Lady Sabella had seen, and understood. “What is this?” she asked as she smiled. Alain didn’t like that smile, but he did not fear it. “Come forward. I recognize you. Lavastine’s by-blow who tried to steal the county from Lord Geoffrey.”
With the hounds at his heels, Alain walked forward. Folk shoved each other to get out of the way.
He did not kneel. “My lady,” he said. “My lord duke.” And, last, although the words came harder than he thought they would: “My lady Tallia.”
She screamed, covered her eyes with her arm, and collapsed onto the pillows as in a faint. The litter rocked, and the servingmen carrying it lurched a few steps to steady themselves. In all that crowd, no one spoke. Silence weighed over the mute effigy of Taillefer. Silence lofted into the dome as if to strike the heavens themselves dumb. “Yet here you are,” added Sabella, “and I admit I’m interested to know where you came from and why you are here.”
This close to the nurse, he saw the bluish-white features of a baby peeping out from under the linen wrappings. So still, without expression or any least sign of animation. Sorrow barked, and the nurse shrieked and skittered back, slamming into the tomb. She lost her grip on the infant. It tumbled out of her arms.
He lunged forward and
On the shore of Rikin Fjord the good, strong folk of Rikin Tribe wait to greet him. Here are Eika warriors grown too slow to sail the seas and fight in foreign lands but strong enough, still, to build and labor and fight in defense of their home. Here are the home troops, doing their duty to protect the fjord until they are given a chance to sail. Here are Deacon Ursuline’s flock looking healthy and eager, crowding forward as they would never have done in the days when they were kept penned and mute.
“What have you brought us, Mother?” they call when they see the deacon.
“What gifts will enrich us, Deacon?” they ask her. “You must see what we have built in your absence!”
“Ask your lord what he has brought with him to enrich the tribe,” she tells them, and they see him and fall silent, heads bowed respectfully. They fear him, too, but fear is no longer the only spear that drives them.
“The riches of Alba belong to us,” he tells them. “Silver brooches and spoons. Tin. Iron ingots. Shields. Swords. Glass beakers and jars and drinking horns. Wool cloth. Ivory arm rings. Amber and crystal beads. And more besides. Let the cargo be brought ashore and into the hall.”
He looks out onto the waters, but the surface lies still. The fight that exploded so suddenly has vanished into the depths and he still cannot explain it. Truth to tell, he hesitates before he disembarks, recalling that moment when he saw Nokvi in the flat face of the merman who attacked him. Nokvi is dead, devoured by his allies—some of whom are not, after all, his allies any longer. Or perhaps some of the merfolk were never his allies at all.
He comes ashore. First Son bears his standard behind him. His counselors move in a group, whispering among themselves.
The SwiftDaughters stand in their ranks by OldMother’s hall. They wait, so beautiful in their sharp metallic hues: copper, silver, gold, iron. Snow lines the valley, a white tracery among the fields and rocks. Small ones race down from the main hall, shouting and laughing, and they tumble into place before him, some of them on two legs and some on four, nipping and snapping and pinching and shoving. They are born with the instinct to struggle and compete. Yet he notices that there are fewer four legs and more two legs than is usual among the litters.
Sensing his interest, they fall together into their packs and become silent. Watching him.
They are half his size but growing fast. In another year they will be full grown and in a year or two after that they will be what humankind would call adults: as smart and fast and strong as they will ever be, the new generation of Eika warriors. He has himself, after all, only lived through ten or twelve winters since he hatched from the nests. Their life is short, but after all, a short life is all most creatures on Earth can expect.
“Answer me,” he says to them sharply. “Brute strength and bright baubles will not give you victory.”
At first they answer with silence. The old, fading warriors and younger home troops and the human tribe look on. This is the first time the sire has met the hatchlings.
One among them speaks up boldly. “Then what?”
“Who are you?” he asks.
“I am First Son of the Third Litter.”
He nods.
“First,” he says, “observe. After this, learn. And when this is done, think. These are the three legs on which we stand.”
