Kitabı oku: «The Gray Wolf Throne», sayfa 3

CHAPTER THREE
BAD NEWS AND GOOD NEWS

During the long journey from Fetters Ford to Delphi, Raisa managed to forget, now and then, that she was furious.

Furious with Gerard Montaigne, the monster who held her friends in his grasp.

Furious with those at home who were conspiring to steal her birthright, by murder or other means.

Furious with Captain Edon Byrne, who seemed willing to sacrifice his own son for the Gray Wolf line.

Furious most of all with herself. Had she not left the queendom nearly a year ago, none of this would have happened.

But it’s not easy to remain angry while falling asleep in the saddle. Raisa would startle awake to find Captain Byrne’s hand on her back, preventing her from toppling to the ground. “Eat something, Your Highness,” he would say, handing her a sack of dried fruit and nuts. “Eating will help keep you awake.”

She would accept it without thinking, without remembering that she hadn’t forgiven him. By the time she remembered, he’d have spurred his horse forward or dropped back behind her, too far away for easy speech. She wasn’t speaking to him either, not unless absolutely necessary, since there was no predicting what might come out of her mouth.

Byrne drove them on like a man possessed—Raisa suspected that he’d have ordered them to ride all night if the horses could have stood it. As it was, they rose before light and rode long past dark—even though the days were growing longer as the fields greened around them and the lower slopes of the northern mountains lost their snowy cloaks.

Byrne had chosen to travel east, through northern Arden, and not directly north, as Raisa had thought to do. His reasoning was simple: “If Lord Bayar knows you were in Fetters Ford, he’ll expect you to enter the queendom via the West Wall. We need to do the unexpected.”

Arden’s forces had been drawn south, to fortify the border between Arden and Tamron, as Gerard’s sole surviving brother, King Geoff, awaited the results of the siege of Tamron Court. The countryside lay eerily quiet, as if the entire realm were holding its breath.

They couldn’t ride through the rough in the dark, so they chanced the Delphi Road through northern Arden, skirting the mountains, meaning to cross the lower Spirits via Marisa Pines Pass.

Raisa understood that speed was of the essence. There was no point in undertaking a long, arduous, dangerous journey through Arden and Tamron only to arrive home and find that her sister Mellony had been named princess heir in her place.

Besides, Captain Byrne wouldn’t want to spend any more time with an angry, moody, downhearted princess than he had to. And he was no doubt worried about Raisa’s mother, Marianna, the queen he was blood-sworn to serve and protect.

Raisa worried about her mother, too. Worry squeezed her insides like a too-tight corset.

Long days on horseback allowed far too much time for thinking. Raisa’s mind traveled faster than the horses—all the way to Fellsmarch, to the fairy castle on an island in the Dyrnnewater, to her mother’s privy chamber, where plans were no doubt being laid to take away Raisa’s throne.

An image of her mother and Lord Bayar came to her—their heads together over some critical document, Marianna’s hair like pale, beaten gold of the purest kind, the High Wizard’s silver and black as wood ashes.

When Raisa was at court, she and her mother had been like fire and ice, each intent on changing the form and nature of the other. Now Raisa hoped they could complement each other, each draw on the other’s strengths, become an alloy of steel, if only her mother would give her the chance.

Mellony couldn’t do it: she was only thirteen, and Mellony and Marianna were too much alike.

“Mother, please,” Raisa whispered. “Please wait for me.”

In her blackest hours, Raisa knew that it was all her fault—the crisis at home, the invasion of Tamron, and what would surely happen to Amon Byrne and the other cadets when Gerard Montaigne breached the walls of Tamron Court. If not for her, Edon Byrne would be home, where he belonged, looking after the queen, and Amon would be commander of his class at Oden’s Ford.

She’d lost Han Alister, too—their budding romance had been yanked out by the roots. He was the only sweetheart she’d ever had who hadn’t any agenda beyond that of young lovers everywhere. Even though they had no future together, he’d left a huge hole in her heart.

It seemed that everything she touched turned to sand. Everything she cared about slipped through her fingers.

In her dispirited state, she closed her ears to the reasonable voice that said, You’d never have loved Han Alister if you hadn’t left the Fells. Or gotten to know Hallie or Talia or Pearlie. Or learned what it meant to be a soldier. If you survive, you’ll be a better queen for it.

