I hadn’t expected a warm welcome from Lorine, considering frosty refusal to be the most likely outcome to our meeting. However, it was jarring and shaming in equal measure to find that her principal reaction was one of pity.

  “You fucking idiot, Alwyn.” She regarded me with an expression rich in forlorn judgement, a parent confronted by a disappointing child who refuses to learn any lessons. “I gave you the means to end this months ago.”

  “I couldn’t.” I fought the urge to lower my gaze and shuffle my feet. “Not then.”

  I watched her bite back more words before letting out a thin sigh and crossing her arms as she surveyed the cluster of moss-covered ruins she chose for this meeting. Young Falko and his kin had been true to their word and guided us along a quiet and uninterrupted course until we came within a few miles of Ambriside. I decided not to risk simply presenting myself at the castle. These days were far too uncertain for such boldness. Instead, I had Tiler don churlish garb and go on ahead to deliver a surreptitious message to Captain Dervan. As Lorine’s most trustworthy soldier, I reckoned him the most likely conduit to the duchess’s notice. We were obliged to wait three days for a reply, one of the Chosen Company riders appearing with a terse note instructing me to come alone to a place both Lorine and I knew well.

  “I thought another band might’ve moved in by now,” she said, eyes tracking over the ancient stones. “Always made such a comfortable hideout.”

  “They think it’s haunted,” I explained, relating something Falko had told me upon receiving her message. “Deckin’s ghost roams far in the Shavine Forest, so they say, but lingers nowhere so much as here.”

  “Ghost.” Lorine let out a laugh, soft and sad. “You’d think he’d do me the courtesy of a visit once in a while.”

  “He’d be proud of you if he did.”

  Lorine turned back to me with a thin smile. “Flatter me all you want, Alwyn. It doesn’t lessen the scale of your cock-up.” She advanced on me, an angry glint in her eye, finger stabbing at my chest. “You were supposed to kill the mad bitch with that poison I gave you, or wasn’t that clear?”

  “Could you have killed Deckin?”

  That brought her up short, her finger pausing in mid-poke as it pressed into my jerkin. For a moment I thought she might slap me, but, after a short bout of glowering, she lowered her arm. “Her divinely conceived child is yours, I assume? Or was she fucking the whole Covenant Host?”

  I swallowed a flurry of profane retorts. Antagonising her further would avail me nothing. Besides, considering my many misjudgements, a modicum of chastisement was due. “Yes, the child’s mine, and I intend to claim it.”

  “Folly upon folly.” Lorine threw up her hands and began to pace the ground. “This is what you come to my door with?”

  “I come to you in the hope that you’ll see the danger she poses.”

  Lorine snorted a scathing laugh. “I believe I did. Long before you, in fact.”

  “I mean the true danger. You look at her and see an insane tyrant, but she is more than that. The power she holds comes from the darkest source. If she takes this realm, no soul will be safe from the storm she’ll unleash. Not a churl, a knight, a duchess, or an infant lord.”

  Her face tightened, my barb striking home. She could abide many things, but not a threat to her child. “And how do you know this?” she asked, some of the anger leached from her tone.

  “I travelled far and saw a great deal, as I told you.” I hesitated. Being a pragmatist in all things, Lorine had never had much truck with matters ethereal or arcane. “In the Caerith lands there are… people, places with power. Places where the past can be seen…”

  “Oh, you had a vision, did you?” Her expression, vaguely amused but mostly appalled, made it plain I was wasting my time. “Forgive me. For a moment I thought you were about to present me with some actual evidence. Little did I suspect you’d been granted some otherworldly insight by a bunch of savages. Did they ask you to drink something first, perhaps? Snort some mysterious powder?”

  “They aren’t savages.” I gritted teeth to quell my ire. “They are a people of ancient lore and custom, and, unlike us, wisdom too. They remember what we have forgotten. What they showed me was real. As real as you and I in this moment…”

  “It doesn’t matter, Alwyn!” She rounded on me, eyes blazing. “I can’t deal in visions, real or not. I must deal the cards as they fall, for my son’s sake. For the sake of everyone in this duchy who looks to me for protection.” She paused, drawing in a long, calming breath. “I’m sorry, but you don’t have the winning hand. I’ll keep my soldiers away from battle as long as I can, but I’ve already received a summons from both the Ascendant Queen and the princess regent.” She forced a smile, sorrowful but also sympathetic. “You were right. Before the year’s out, Evadine Courlain will be the unquestioned Queen of Albermaine.”

