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He leaves her hovel, whistles in his dogs, and heads down the long valley to OldMother’s compound. The path runs silent before and behind him; only a few slaves mewl and whine in their pens, dumb beasts shut away until the great events of the next hand of days have played out their course. His slaves, unconfined, are at their work—or hidden in certain places according to his plan. He has entrusted them with a great deal, but they know that if he does not succeed, they will die at the hands of the victor.
OldMother’s drone rises up, a low rumble that lies as close along the steep valleys of Rikin as the blanket of spruce and pine and the mixed thickets of heather and fern; her song makes the lichen quicken and grow on rock faces, a pattern readable only by the SwiftDaughters. He strolls out onto the dancing ground of beaten earth alone but for his dogs.
His brothers howl with derision when they see him.
“WeakBrother, do you mean to be the first one to bare your throat?”
“Coward! Where were you when the fighting came to Gent?”
“What treasures did you give to Bloodheart, tongueless one?”
So they howl, taunting him. Their warbands cluster in packs, each pack striving to be the loudest—as if loudness denotes strength. He has ordered his soldiers to remain silent, and they do so. He, too, remains silent as OldMother slides the knife of decision out of the pouch in her thigh and raises it to point at the fiery heart of the sun, now riding low along the southern range. With a slashing motion, she brings their noise, and her drone, to a sudden end.
Six of Bloodheart’s sons come forward into the center of the dancing ground, and when he steps forward last of all, there are seven. All the other RockChildren have chosen not to contend but instead to bare their throats to the victor. No doubt those who choose submission are showing wisdom in knowing just how weak they are.
The seven who will contend turn their backs to each other, and kneel. SwiftDaughters glide forward over the dirt and form the net of story, hands linked, gold and silver and copper and tin and iron hair gleaming as they begin to sway, humming.
Silence except for that low humming permeates the clearing. Even the dogs do not bark. Distantly, he can almost hear the WiseMothers hearing that silence as speech, turning their attention to this mortal instant.
Do they know how momentous this day will be? That one day the SwiftDaughters will weave it into their song of history? Or do they laugh at his ambition?
Soon he will find out.
The heavy tread of OldMother shudders the ground beneath his knees. She alone judges the worthiness of the contestants. The SwiftDaughters part to let her bulk through. He, with his brothers, bows his head.
She makes a slow circle. Suddenly, there comes a grunt, the sharp copper taint of blood, and a thud as one of Bloodheart’s sons topples over. His blood soaks into the soil of the dancing ground. Dogs growl, and a few bark and are hushed, or killed.
He feels the knife of decision brush his head, his throat, and linger at the girdle of shimmering gold he wears at his hips: the girdle woven of the hair of a Hakonin SwiftDaughter.
Then it moves away. Six sons remain.
The SwiftDaughters rock back and forth, foot to foot, and begin the long chant, the history of Rikin’s tribe. It will take three days to tell, and when they are done, only one of Bloodheart’s sons will stand on the blood-soaked ground and claim victory.
The circle parts. He leaps up, knowing better than to be caught by one of the other five and forced into a brute fight: they all outweigh him, they are bigger, brawnier, and stronger.
But he has strength of a different kind.
With the dogs and the warriors yammering and howling and barking behind, he races up toward the fjall where the first of his traps lies waiting.
Alain woke to frenzied barking, the Eika dogs going crazy—
Only it wasn’t the Eika dogs. Rage barked at his door, scratching insistently, and he heard the others howling and barking from Lavastine’s chambers as if they had gone mad.
He scrambled to throw his tunic on over his shift. Without bothering with hose he flung open the door. Tallia called out behind him, but he ran on, to Lavastine’s chambers.
The servants parted before him. They had not dared come too close. One had been bitten, and his arm wept blood. Alain waded into a seething whirlpool of hounds, all of them tearing around the chamber like a dog chasing its tail; only old Terror stood, legs up on the embrasure of the window, growling menacingly. Alain stuck his head out the window, but he saw only worried servingmen and a few curious onlookers who had paused to stare at the commotion. Wind stirred the flowering bushes just outside. A rodent—or an unseen bird—rustled in the leaves, and Fear, Sorrow, and Rage bolted out of the chamber and raced around the long building. People scattered from their path.
“Peace!” Alain cried, leaning out of the window, as they skittered to a halt on the other side. They sniffed in the bushes. “Sit.” They sat, but they still growled softly at wind and leaves. Behind him, in the chamber, the barking settled and ceased, and the silence that weighed down made his ears ring. He turned to see Lavastine sitting on the bed, half clothed, examining Ardent’s paw. She whimpered as he spread the pads and examined the flesh with a frown.
Alain crossed to him at once and knelt beside him, then set a hand on Ardent’s flank. Her nose was dry and her breathing came in a labored pant.
“Bitten,” said Lavastine, “but I know not by what.”
Alain sat on the bed to examine her paw. She nipped at him weakly when he probed at the flesh, but she trusted him too well to bite him. At first he felt only how hot her paw was; a swelling bubble grew between the pad of two toes. Finally he found the wound, two tiny red punctures.
“Was she bitten by a snake?”
Lavastine rose and went to speak to a servant, who quickly left. “We’ll speak with the stablemaster.” The count paced over to the window and stood there, silent, with a hand resting on Terror’s great head.