She nurtured her anger, fed it and indulged it, because it was her best alternative to despair.

She had to hope that Gerard Montaigne was still occupied to the west, keeping Tamron Court under siege. If the city hadn’t surrendered, the prince of Arden wouldn’t know she’d escaped. And as long as the city resisted, Amon would live.

Some pieces on her mental game board were still unaccounted for—Micah Bayar and his sister Fiona, for instance. She’d last seen them on the border between Tamron and Arden, during the battle between Tamron’s brigade and Montaigne’s much larger army. Had they escaped as well? Or had they died in the first skirmish of an undeclared war?

Raisa balled her fists inside her gloves, cranky as a badger with its foot in a trap. The Queen’s Guard learned to tiptoe around her lest they get an undeserved tongue-lashing.

The landscape grew lovelier as they left the sodden plains of Tamron behind and climbed into the foothills. Cypress turned to maple and oak, brilliant with spring foliage, and then to aspen and pine.

They spent the night in Delphi, the city-state between Arden and the Fells that supplied coal, iron, and steel to all the nations of the Seven Realms. The city seethed with refugees from Arden and Tamron, since only fools and desperate people would venture into the pass when snows still howled around the peaks and piled up in the high valleys.

Byrne took Ghost to a horse trader and swapped him for a sturdy mountain pony, better suited for travel through the pass in this season. The trader was so astonished at the bargain she’d made, she threw in a fine clan-made saddle and bridle with silver fittings.

Raisa’s new pony was a shaggy dappled gray mare with a white mane and tail. Raisa promptly renamed her Switcher, as had become her custom. She’d changed horses too many times in the past six months, and this way it was easier to remember.

That night, Raisa slept alone in a lumpy bed in a room rented to all eleven of them at the outrageous price of a crown a head. Her guard sprawled on the floor all around her like a litter of overgrown puppies. They were older than she, but not by much.

Some lay fast asleep, snoring and mumbling in their dreams. She envied their ability to drop off as soon as they stopped moving. Others played at cards or read by candles purchased for another crown apiece. If Raisa even went to the privy, Captain Byrne sent an escort along. She was never sure if this was to protect her or to prevent her running off. When she asked him, he replied, “To protect you, Your Highness. Of course.”

They left long before dawn the next morning, while stars still pricked the sky. Byrne hoped to make it through the pass by nightfall. In summer, that would be a challenging and arduous journey. In winter or spring, unlikely. Possibly foolhardy.

Above Delphi, the paved road became wheel-rutted dirt, and finally little more than a game trail, hedged on both sides by great granite boulders, the way so narrow, only one rider could pass between. Before long, patches of snow appeared in the shaded areas to either side of the trail. By midday, the ground was covered, and they traveled over packed snow and ice. By afternoon, the trail was drifted over in places where the wind swirled through.

Snow sifted down on them from junipers that overhung the trail, perfuming the air with their sharp, sweet scent. The forest would break the wind, at least, until they climbed above the tree line.

A storm the night before had glazed each twig and branch with ice, and they glittered in the sunlight as the breeze stirred them. The tracks of snowshoe hares and other small game crisscrossed the trail. Raisa flexed her fingers in her gloves, wondering if she should string the bow Byrne had given her, which she carried in her saddle boot.

They’d probably prefer she be unarmed, given that she was angry enough to shoot someone.

She had missed riding the mountain trails of the Fells more than she’d realized. In Oden’s Ford, she’d been consumed by work, with little time for pleasure riding. Her equestrian classes reflected the flatland style of warfare. Flatland cadets rode across a broad, featureless landscape in precise formation, wheeling their horses like so many deadly court dancers, bristling with weapons.

Raisa urged Switcher to greater speed, her lighter weight allowing her to outpace her guard. Up, up, up they climbed, splashing through rippling sunlight and shadow, icy evergreen branches whipping across her face, her breath pluming out and crystallizing in her hair and on her wool hat.

Raisa crested the upslope and reined in her mare.

The Spirit Mountains spread before her across a wide valley, fully visible for the first time: rank upon rank of peaks shrouded in snow and cloud. Green spires of fir and brilliant birch smudged the lower slopes. The cool blue of shadow on snow filled the valleys where the sun had not yet penetrated. Frowning gray granite summits were concealed, then revealed by streaming mist. The cold voice of the Spirits called to her, and something within her answered.

