The hot poison strikes deep. These words hurt far worse than any bee’s sting.
No one will believe him.
And Adica is dead. No one will mourn her with him, because they cannot. They do not even know, nor can they believe, that she exists. He has come home as a stranger, having lost everything that mattered. Having, in the end, not even kept his promise to die with her.
What point is there in living?
Stronghand’s foot hit, jolting him into awareness. One step he had taken, only one. The sky lightened, and the river’s silver band glinted as sunlight drove the mist off the waters, dazzling his eyes. A torrent of images washed over him. All of the colors of Alain’s being had overflowed in that vision to drown him.
Joy ran like a deluge. Yet joy had spoken in a terrible voice.
So many dead. No more death, please God. No more killing.
“No more killing.” Hearing his own voice, he shook himself free of the trance. The girl turned to throw the youngest child over the battlements.
He leaped forward and wrenched the child out of her grasp, knocking the kneeling sorcerer aside. The girl scrambled onto the battlements herself, making ready to jump.
“Stop her!”
Quickly all seven of the Albans were taken into custody. The child he held squirmed and began to sob outright in fear.
“Hush!”
It ceased its weeping.
“No more killing.” His voice seemed unrecognizable to him, yet it sounded no different than it ever had. Was it wisdom that made him speak? For better or worse, he was scarred by the strength of the contact between him and Alain, bound by a weaving that even the WiseMothers did not comprehend.
Where had Alain gone? He had vanished from Stronghand’s dreams and apparently from Earth itself for over three years. What was the meaning of this vision of destruction on such a scale that it dwarfed even the slow deliberations of the WiseMothers?
In those years when Alain had been gone, the span of months between the battle at Kjalmarsfjord and this day’s rejoining, he had thought and planned and acted the same as ever, but something had been missing. It was as if the world had gone gray and only now did he see its colors. For truly the world was a beautiful place, worn down by suffering, painted by light, never at rest.
He could never be free of that connection. He did not want to be. Before Alain had freed him from the cage at Lavas Holding, he had been, like his brothers, a slave to the single-minded lust for killing, war, and plunder that imprisoned his kind. He had been no better than the rest of them and, because of his smaller stature, at a disadvantage.
Was it Alain’s dreaming influence that had altered some essential thread that wound through his being?
Around him, his troops murmured restlessly, still filled with battle lust. They had taken Hefenfelthe, but they had no clear victory.
“Why kill these hostages?” he asked, turning to look at them, one by one. These would carry the message to his army, each brother to another, spreading the word of Stronghand’s wisdom. “The queen of Alba and her sorcerers gain power by sacrificing the blood of their subjects. They left these ones behind as sacrifices, knowing we would kill them in anger once we had seen we were thwarted of our prey. So if we kill them, we do their will and strengthen their magic. Therefore we will not kill them. They will become our prisoners. The power of the queen and her sorcerers will become a slave to our power.”
The girl wept when she understood that she would not serve her queen as she had been commanded.
One of his Rikin brothers emerged from the tower, carrying his standard. Stronghand sheathed his sword and, with the child still held in his left arm, walked to the battlements and hoisted his standard high, so his army, below, could see him. A roar lifted from their ranks, echoing through the conquered city. The magic that lived in the staff hummed against his palm. The breeze made the charms that hung from the standard sing, bone flutes whistling, beads and chains chiming softly, melding with the clack and scrape of wood, leather, and bones. Once again, the magic woven by the priests of his people had protected him against the magic wielded by his enemies.
Out in the fields beyond the walls the last refugees, those who had crept out of their homes while the battle raged around the citadel, fled into the shelter of distant trees. The fields and forest of Alba stretched away in all directions, cut by the broad river and a nearby tributary. It was a rich land.
But it was not his land yet.
“We seek the queen and her sorcerers.”
“Where can we find them?” asked Tenth Son.
Stronghand glanced at the weeping girl with her silver circlet and its seven tines. Six sacrifices waited with her, seven souls in all. It could be no accident that Alain appeared to him after so long in the embrace of a stone circle so like the circle made by the WiseMothers. on the fjall above Rikin Fjord.