  She moved back to me, clutching my hands in hers. “If I thought you would, I’d beg you to flee. Get to a port and find the fastest ship you can. Don’t come back, though it pains me to think I’ll never see your idiot face again. But you won’t, will you?” She came closer, head lowered to press against my chest. “The answer’s no, by the way,” she said, voice hoarse. Stepping back, she raised moistened eyes to meet mine. “I could never have killed Deckin, no matter how mad he got.”

  She reached to the belt of her riding coat and unhooked a hefty purse. “For your war chest,” she said, handing it to me. Opening it, I blinked at the yellow gleam. Further inspection revealed a purse containing a dozen gold sovereigns, more wealth than I had ever held in my hands. “I called in some loans,” Lorine added, palming the tears from her eyes.

  “My thanks, Duchess,” I said, pulling the purse’s ties tight.

  “For what? I never gave you anything. In fact, this meeting never took place.”

  “Yet still.” I bowed with formal correctness. “I thank you.”

  She nodded, for a moment all poise deserted her and her features bunched, cheeks reddening and fresh tears brimming her eyes. But it was a flicker of weakness only, gone in a trice. Her parting words were brisk, matching her stride as she walked away. “I’ve no more poison for you. So, if she’s takes you alive, you’ll have to make your own arrangements.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The borderlands between the Shavine Marches and the Cordwain bore several names. The Scrapes was the most common term, but I had also heard them referred to as the Crags, the Cuts and the Scars. All fitting names for this dense maze of deep ravines, wide gorges and steep-sided tors, all overgrown with dwarf pines and wild, impassable hedges. I had seen the Scrapes from a distance but never traversed it. After only one day’s experience of the place I fully understood the description I once heard from Deckin’s lips: “Never did I see land that was more an arse ache to travel. A graveyard for outlaw band and army alike.”

  I knew from Sihlda’s history lessons that the region had in fact seen several military campaigns descend into ruinous chaos. In the distant days before the Algathinet dynasty, successive Shavine warlords had sought to lay claim to the Cordwain with its wealthy ports and verdant farmland, only to find their ambitions thwarted thanks more to terrain than battlefield defeat. An army seeking to traverse such ground would find its march grinding to a crawl. I now understood why the Cordwain had remained an independent duchy despite its avaricious southern neighbour.

  The Scrapes stretched across the north of the Shavine Marches for near eighty miles west to east, its oddly beautiful complexity broken only by the winding course of the Durrine River. This waterway presented a formidable barrier in its own right, deep and fast with few natural crossings created by the numerous rocks that constricted its flow into a constant churn.

  “It’s a smugglers’ route, Captain,” young Falko explained, having led us to what he promised was the most secluded crossing point. At first glance I saw no clear way to the northern bank, seeing only a frothing stretch of rapids interrupted by a few jutting boulders. “One of my cousin Relko’s favourites.”

  “So you’ve crossed here yourself?” Wilhum asked him.

  “Can’t say as I have, m’lord. But I seen it done.” Falko showed crooked teeth in what I assumed to be an attempt at an encouraging smile. “Safer than it looks. There’s stones under the water that offer firm footing, y’see, for horse as well as folk. No use in a smugglers’ trail that a pack horse can’t ford.”

  “Firm footing, eh?” Wilhum studied the busy river with a deepening frown. “I think I’ll watch you do it first, my young friend. If you don’t mind.”

  Falko nodded and set off with a creditable absence of dithering, wading his way across a seemingly deadly flow a good thirty paces wide. I heard Tiler and some of the scouts exchange muttered wagers on whether the lad would be swept away, but at no point did his feet descend into the water further than his knees. Sloshing free of the river, he scaled the far bank before disappearing into dense foliage. I expected him to reappear shortly, waving a signal that the way was clear, but he didn’t.

  “Could be he’s finally had enough of the soldier’s life,” Wilhum suggested.

  I spared a glance for Falko’s kin, seeing increasing agitation as they murmured among themselves. If their boyish clan leader had intended to desert our cause, he hadn’t shared it with them. Besides, the few weeks I’d spent in his company left me in little doubt of his commitment to vengeance.

