A spring storm was rushing across the Frostmarch. The horizon was black and full of swirling movement, the mountains invisible, as if someone had dumped a bucket of pitch across the northern world. Aelin thought the great wavefront of clouds looked like something alive.

“That’ll be on us soon, sir,” said one of the soldiers as he caught up with Aelin on the hillcrest. “Long before we reach Carn Inbarh.”

“Can’t be helped.” Like the others, Aelin had pulled his hood up against the growing wind. Just in the last hour the day had gone from ordinary to stormy and dark as ink. “We need to reach the earl with my uncle Eolair’s message, and we need to do it swiftly. We’ll just have to ride faster and stay ahead of the worst of the weather.”

His squire Jarreth shook his head. “Not Brynioch in his silver chariot could stay ahead of that, sir. It will bring darkness within the hour, I warrant. The meadows are still wet and muddy from the winter, and full of holes. The horses’ will break their ankles or we will break our necks.”

“Bagba’s Belt!” Aelin reined up, turned to look directly at the northern sky. Jarreth was right, of course—the storm looked more like an avalanche than any ordinary weather, something that would roll over them and not just soak them, but crush them. Still, his great-uncle Eolair had been very firm that his letter must reach Earl Murdo as quickly as possible. Aelin only wished he knew what was in it, so that he could judge how much risk was necessary, but Count Eolair had been very firm: no one but Murdo was to open it, and if it seemed likely to fall into anyone else’s hands it was to be destroyed first. Sir Aelin did not know what the message contained, but he felt certain it had something to do with King Hugh, and Hugh had already shown himself not to be the forgiving sort, so Aelin had kept its existence secret even from his own men. But hanging onto that secret would do no good if they lost their way in the dark, or tumbled into a ravine. And outlaws also roamed this part of the southern Frostmarch. Aelin’s band of well-armed men would discourage ordinary cutpurses but not an organized troop of brigands like Flann’s Crows or even the Skalijar, who did sometimes range this far south.

One of the younger soldiers, a fellow who’d grown up in this outlying part of Hernystir, cleared his throat and said, “Sir?”

“What is it, Evan?”

“We are not so far from Dunath Tower.”

“The border station? How near are we?”

The young man lifted his visor and squinted across the glen. “Unless I miss my guess, that is the valley of the Inniscrich just beyond these hills.”

“The Inniscrich? So near?”

“We have been riding fast, Sir Aelin.” He said it almost as an apology.

“Well, by old One-Arm, I believe you’re right.” He almost thought he could make the tower out, but knew it must be a trick of the storm: in truth, it had to be too far away to see. Still, they could be there in only an hour or so of hard riding. They would get wet, but they would have somewhere to dry off and stay the night while they waited for the storm to pass. Important as the message to Earl Murdo must be, it could wait until the next day, surely. What other choice did they have?

Aelin turned to the others. “Let us thank the gods that we have Evan with us, who has the sense to know where in the world he is. And while we’re at it, let us pray that Mircha will hold back the worst of her downpour until we’ve reached the border station.”

Jarreth pulled his cloak tighter. “And let us pray also that they have their cookfires burning and a spigot in the ale cask. We’ll need a lot of warming by the time we get there.”

Aelin smiled, but shook his head. “I’m afraid you will be building your own fires, my friend. The tower will be empty. King Hugh recalled the Dunath Tower garrison, and I doubt the replacements from Rimmersgard will reach it until the roads are dry up north. Except for a few bats and an owl or two, we’ll have the place to ourselves.”

“Don’t say that, Sir Aelin.” Young Evan looked unexpectedly pale. “There are things . . .” He could not find the words he wanted, and only shook his head. “I grew up here. There are things in these hills, bad things. Not all of them are natural.”

“Natural or not, they will have several good men of Hernystir to deal with if they prove themselves awkward,” Aelin said, with more cheer than he felt. He was angry at Evan for sharing his peasant superstitions with the others, undercutting what should be a moment of relief. “And if your bad things try to keep any of us from getting warm and dry, well, they will spend the night on the Frostmarch themselves, and wonder how it happened!”

•   •   •

The main part of the storm was almost upon them now, its outrider clouds running before the wind, flinging down cold rain as Sir Aelin’s band climbed through the hills. As they made their way up the slope, through the thrashing, wind-rattled trees, Aelin heard a thin, continuous roaring from ahead of them, like the rumbling snores of some monstrous sleeping bear. When they reached the crown of the hill they could all see what made it—the mighty Inniscrich, its swollen waters dull pewter in the stormlight, busy with white wave caps as the wind made its surface froth and dance.

At the far end of the valley, still a good ride away, Dunath Tower loomed over the river, a rectangular mass of dark stone that seemed to have shrugged its way loose from the surrounding trees to take a better look. Once, long ago in the days of Tethtain’s empire, it had served as a nobleman’s house at an important boundary between the king’s land and that of the hostile northmen. Now there was peace between those two onetime enemies, but the north still offered a threat; Dunath Tower was a boundary fort now, a watchtower against the White Foxes of the Nornfell Mountains, alternately staffed by small garrisons from Hernystir and Rimmersgard.

The rain was punching down hard; the weight of the water thumping on Aelin’s hood felt more like a fall of hailstones. “One last ride, men,” he cried, “and then we will be under a roof!”

He spurred his horse, which slid a little as it found its footing, but then leaped away along the ridge of the hill. His men followed, the sound of hoofbeats on the muddy ground briefly louder than either the river or the storm.

•   •   •

As they drew closer to the fortress, following the course of the swollen river from a healthy distance up the hillside, Aelin was astonished to see lights burning in the tower windows. The wind and rain were too fierce to even rein up and consider, but he had seen the previous garrison return to Hernysadharc with his own eyes before he departed with Count Eolair’s message. He could only guess that the Rimmersmen had arrived earlier than he had thought they could.

The men were cheered, of course, to see signs of life in the midst of so much cold, damp, and darkness, but they were less pleased to discover the tower’s gate firmly shut and nobody answering their hale. Aelin could not guess how long they stood beside the narrow spot in the river, wrapped in the storm’s darkness, splashed not just by rain but also the floating white foam thrown up by the river’s force far below them, cold and soaked to the bone as they thumped away at the gate.

“Can no one hear me?” Aelin shouted, beating the iron-bound wood with the butt of his spear until it seemed louder in his ears than the thunder. “I am Aelin, knight of King Hugh, from Hernysadharc. Let us in, for the love of great Brynioch!”

At last a face appeared on the roof atop the guard tower.

“Ho, there! You say you are Hernystiri?”

Aelin was relieved but puzzled to recognize a countryman’s voice. “Yes. Sir Aelin, come from Hernysadharc. Will you let us in?”