drawing closed.

Seriddan drained his goblet, then banged it down on the tabletop, making more than a few people jump. "It is an old tale," he said again. "Often repeated, never proved. Why should I believe it now?"

"Because Sir Deornoth saw it happen," said Josua simply.

"He is not here. And I do not know that I would believe him if he were."

"Deornoth did not lie. He was a true knight."

Seriddan laughed harshly. "I have only your your word on that, Prince. Men will do strange things for king and country." He turned to his brother. "Brindalles? Have you heard any reason here tonight that I should not throw the prince and his followers into one of the locked cells beneath Chasu Metessa to wait for Benigaris' mercy?" word on that, Prince. Men will do strange things for king and country." He turned to his brother. "Brindalles? Have you heard any reason here tonight that I should not throw the prince and his followers into one of the locked cells beneath Chasu Metessa to wait for Benigaris' mercy?"

The baron's brother sighed. He held his two hands close together, touching at the fingertips. "I do not like this story, Seriddan. It has an unpleasantly truthful ring, since those who prepared Leobardis for burial spoke wonderingly of the evenness of the wound. But the word of any one man, even Prince Josua's knight, is not enough to condemn the Lord of Nabban."

Wit is not lacking in the family blood! the Duke of Elvritshalla noted. the Duke of Elvritshalla noted. But on such hard-headed men must our luck ride. Or fail. But on such hard-headed men must our luck ride. Or fail.

"There are others who saw Benigaris' terrible deed," Josua said. "A few of them are still alive, although many died when Naglimund was conquered."

"A thousand men would not be enough," Seriddan spat. "Hea! "Hea! What, should the flower of Nabbanai n.o.bility follow you-an Erkynlander and enemy of the High King-against the rightful heir to the Kingfisher House, on the strength of the writings of a dead man?" A murmur of agreement rose from Chasu Metessa's other inhabitants. The situation was growing ugly. What, should the flower of Nabbanai n.o.bility follow you-an Erkynlander and enemy of the High King-against the rightful heir to the Kingfisher House, on the strength of the writings of a dead man?" A murmur of agreement rose from Chasu Metessa's other inhabitants. The situation was growing ugly.