He paced the length of the main hall, his footsteps ringing a counterpoint to the rhythmic lashing of rain against the windows.Gavron and his retinue had assembled, along with the captain of Glascoed’s housecarls and conscripts—all of whom were more loyal to the person of the count than to the kingdom.Fola sat at the far end of the tables, a pad of spellpaper open before her.She had spent the night drawing dozens of spells while a tonic Frog produced kept sleep, and the need for it, at bay.She left each circle complete but for a few finishing touches.Thaumaturgy’s power was constrained primarily by the complexity of its magic circles.With ample time to prepare, and enough skill, a thaumaturgist might accomplish nearly anything—in theory, at least.In the heat of battle, time would prove in short supply.So she had filled this notebook, attempting to anticipate dozens of potentialities and prepare her spells accordingly.In a pinch, she could always fall back on the circles written into her left hand, but she could only explode a few heads before the cost to her flesh left that option out of reach.
Beside her, Colm was tightening the straps on a strange contraption that he and the cyclops Calbog had designed.They had riveted a kite shield to a bracer cinched tight to the stump of Colm’s severed forearm.A contrivance of wood and leather attached to the underside of the shield could be tied to hold Colm’s bow in place, and then released by Colm’s smaller, lower arm in the event the fighting reached close quarters.Calbog hardly seemed attentive to the war council, fascinated as he was by fine-tuning his new invention.
‘Ifan, the free folk of the Greenwood are not yours to command,’ Gavron said, putting a hard edge to his voice.
‘Indeed,’ snapped a newcomer to the castle—a woman called Brild, strikingly beautiful despite a scar that traced across the bridge of her hawk-like nose.‘We saw a chance to bleed the enemy on our way to the castle, and took it.To great effect.Sixty of their fighters laid low, in exchange for only thirteen of ours.’
‘Impressive, were we committed to giving battle,’ Ifan rejoined.‘Now any hope for parley is lost.’
‘Only you have any interest in parley any more,’ Gavron said.‘The sorceress pleaded our case to Owyn.He refused it.’
Ifan’s gaze burned.‘He might have listened to me.’
Fola felt a twinge at that.She did not like the turn events had taken any more than Ifan did, but whatever distaste she felt would be little more than a shadow of his grief and apprehension at waging war against his old friend.
Shouts sounded from the walls, and the blare of a trumpet.Three blasts.The signal for an army sighted on the approach.Ifan ceased in his pacing, ran a gauntleted hand down the planes of his armour and let it settle on the unadorned hilt of his sword.
‘Fine, then,’ he said softly.‘Let it begin.’
A nervous jolt shot through Fola.Her thoughts went to Siwan, secured in the guest rooms Ifan had provided them.Llewyn was there to guard her, along with Damon—whatever use he might be.Spil and Harwick, too, would remain with her.The strongman had taken a fighting hatchet, a round shield, a shirt of mail and a pot helm with an expression of profound distaste and a distant look in his eye.Gazing back on ugly memories, perhaps, of violent days before his joining the Silver Lake Troupe.
History can haunt us, long after we believe we have left it behind.
Siwan would be safe with them, Fola told herself.The guest room had a wide window that could be opened on to a low roof which reached near to the walls.She had left Siwan with four pieces of spellpaper, each bearing a circle that demanded only a single short line to complete.Two would sprout lattices of vines—first to the corner of that rooftop and the wall, then to form a ladder to the ground on the far side of the battlement.Another would bind the door shut and reinforce it, hopefully buying enough time against an axe or a bludgeon.The fourth would sound a single, piercing note, like the scream of an eagle, that would cut through the cacophony of battle and summon Fola to the girl’s aid.
She shut her pad of spellpaper and tucked it under her arm—feeling the absence of her silver staff.Frog fluttered from a nearby windowsill to her shoulder and sank his talons into the thick, layered cloth of her gambeson.Another gift from Ifan, light enough not to restrict her movement overmuch but thick enough to stop an arrow.She had drawn a circle on the breast which would tighten the weave of the fibres further on impact—a precaution against Forgard’s hand-cannoneers.A strong enough blow could still break bone, but she had no intention of joining the thick of the melee.
If the melee came to her, she could trust in Colm to bludgeon their way free of it.Beyond the contraption he and Calbog had fastened to his severed arm, he wore a brace of blades at his hips—arming swords in the hands of a smaller man; to him, only very large knives.His bow was, in fact, the arm of a ballista that had once served in the defence of the castle.A quiver of bolts hung low on his right hip—spars of wood as long as his arm and thrice the thickness of an ordinary arrow, tipped with iron heads as wide as Fola’s hand and fletched with goose feathers.For armour, he wore a patchwork of plates, leather and mail, hastily assembled from scraps.There was no proper shirt of chain or suit of mail in the kingdom sized to fit his Warborn frame.Colm did not seem overly concerned by this.Rather, he had expressed only worry that the weight would slow him down.
She followed Colm to a crenellated platform atop a tower that rose from the inner castle wall.Twelve archers from Ifan’s housecarls had been stationed there.From their vantage point, Fola had a clear view of the killing field between the palisade and the castle’s inner wall.Beyond the palisade lay the road that led up from the city below them.In the diminished light beneath an overcast sky, the city itself was like a painting in miniature, the shapes of its timber structures and streets simplified and abstracted by distance.Beyond it, she could see the forest, and a glimpse of the road, where banners fluttered.
Her heartbeat quickened, a thunder in her throat and behind her eyes.After four years in the wider world, this would be her first real battle.She had encountered violence before—dealt it, and suffered it.But even in Ulun there had been no armies, no banners and war horns.
‘Why’s he called Frog?’Colm said suddenly.
She turned from the banners.He lounged against one of the crenellations, which stood only a few finger-widths taller than him.Relaxed, almost lazy, like a house cat in a sunbeam, wearing his familiar wry smile.
‘You seem very comfortable with what’s about to happen,’ Fola said.
Colm shrugged, jangling his motley armour.‘Not my first battle.It helps to keep your mind off what’s coming.The anticipation’s worse than the event itself, I find.Even if you’re wounded.’
‘Assuming you survive,’ Fola observed.‘As you have done.’
He answered with a rumbling chuckle.‘Not a problem for you, I’ve gathered.Frog’ll fly your soul back to the City.Which brings us back to my question.’
‘Still a problem,’ Fola muttered.Frog shifted his weight.She reached up to scratch the back of his head.‘Our birds emerge from fruits that grow in the Great Tree—one for each child born in the City, and others for those who come from the wider world,’ she said.‘They’re born full-grown on the same day we are, or the day a newcomer decides to stay.They’re not really birds at all, strictly speaking.Honestly, we’re not quite sure what they are.One of the mysteries I hope to solve, someday.Once we’re back in Thaumedony.’
Colm drew an arrow, tested the tip with one of his lower hands.‘Still haven’t answered my question.’
Fola sighed, very aware that she had an audience of a dozen Glascoen housecarls now listening intently while they watched the banners drawing nearer.‘It’s embarrassing.’
‘All the more reason I’d like to hear it.’
Bleed that frustrating, fetching smile.
‘It’s a tradition for every child to name their bird on their tenth birthday,’ Fola said.Her face was growing hot.‘Most children give their birds nicknames to serve until then.If your bird is a raven, maybe you call it Midnight, or something.There’s always an understanding that none of these names will stick, and that on your tenth birthday you’ll come up with something more profound or clever.More expressive of the person you want to be, or what you value.’
Colm nodded along.‘But you weren’t like most children.’