  “I don’t think so,” I said, turning and beckoning Tiler forward. “Bring your crossbow.”

  “Better if I go,” Wilhum said, stepping into my path when I started towards the river. “No way of knowing what’s waiting over there. We can’t risk our valiant captain.”

  “Every day is a risk now.” I tried to push past but he remained firmly in place.

  “This lot follow you,” he said, dropping his voice and inclining his head at our minuscule army. “Not me. If I fall, it doesn’t matter.”

  “He’s right, Captain,” Tiler said, stepping to Wilhum’s side. Scanning the flat resolve on their faces, I let out a sigh.

  “All right,” I said. “But get back here sharpish if there’s any trouble. We’ll find another way across.”

  I called Juhlina and a dozen more to my side as Wilhum and Tiler made their way to the far bank. They paused at the treeline, Wilhum drawing his sword and Tiler priming the crossbow, then they slipped into the shadowy green wall. I saw and heard nothing for a long count, long enough to make me debate the wisdom of leading the rest of the company over in a rush. Then I heard it, the distinct and familiar echoing of ringing steel.

  Cursing, I surged into the river with Juhlina and the rest following. The wiser course would have been to fade back into the forest, since we could soon find ourselves facing a whole company of Evadine’s troops. But there was no hesitancy to this act; leaving them behind was simply unthinkable. Splashing through the flow at the run, not without a wince or two from my still aching hip, I scrambled on to the bank. The clang of clashing swords grew louder and more violent now, causing me to draw my own blade and charge into the bushes without waiting for my comrades to catch up.

  I came upon Tiler first, standing in twitchy indecision with his crossbow half raised. Falko crouched beside him, unhurt as far as I could tell, though he held his long dagger clutched tight. Beyond them two figures fought in a whirl of swordplay, blades flashing with a fluent ferocity that only the knightly class could produce. The contest ranged across a patch of leafy ground bordered by the steep granite tors that were so common to the Scrapes. I saw a score of figures standing atop the tors, dark silhouettes broken by jutting sword hilts or spearpoints. A few held bows, though none were drawn.

  “He told us to stay out of it, Captain,” Tiler said, face dark with chagrin. “Said it was a private matter.”

  A yell drew my gaze back to the two contestants, seeing Wilhum sidestep a thrust to allow me a clear view of his opponent. Desmena Lehville had lost her fine blue enamelled armour somewhere since our last meeting. The former herald to the Pretender was clad now in hardy but somewhat ragged leather and cotton garb. Her once bobbed honey blonde hair had grown, tied into a tight braid that whipped about as she continued her deadly dance with Wilhum. The comeliness that I noted in her features at our last meeting was gone too, her face rendered ugly by a snarl that mingled contempt with hatred. Wilhum’s handsomeness was similarly dimmed by his own furious visage, set in a dark glower as he fended off a flurry of strokes and replied with a thrust to Desmena’s midriff. She parried the stabbing blade and whirled, bringing her sword around in a swift arc, angled as to lop Wilhum’s head from his shoulders. He ducked it with scant room to spare, losing a few hairs from the crown of his head in the process.

  “Stop this!” I shouted, striding towards them. As is often the way with those lost to the frenzy of combat, they didn’t hear me, or didn’t care if they had.

  Wilhum batted aside Desmena’s next slash at his legs then lunged, attempting to drive his shoulder into her chest and send her sprawling. She was ready for him, however, twisting aside and trapping his sword arm under her own before delivering a headbutt to his nose. Wilhum shook off the pain and replied with a punch to Desmena’s jaw, the impact enough to loosen her grip. Seizing his chance, Wilhum kicked her legs from under her, raising his sword for a killing stroke.

  “Enough!” Steel rang as Wilhum’s descending blade met mine. He rounded on me, his face that of a man lost to anger, eyes wild and blood streaming from his nose.

  “Finish it,” Desmena gasped from the ground, staring up at Wilhum with undimmed hatred. “You fucking coward!”

  Eager to comply, Wilhum began to raise his sword again then shouted in frustration when I grabbed hold of his forearm. “I said enough,” I said, pushing him back. He tensed, still primed for killing, and might well have turned his fury upon me if the ominous creak of drawn bow staves hadn’t drawn our eyes to the figures above. The archers among them bore ash longbows, a common poacher’s weapon in the Cordwain and notoriously difficult to master due to the strength required to bend the thick stave. From the unwavering stance of these archers, I deduced them all to be masters of their craft and therefore highly unlikely to miss at such range.

