“It seems to me that it would be very wicked of Lord Constable Osric and his men if there were not soldiers at the gate.”

“No, I mean many soldiers.” Tiamak leaned his head out of the carriage window. “Many, many soldiers.”

Even as he spoke, three guards from the double-phalanx stepped forward, pikes at the ready, to block the carriage from going any farther.

“What goes on here?” Tiamak asked the nearest Erkynguard. “I am Lord Tiamak, Counselor to the High Throne.”

“Of course, my lord,” said the sergeant who led them. “As to what’s in the air, I fear we couldn’t tell you. Order came down, triple the guard on the gate. Don’t let anyone out.”

“Well, we wish to come in. Is that a problem?”

“No, my lord. Just let us have a look.” Tiamak moved back so the sergeant could lean in to inspect the inside of the carriage. “Do you vouch for this gentleman, Lord Tiamak?” the sergeant said.

Aengas slowly swiveled his head to stare back. “It is scarcely necessary to vouch for the loyalty of Aengas ec-Carpilbin. I am First Factor of Abaingeat.”

The guard-sergeant tightened his lips. “Then I am sorry for the inconvenience, Lord Factor, but our orders were not given lightly. I do not know you, much to my shame, I’m certain. Do you vouch for him, Lord Tiamak?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Lord Aengas is an old friend of the High Throne—and of myself.”

“Then you may continue.” The sergeant turned and signaled to the guardhouse. A moment later the portcullis began to creak upward.

“What in Brynioch’s name has happened?” Aengas wondered as they drove through.

“We shall know soon enough.” Tiamak’s heart was pounding.

It seemed to take a very long time for the carriage to make its way through the gates of the two inner baileys, but as they approached the front of the royal residence, Tiamak saw even more guards posted outside. To his slight relief, he also saw Pasevalles in urgent conversation with Zakiel, the guard captain.

“Lord Chancellor!” Tiamak called as the carriage rolled to a halt on the broad drive before the residence, and a half dozen Erkynguard moved forward to surround it. “What happens here?”

“Praise be to Elysia and her saints,” Pasevalles said as he approached. His face was pale and his hair was wet, as if he had been called directly from his bath. “I’m glad to see you are well, Lord Tiamak. The king and queen were most concerned when we could not find you.”

“I have been at the docks, saying goodbye to one friend and discovering, quite to my surprise, that another has arrived. Lord Pasevalles, this is Aengas, former Viscount of Carpilbin, now First Factor of Abaingeat.”

“I have heard of you, my lord.”

“Forgive me for not bowing,” Aengas replied.

“But what is going on here?” Tiamak asked. “You said the king and queen—they are both well?”

“In fact,” said Pasevalles, “everybody is well, except for the poor fool who tried to kill Count Eolair. And even he is not too badly hurt.” His expression belied his casual words. Tiamak had never seen the stolid Lord Chancellor so upset: his anger was obvious, fierce, and also new to Tiamak. He was glad he was not its target.

“What?” Tiamak could only stare. Suddenly Pasevalles’ pale features and disheveled appearance made sense. “Was Eolair harmed?”

“A stab wound near his shoulder that struck bone or it would have been worse. Some cuts to his hands,” said the Lord Chancellor. “We are fortunate his attacker was no soldier. He seems to have been a madman—he has worked here in the castle for more than a year. A Hernystirman.”

It sank in after a moment, and seemed to settle in Tiamak’s guts. “A Hernystirman? Did he work in the kitchen? Is his name . . . oh, what was it? Is his name Riggan?”

“Yes, I think that’s what someone said. Do you know him?”

“I know of him. My wife tended him once.” He was in no hurry to tell the rest of the story, of the man babbling about the Morriga, the Mother of Crows.

“Has he been questioned?”

“Yes, but he speaks no sense,” said Pasevalles. “You may see him later if you wish. I would be pleased to have your thoughts.”

“But who was he?”

“Come inside and you will have answers to all your questions,” Pasevalles told him. “The king and queen will want to know you have been found alive and hale.” He waved, signaling to the guards that the carriage’s occupants were welcome inside the residence. At Tiamak’s request, Captain Zakiel picked out four strong soldiers to carry Aengas’s litter into the throne hall.

As he limped after the litter, ignoring the murmurs of the soldiers as they struggled beneath Lord Aengas’ considerable weight, Tiamak found his thoughts swirling like a flock of marsh teal startled into flight. On the one hand, the attack had apparently been the work of some kind of lunatic, one of Eolair’s own countrymen with who knew what kind of mad, festering grudge—likely a meaningless, and fortunately bootless, crime. But it also felt like the vision of disaster that had come to him on the plains of the Frostmarch, showing its true form at last.

Evil times, he thought helplessly, almost as if someone else spoke in his head. With so many strange signs, how can I doubt that evil times are truly upon us? He Who Always Steps On Sand, please guide me now, because I feel the ground turning treacherous all around me.

39 A Grassland Wedding

It was hot again, very hot for the Third Green Moon. The air seemed to crackle, as if someone had rubbed a dry fleece across it, and when Fremur looked through the wagon’s small window he could see no clouds anywhere. He felt as though some fell creature breathed on his neck, but he knew he could not delay going out to join the clan any longer. His sister was being married to Drojan and his brother Odrig was giving the feast.

He untangled the ribbons of his best shirt one last time. Before the day was ended, he knew, the full-sleeved white garment would be dripping with his sweat and muddy from the hands of others, from being clapped on the back and dragged into unwanted wrestling matches with drunken guests. His aunt would have to sew on new ribbons, because half of them would be torn off during the festivities.

It would all feel different, he thought, if Drojan was not such a pig.

Fremur saw nothing wrong with a woman, even his sister Kulva, being given away in marriage to a man chosen by the head of the family, especially when the head of the family was also the clan’s thane. That was how it had always been done. But when their father Hurvalt had been thane, before he had been struck dumb and crippled by the gods, he would have balked at giving one of his daughters to a swaggering fool like Drojan, whose only accomplishment was that of being Odrig’s crony. And in fact Hurvalt had given their oldest sister to a man she cared for, although he could have chosen a richer suitor.

“The clan’s happiness is more important to a thane than it is to any other clansman,” his father had told him once. “A thane must always think with two minds, both his own and the wisdom of his ancestors. And the ancestors care only that the clan survives.”

His father was one of the first people Fremur saw when he stepped down from the wagon onto the grass of the paddock where the wedding feast was to take place. Hurvalt sat on a bench in the scant shade of the wagon, wrapped in blankets despite the heat, his body as curled and useless as a fallen leaf.