This was the dwelling place of her ancestors, blood and bone of the upland queens. And, somewhere ahead, the city of Fellsmarch lay hidden in the Vale. Somewhere ahead, her mother waited—the mother who might be planning to disinherit her.

Switcher stood splay-legged and breathing hard, despite Raisa’s slight weight. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, stroking the mare’s neck, knowing they had an even tougher road ahead of them. The southernmost Queen peaks were gentle, ancient matriarchs ground down by the witch winds that stormed down out of the north after solstice. These mountains were so old, their names had been forgotten.

But ahead lay brooding Hanalea, greatest and most terrible of all. Plumes of steam rose from the hot springs, geysers, and mudpots that dotted her shoulders where the fiery Beneath broke through the thin crust of the earth. Her name would never be forgotten, not as long as her people remembered the Breaking, and observed the Nming.

To the south and west lay Tamron Court, where Amon Byrne was trapped by Montaigne’s army. Further east was Oden’s Ford, where Raisa had left Han Alister without saying good-bye.

Once again, the pain settled beneath her breastbone, squeezing off her breath. Not grief, exactly, but … well, yes, grief for the words that would never be spoken, for a love that would never be consummated, and for a friend whose life was in desperate peril.

Maybe it was better that way. Better for Han, at least. Assuming Raisa survived, she was destined for a political marriage. Han had already lost his family and most of his friends. Further involvement in the treacherous politics of the Gray Wolf court would likely get him killed. He’d been doing well at the academy in Oden’s Ford. Better that he stay there and forget about her.

Maybe he already had.

Gripping the reins hard, she stared straight ahead, drawing deep breaths, biting her lower lip, no longer seeing what lay before her.

As her guard surrounded her, she heard the creak of saddle leather, the rattle of hooves against rock, the soft greetings of horses. She breathed in the scent of damp wool and soldiers too long on the road.

“Your Highness.”

Raisa flinched, still staring straight ahead.

“Your Highness, please,” Byrne said. “I wish you would not insist on racing so far ahead.”

This time, she twisted in her saddle, looking into his wind-burnt face, now etched with concern.

“I thought you said we were in a hurry,” Raisa said.

“Aye. We are. But you should be riding in the middle of the triple, not breaking trail out in front. We cannot protect you if you ride out of sight of us.”

“Am I a prisoner who must be watched constantly?” Unable to control the quaver in her voice, she clapped her mouth shut and stared down at the ground.

Byrne gazed at her for a long moment, then turned in his saddle, waving the others back with his gloved hand, clearly preferring that they not overhear this conversation. “Take fifteen to rest the horses before we push on,” he called.

He dismounted, dropping his reins so his horse could lip at the sparse vegetation. Raisa dismounted also, taking shelter from the wind between the two horses.

“We are here to serve and protect you, Your Highness, not confine you,” Byrne said. The gray eyes reproached her.

Raisa knew she was being unreasonable, but she couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t even trust herself to reply. Instead, she yanked her gloves off with her teeth. Working quickly, before her hands went numb, she tucked in the ends of frosted hair that had been ripped free by the wind. The skin on her cheeks and hands was already chapped, despite the layers of lanolin cream she applied morning and night.

“The Queen’s Guard serves the queen and the princess heir and the Gray Wolf line,” Byrne persisted, squinting into the distance, hunching his broad shoulders against the raw wind.

“And if our interests diverge?” Raisa dabbed at her eyes, hoping the cold would explain her sniffling.

To this the captain made no answer, for there was none. Picking a fight with Captain Byrne was as unrewarding as assaulting a brick wall. He stood, solid and unmovable, while you skinned your own nose.

“Perhaps we should talk about what happens when we arrive,” Byrne suggested, still graciously averting his eyes.

Raisa nodded, pulling her gloves back on. That seemed to be a safe topic, at least—her arrival in the Fells. Since it was beginning to seem like it would actually happen.

“I’ll stay a night, at least, at Marisa Pines Camp, until I know if it’s safe to go down into the city,” Raisa said. That, of course, presented its own risks, if what her mother had believed was true—that the Demonai clan favored setting Marianna aside and putting Raisa on the throne instead. Raisa was suddenly glad they’d decided to take the eastern route, rather than traveling past Demonai Camp. Except …

“Was my father in residence in the palace when you left, or at Demonai?” Raisa asked. “I’ll want to meet with him as soon as we arrive.” Raisa’s father was a clan trader, and patriarch of Demonai Camp. He split his time between the city, the highland camps, and trading expeditions throughout the Seven Realms. He would fill her in on the latest news.

