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It was not alone.
The great bear came through the trees with a dozen Elders marching behind it. Andry’s heart leapt up in his throat as he realized a child sat astride the bear’s back, swaying like a rider on a pony. At the sight, a cry went up among the Jydi gate wardens. They crowed and pointed, all but hanging off the wall in disbelief.
Andry looked to Eyda sharply, expecting surprise. To his shock, he watched a smile spread across the lady’s cold face.
“That is Dyrian,” she explained in a soft voice. “Monarch of Kovalinn. My son.”
The immortal squared her broad shoulders to face the squire. With ajolt, Andry realized Eyda wore her armor again. It gleamed beneath her torn cloak, wiped clean of the battle of Gidastern. She wore a sword at her hip, as did her company.
The Elders of Kovalinn were outfitted for a long journey, and war.
“Now, Andry Trelland,” Eyda said, making for the steps down to the gate. “Now we can go.”
Valtik was already aboard one of the longships earmarked for the Elders of Kovalinn, folded up at the prow. The carved image of an eagle rose over her, its beak hooked, its wings flowing out on either side to form the hull. It gave her a godly look, as if the wings were her own. Only her leering cackle ruined the image.
They sailed at noon, or at least what counted as noon this far north. The glassy water, beautiful at dawn, felt foreboding as the two ships slipped out into the Watchful Sea. At the stern, Andry watched Ghald grow smaller and smaller. Much as he wanted to leave, he felt some pang of regret too. As a child in Galland, he’d learned to hate the Jydi raiders. Now he would miss them dearly.
Dyrian and his escorts were the last survivors of Kovalinn, who had not made the crossing to fight in Gidastern. Despite his boyish face, Dyrian was a century old. He was less grave than his mother, keen to walk the deck with his monstrous bear. Andry gave the beast a careful berth, though it seemed tame as a trained hound.
The cold was easier to weather on land, and Andry had nearly forgotten the blistering winds out to sea. He was soon reminded.
But as the days felt too long in Ghald, they passed in a blink on the journey south.
Before Andry knew it, they were gliding toward another shore. Themountains of Calidon rose out of the Watchful Sea, their peaks white with snow. Fog lay heavy through the central valley, obscuring most of the lowlands between the mountain ranges. Andry’s breath still rose in clouds but the air was markedly warmer, the winter already less harsh than it was in Ghald.
He was sweating by the time they docked, and threw back his fur cloak, leaving his torso and arms free. But for his blue-starred tunic, Andry looked more raider than knight. A gray wolf pelt lay across his shoulders, its tail clasped in its own jaws. He wore newly made leather armor, belted and buckled across the chest, thick enough to turn the worst of a knife, but not so heavy as to drown him. His head was bare to his braids, his hood lowered, and his eyes fixed into the fog.
The Elders did not need to consult a map or wait for the mists to clear. They knew their path through the hills of Calidon. Andry remembered it too.
He’d landed on these same shores with Sir Grandel and the Norths, too long ago. They left a galleon behind, the lion flag waving in the breeze of early spring. Together, the three knights and their squire had marched south, fumbling through unfamiliar lands. It was only by chance did they find Iona, the mist clearing enough to spot the castle city on a distant ridge.
Nearly a year ago exactly, he thought, his boots crunching on the rocky beach. Valtik walked on beside him, ignoring the sting of stones on bare feet.
Led by Dyrian and his bear, the company walked on and on and on, with Andry fighting to keep his eyes open. Only when he stumbled did they stop to let the mortal rest. So it went through the hill country, over mud and winter grass and snow.
The days seemed a dream. Andry could not tell the fog from ghosts, the shape of Sir Grandel or Dom in every shadow. But another shape kept him moving, walking along beside too many ghosts.
Corayne.
He saw her in the rare beams of sunlight, fighting through the low clouds. She was not a ghost but a beacon, a lantern beckoning him onward. A promise of light when all light seemed gone from the world.
The land was mostly barren in winter, left to the wilderness. A perfect place for Elders to hide these many centuries. Andry trudged on, barely aware of the shifting ground beneath his boots. They seemed a grim funeral march, the survivors of Kovalinn in their earthen cloaks, too graceful to be mortal, too grave to be living.
A river chattered somewhere, rolling over stones Andry could not see. He squinted through the soupy air, the sun low and weak, barely a ball of white above the cloud bank. His Jydi ax clinked at his belt, hanging alongside his sheathed sword.
Then darkness crept across the landscape, a spreading shadow looming out of the fog. The Elders did not break stride and neither did Andry. His breath caught as the darkness solidified. Not into another forest or a rising slope, but a stone wall.
His knees buckled and Andry nearly fell to the ground, his limbs going weak.
The twin stags of Iona stared out from the great gates, their antlers like crowns. The portcullis was already raised, the lattice of iron drawn up into the gatehouse.
Silhouettes crowded the rampart above, the Elder archers standing guard. Their bows stood out in intricate arcs, black against the gray sky. Only their faces were obscured, shadowed by gray-green hoods.
The Ionian guardsmen did not strike. They saw the Elders of Kovalinn,the bear, and their monarch well enough. They knew their own kind, even through the mist.
One of them gave a command in the Elder language, and something creaked. Chains clattered and spun, great wheels turning to open the gates inward.
Iona beckoned, the stone city yawning wide.
