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Eyda loomed at his shoulder, a warning in her eyes.
Quickly, the church came back into focus. The bone witches gathered at the altar, ready to defend their own. And the redbeard chief ran a finger down the blade of his ax, a naked threat.
With a steadying breath, Andry relented. Valtik giggled again and stepped out of his grasp, leaving him to recover. Too many emotions warred across his mind, all of them swirling around one thought.
Corayne is alive.
“You say her path is drawn,” Eyda said evenly, addressing Valtik. “Can you tell us where that path leads?”
The witch spun slowly, examining the gabled ceiling. “You are on it. The lanterns are lit.”
Andry fought back another wave of frustration.
“If her path is our own, then Iona is correct,” he said sharply. “We’ll find her there. And maybe then I can be rid of you once and for all.”
“Be careful what you say before the eyes of Lasreen,” Valtik chided. She gestured to the carvings on the towering columns and spiraled her wrist. The smoke of the hearth fire twisted oddly through her fingers. “In her temple, all things are seen.”
“Good,” Andry hissed. “She can see howannoyingyou are.”
While the bone witches recoiled at the insult, Valtik giggled.
“Annoying indeed,” she said airily. “But only in need.”
Andry felt his eyes roll into the back of his head.
The chief with the wolf pelt mirrored his impatience. Huffing, she took a step down to the hearth, facing Eyda head on. Her pale green eyes flashed over them in turn.
“The clans of the Jyd are in agreement,” she said. “The Corblood girl is the last hope of the realm. She must be defended, and our own dead avenged.”
Then the chief put a fist to her chest, thumping her armor once. “Yrla came first, but Sornlonda, the Snowlands, will follow.”
The redbeard thumped his chest eagerly. “Hjorn will follow.”
Another chief did the same. “Gryma will follow.”
So it went through the church, fists beating against leather, with every chief pledging their clans. Andry did his best to commit them all to memory. The eagle of Asgyrl. Sornlonda’s wolf. The redbeard’s greatmountains of Hjorn. Blodin. Gryma. Lyda. Jyrodagr. Mundo. He repeated them over and over, but the Jydi words blended together in his head.
Corayne would already know them all, he thought. He braced himself for the usual sting of her memory. Instead, he felt only joy. It took all his will not to sprint out of the church and down to the harbor, where he might hail a ship all the way to Iona.
“We are the clans of the Jyd,” the Sornlonda chief said. She struck her chest again. “We are many.”
Her fellow chiefs gave a short, low hoot, like a battle cry.
“We are strong.”
They did it again, deeper than before. It shook the air of the church.
Sornlonda’s face darkened. “But not enough to face a great army alone.”
Andry knew enough of the Gallish legions, let alone Taristan’s undead horde, to agree. He nodded grimly.
“Your strength is on the water, in raiding,” he said. “Quick attacks and quick retreats. If Corayne makes it to Iona, the Queen of Galland will pursue her with every soldier she has in her legions, every siege engine. Every ship in her fleet.”
The chief offered a wolfish, bloodthirsty smile. “You have a taste for war, Blue Star.”
Heat flooded Andry’s cheeks, but he kept on.
“Prepare your longships for winter seas. Make sure no one can move an army through the Watchful, or along the coast. The warbands of Trec will do the same along their border,” he added, thinking of Oscovko and his army. “We may not be able to stop Erida and Taristan, but we can slow them down.”