“The royal consort was staying at Kendall House,” Byrne said. “Or at least he was when I left Fellsmarch three weeks ago.”

Kendall House, Raisa thought, frowning, wishing he were lodged in the palace. Kendall House was an elaborate mansion within the castle close. It represented a kind of way station in her mother’s affections—not exiled entirely, but not admitted to full intimacy, either.

Raisa’s father, Averill Lightfoot, Lord Demonai, was a steadying influence on her mother, when she let him get close enough. A counterpoint to Lord Bayar’s influence.

“What about the Demonai warriors?” Raisa said. “What have you heard from them?”

Byrne shrugged. “I don’t have the connections to the clans that you and your father do.” He paused. “Rightly or wrongly, the Demonai seem convinced that Marianna intends to set you aside. I think we can assume that they are preparing for war.”

Raisa drew her cloak more closely about her. The sun passed behind a cloud, and suddenly the wind seemed more cutting.

This exchange seemed to remind Byrne of the urgency of their mission. “We’d best be on our way so we can make use of the light.” He laced his fingers, offering Raisa a boost up, and this time she accepted.

CHAPTER FOUR
A WELCOME HOME

By late day, they were still climbing toward Marisa Pines Pass, the great southwestern gateway into the Fells. To the east, the blue sky turned indigo, and a few stars appeared, low on the horizon. But Byrne had his eye on a streak of gray cloud to the northwest. “Blood of the demon,” he muttered. “More snow. And it’ll be here before morning. That’s all we need—to be held up by a storm.” He scanned the tops of the trees, judging the wind speed and direction. “There’s no way we’ll make it through the pass tonight, so we’d better be under cover when it hits.”

They increased their pace, making for a way house Byrne knew of at the southern end of the pass that would provide shelter against wind and drifting snow. Raisa rode in a kind of frozen stupor, her hood pulled low over her face, drawing what heat she could from Switcher.

The wind began to rise long before they reached their destination, swirling the fine, powdery snow up from the ground, raking it free from the trees and flinging it into their faces. Soon it was full dark, and then darker than that, as the racing clouds devoured the stars. They never saw the rising moon. It began to snow, lightly at first, and then more heavily, tiny ice pellets that stung their exposed skin and increased their misery.

In Oden’s Ford, Raisa had never needed anything heavier than kidskin gloves. She tucked first one hand, then the other under her cloak, guiding Switcher with her knees alone. But Byrne, who did not miss much, handed her a pair of long woolen riding gloves with deerskin palms. Clanwork, no doubt. Raisa pulled them on gratefully.

The horses were now mere shades in the swirling darkness. Byrne strung a rope between them so they would not lose each other. He seemed to find his way by instinct. They had no choice but to go on—they had to find shelter from the growing storm.

It was oddly reminiscent of the day the previous spring when Raisa, her mother, her sister Mellony, Byrne, and Lord Bayar had gone hunting in the foothills. A forest fire had rushed down from the mountains, and they’d taken refuge in a canyon. They’d ridden, roped together, through the smoke and ash, scarcely able to see the horse in front. Then, it had been blistering hot, the air too thick to breathe. Now the air seemed too thin, lacking sustenance, crackling in their noses. It was numbingly cold.

Last spring, the wizards Lord Bayar and Micah, and Micah’s cousins, the Mander brothers, had saved their lives, magically putting the fire out.

Had it really been less than a year ago?

Switcher plowed forward doggedly in the gelding’s wake, her nose and mane crusted with ice, her flanks steaming in the frigid air. The snow was so powdery fine and deep that it seemed at times the horses were swimming, flank high in a milk-white ocean.

Finally, amazingly, they broke out of the trees and into a small clearing in the shelter of a vertical rock wall. Crouched against the rock face was a sturdy wooden building with a stone chimney and a shake roof layered over with snow. And next to it, a crude lean-to for the horses. Raisa’s mare slowed to a stop of her own accord, as if sensing that relief was at hand. Scrubbing snow from her eyelashes, Raisa stared dumbly at the buildings, afraid they would disappear as quickly as they had appeared.

