Now that Lavastine’s wounds had been tended to, Alain and Lavastine and the hounds were alone in the tent. From outside he heard the low rumble of activity as wounded were carried in, scouts came and went, men looted and burned the Eika dead under the moon’s light, and sentries called out challenges.
“He must have suffered terribly,” said Alain, scratching Fear under his jaw.
“But he is alive. They say he came attended by Eika dogs, as faithful to him as his Dragons once were. What do you think of that?”
Alain laughed. “Ought I to think something of it when I sit here with these faithful beasts?”
Lavastine grunted. “True enough.” He stretched, wincing. “When I was your age, I would have felt no ache in my bones, even after a day such as this. What a strange creature the Eika princeling was, to let us go like that in the cathedral when he could have killed us all. How foresighted of you to free him, Alain.”
“Even if meant sacrificing Lackling in his place?” The old shame still burned.
“Who is Lackling?” Lavastine yawned, stretched again, and tied up the hounds, then called for a servingman to take off his boots. “What happened to the Eagle, do you know?”
Alain saw there was no point in reminding his father about Lackling. “She went back to her duties.”
“You were wise to gain her loyalty, son. It seems to me that when you marry, Lady Tallia’s consequence will allow you to count Eagles in your retinue. You must ask for that one. There is some power at work within her. It would be well to have it for our use, if we can.”
Marry Tallia. All else that Lavastine said swirled round him like the night’s breeze and faded into nothing. Marry Tallia.
Lavastine went on to discuss Henry’s plans to send for Tallia and have her brought to his progress, but the words passed in a haze. When the hounds were settled and a rough pallet was set in place, Alain lay down beside his father and closed his eyes to see the terrible images of battle bursting like fire against his eyes. The rose burned at his chest like a hot coal. But slowly the pain faded. With the snoring of the hounds beside him and his father’s even breath on his ear, the awful images faded into a vision of Tallia, her wheatpale hair unbound and her solemn face turned toward him. His wife. Bound to him by their mutual oaths sworn before witnesses and blessed by a biscop.
He slept, and he dreamed.
Both current and wind aid him this night. He can smell the sea and the estuary before he gets too close. He beaches his eight ships on the western shore and sends scouts westward to guard against an incursion of the Soft Ones’ soldiers, should they have sent any in this direction to seek out the fleeing RockChildren. No doubt they are too busy killing those who fled in disorder. No doubt they are too busy burying their own kind, for they are distractible in their grief.
The disaster brought on by Bloodheart’s death will hurt the RockChildren, certainly, but only a fool would not find advantage in it. No one of Bloodheart’s ambitious sons could have killed the enchanter without bringing down on himself Bloodheart’s vengeance. Now that fate is reserved for another.
Now, after the rout, how many of Bloodheart’s sons survive? How many had taken their followers to raid eastward and did not fight at Gent at all? All this he must consider before he knows how and when to act.
The old priest sits in the belly of the boat and sings nonsense as he wipes blood from the oozing wound in his chest and licks it off his fingers.
“How did you do it?” he asks the old wizened creature. “Why did you do it?”
“Why are you curious?” asks the old priest, who talks mostly in questions.
“Bloodheart found your heart hidden in Rikin fjall. He forced the bargain on you, to hide his heart in place of your own.”
“Will anyone ever find my heart now?” cackles the priest.
No doubt he is half mad. His kind usually are; it is the price they pay for their power. “What happened to your heart?” he asks again. “How did you manage to hide Bloodheart’s heart in your own chest when it was meant to be hidden in the fjall?”
“Did he think he was cleverer than I?” The old priest snorts, and for an instant cunning sparks in his rheumy eyes. The creature is very old, the oldest male he has ever seen. “Did he think I would take my old heart to where there might be battle? I could have been killed!”
“Do you fear death, then? The curse of the nestbrother—”
“The curse! The curse! Do I look like a hatchling? I turned the curse. I stole Bloodheart’s voice and finished the speaking for him. Hai! Hai!” He begins to sing, but the song has an unsettling flow, like a river running uphill. “‘Let this curse fall on the one whose hand commands the blade that pierced his heart.’ Ailailai!”