  “Hold!” Desmena shouted, huffing as she got to her feet. She spared me a baleful glance before raising her head to call out another command. “This matter isn’t settled, and I told you buggers not to interfere.” Turning back to me, she levelled her sword at my face. “I know the service you did the True King in his final days, Scribe, so I’ve a mind to spare you. But this one—” her sword swung towards Wilhum “—deserves no mercy.”

  “Nor do I ask it,” Wilhum spat back, his defiance rendered slightly comical by the nasal tone in which it was delivered.

  Seeing them crouch in readiness for renewed violence, I placed myself between them, keeping my sword lowered. “Life on the run is hard, isn’t it?” I asked Desmena, adopting an air of sombre conversation as I allowed my eye to rove her ragged garb. “And you’ve been at it longer than I. Wouldn’t you rather rest a while?”

  “I’ll rest when this fucker’s dead,” she grunted, shifting to the side and forcing me to move to keep myself betwixt them.

  “Hardly the language of a countess,” I observed. “If you still lay claim to such a title.”

  Her brow furrowed as her focus fixed on me. “I claim all that was due to the True King. An oath we’ve all taken.”

  “And how does this fulfil your oath?” I jerked my head at Wilhum. “Petty vendetta was not Magnis Lochlain’s way, and I fancy I knew him well before the end.”

  Desmena’s features bunched in suppressed grief, a certain needful glint shining in her eyes. “You were there,” she said. “You saw him die.”

  “I did. And you know it was I who took his testament. He had a great deal to say, some of it about you.” I slid my sword into its scabbard, resting my hands on my belt. “Agree to a parley and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Desmena’s band, a thirty-strong group comprising all that remained of the once mighty Pretender’s Horde, had established a stronghold of sorts atop a large, steep-flanked tor a mile north of the river. In truth, it was more a miniature plateau, affording clear views of the approaches while its thick covering of pine and bush hid the rebels’ stockade from prying eyes. They were a disparate group. Among those that gathered to encircle us I saw a handful of minor nobles rubbing shoulders with churls. There were also a few hired blades who had forsaken their mercenary inclinations. I knew well that Lochlain had enjoyed a facility for changing folk, steering those of base character to a higher calling, real or imagined. I also knew that Desmena’s love for her fallen True King was matched only by her animus towards Wilhum.

  She allowed only myself and Tiler into her stronghold. I briefly considered asking Ayin to join us, perhaps she could leaven the thickened atmosphere with song. But she remained as miserably silent as ever and I doubted our host would be receptive in any case.

  “A cunning construction,” I complimented Desmena, casting an eye over the wooden walls of her holdfast, each carefully arranged among the rocks and trees as to be nigh invisible from outside.

  “There are those among us who depend on concealment for a living,” she replied, I assumed in reference to the longbow-bearing poachers. “And skilled carpenters too.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  Her brow creased with irritated impatience. It was clear the woman of affable charm I had met on the eve of battle was gone now. Life as a fugitive often has a hardening effect, day after day of constant threat tends to strip a soul down to its essentials. “Long enough, Scribe,” she snapped. “And I didn’t bring you here to win your approval or bandy gossip. You have a tale for me, and I’ll hear it now.”

  I inclined my head to a stack of brandy barrels nearby. “In which case, I’ll trouble you for some refreshment, for this tale is long.”

  I was permitted only one cup of brandy when I began my recitation of the Pretender’s testament. But, as the story continued, more were provided as my audience settled into rapt and, I fancy, appreciative attentiveness. To be a scribe is to be a storyteller, as words written on a page should be as easy to follow as when they are spoken. I thought about making some modifications to Lochlain’s story, omitting episodes that revealed him as the flawed human being he had been rather than the self-sacrificing hero these folk imagined. But I didn’t. As far as my facility for detecting lies could tell, he had told me his story without recourse to falsity, laying bare memories that were painful as well as damning. He had committed base murder during his time as a hired blade in the eastern kingdoms. He had been a thief and a fraudster. He had married three times and abandoned each wife, in one case leaving a child behind.