All around her, the relieved guards were dismounting, shaking off the accumulated snow, and leading their horses toward shelter.

Switcher stamped her foot impatiently, but Raisa made no move to dismount. She squinted at the cabin, thinking there was something out of order about the scene before her. She caught the faint scent of wood smoke, though the air was so cold as to be almost painful to breathe.

And then she saw them. Out of the swirling white, they loped toward her, faces and ruffs crusted with snow, eyes blazing out a warning. Wolves, what seemed like dozens of wolves, the forest boiling with gray-and-white bodies that poured into the clearing, led by the familiar gray she-wolf with gray eyes.

They were her ancestors, the Gray Wolf queens. A warning that the line was in danger.

Still mounted, Byrne edged his gelding up beside her. “Your Highness? Shall I help you down?” The captain was fixed on her, his head tilted as if he were about to ask another question.

She put one hand on his arm to stay him, and with the other pointed toward the cabin. Her teeth were chattering so hard she could scarcely get the words out. “Byrne. No snow … the chimney … in front of the door.”

He followed her gaze, took it in quickly. No smoke curled from the chimney, but the snow had melted for a distance all around it. The snow drifted undisturbed against the cabin, but it was gone from in front of the door. Meaning someone was inside, or nearby. Only, no one would willingly leave shelter in such a storm. Nor put out his fire, either, unless he was trying to hide his presence.

Byrne shouted a warning as the first crossbows sounded from the surrounding woods. The soldiers on the ground looked up in surprise. Some of them fell where they stood, their black blood steaming as it splattered into the snow. A few managed to scramble back onto their horses, spurring them into the trees, wrestling weapons out of their saddle boots, struggling with gloved hands to string their bows. But not many.

Raisa sat frozen, watching all this as if it were a drama and she a spectator, until Byrne pushed her head down with his gloved hand. “Lie flat and follow me!” he growled, demonstrating by leaning close into his horse’s neck and slamming his heels into the gelding’s sides. They twisted and turned as they crossed the clearing, Byrne leading the way. Raisa flinched as something whined close to her ear, burning the skin at the back of her neck. She pressed her face into Switcher’s neck, her heart clamoring in fear.

As they reached the first of the trees, a large shape materialized out of the swirling flakes, a man on foot swinging a great sword. Switcher screamed and reared back, and the blade missed taking off Raisa’s head and bit into the mare’s shoulder. Raisa caught a glimpse of a grinning, bearded face as the man reached for her, grabbing a fistful of cloak.

Their eyes met, and a look of startled recognition passed across the man’s scar-puckered face. He looked oddly familiar to Raisa, too.

There was no time to dwell on it. Raisa twisted Switcher’s head around, stood in her stirrups, and slammed her boot into the attacker’s chin. His head snapped back and he disappeared from view as they charged on into the darkness.

The sounds of fighting faded behind them, but Byrne pushed the exhausted horses forward relentlessly. The wind howled, and the swirling flakes reduced the world around them to the space of a few yards, broken by the gray skeletons of trees. Off to the left and right, Raisa could see gray bodies loping through the trees, easily keeping pace with them. So they were still in grave danger.

Raisa prayed. “Sweet Lady in chains, deliver us,” she whispered. It was odd how an attempt on her life could snap her out of her funk.

The weather was a blessing and a curse. It fought them every step of the way, yet between the wind and snow, all traces of their trail would be obliterated within moments of their passing. As the snow deepened, their forward progress slowed as the horses plunged forward through mammoth drifts. Switcher plowed along behind Byrne’s gelding, her head at the other horse’s flank.

Finally, Switcher’s slow plodding stopped. Raisa straightened and pushed back her hood. Byrne had reined in. He peered into the darkness on all sides, listening with his head cocked. Finally he nodded as if satisfied, and turned off the invisible trail into the deep snow to the left, floundering through drifts that were chest high on the horses in some places.

They ended in a grove of snow-covered pines whose weeping branches brushed the ground on all sides. Byrne dismounted on the lee side of one of the great trees and motioned for Raisa to do the same. Sliding her travel bag over her shoulder, she attempted to do so, but found her frozen limbs would no longer obey her commands. Murmuring an apology, Byrne slid his gauntleted arms under her and lifted her off her horse. Using his shoulder, he bulled his way through the drooping branches and into the shelter of the tree.

There, in the pine-scented darkness, it seemed almost temperate, the unrelenting shriek of the wind muted by thick branches with their layering of snow. Byrne set Raisa down on a carpet of pine needles.

“I’ll see to the horses,” he said, and shoved back outside.

Raisa looked around. No wolves in evidence. So they were safe—temporarily, at least.

Resisting the temptation to curl up and go to sleep, she tugged off her gloves and boots and began working her fingers and toes, conscious of the risk of frostbite. The pain as the blood returned was stunning. Using a fallen branch, she swept a small space clean of pine needles and debris, then centered it with a pile of dry twigs and a bit of fireweed. Reaching into the traveler’s bag, she pulled out flint and iron. By the time Byrne returned with the saddlebags and an armful of weapons, she had a hot, smokeless fire going, and was hanging her socks and gloves to dry.

“Were you able to find shelter for the horses?” she asked, sitting back on her heels.

He knelt, pushing the bags into a dry corner. “Aye, I hobbled them out of the wind, under another overhang. Gave them plenty of grain, but we’ll need to melt some snow to—”

“Bones!” Raisa said, sitting up straight. “How is Switcher’s shoulder? I’m sorry. I meant to look at it.”

“It’s not too bad,” Byrne said. “I cleaned it out some, but she wasn’t very patient with me. I’ll take another look when it’s light out.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Raisa said. “I should have seen to it myself.” After an awkward pause, she added, “And thank you for saving my life. Again.”

“I’d rather you held off on thanking me, Your Highness,” Byrne said dryly. “We’re sheltering under a tree in the middle of a blizzard. And if we get out of this, there are lots of other ways to die between here and the capital.”

The Byrnes were pessimistic sorts.

“All right,” she said briskly. “Consider my thanks withdrawn. In the meantime, give me your wet things, and I’ll hang those as well. In the off chance we survive the night, we don’t want to wear wet again tomorrow, with the temperature dropping.”

Byrne shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Forgive me, Your Highness,” he said. “I had forgotten how capable you are.”

“I spent three years with the Demonai,” she said. “They travel light. If you don’t pull your weight, you’re left in camp with the toddlers and old people.”

“Some would prefer to stay in camp than ride with the Demonai,” Byrne said. He yanked off his gloves and handed them across to Raisa. Pulling off his boots, he peeled off his socks also. Raisa noticed, however, that he replaced them with dry socks from the saddlebags and thrust his feet back into his boots. Obviously, the captain did not mean to be surprised bootless.

Raisa hesitated, rubbing and stretching her recently freed toes, then followed his example. As she leaned forward to lace up her boots, Byrne suddenly gripped her shoulder. The presumption was so out of character that she looked up, startled.

Byrne swore softly. “Blood and bones! You’re wounded! Why didn’t you say anything? What happened?”

Raisa reached up and fingered the wound on her neck, which she had completely forgotten. Her hand came away sticky. “A near miss is all, Captain. It’s not serious.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he growled. “I’d better take a look. Assassins sometimes daub their arrow points with poison.” With that, he pressed his lips together as if he’d said too much. He turned her so the heat of the fire was on her back, brushed aside her hair, and poked at the back of her neck with thick fingers. “How d’you feel? Any dizziness, double vision, creeping numbness?”

Raisa shuddered. Given time, she was sure she could conjure any of those symptoms. “Do you know who they were?” she demanded. “You seem to have your suspicions.”

“Valefolk, from what I could tell. Not clan. But I didn’t get a good look at them.” Byrne produced a small iron pot, which he filled with snow and set to heat on the fire. “I don’t see any signs of poison, Your Highness. But we’ll wash it out good, just the same, and apply a poultice to draw it out, and then—”

“You said assassins, Captain,” Raisa snapped, interrupting the medical report.

Byrne released a long breath. “I don’t know for sure,” he admitted. “But I think that’s what they were. Highwaymen don’t come up here. The clan wouldn’t stand for it. Besides, there aren’t enough travelers this time of year to keep ’em in business, not a band that size. Highwaymen wouldn’t attack a triple of soldiers. We don’t carry much money, and there’s easier meat and better weather downslope. They were well fed, well mounted, and well armed. I believe they were expecting us.”

Byrne leaned over the fire, and the flames illuminated the grim planes of his face. “If I’m right, they’re still looking for us, or will be when the weather clears. And they have the advantage of knowing where we’re headed.”