The Widow and the King

by John Dickinson

  I'm losing him, she thought.

  Angels help me! I'm losing him.

  Alone on his watch, Ambrose turned his sword in the firelight. He hadn't wanted to take it back from Aun that morning, with the blood from the Helm's eyepiece on it. He had cleaned it, thoroughly. And yet he was convinced, each time he turned the blade, that he would see the stain there, dark in the light of the flames.

  There was blood on the roots of the oak, he thought.

  The night wind combed the fire and stirred his makeshift banner, propped nearby on its stick. The mule shifted where it stood by great Stefan. Aun turned in his sleep, muttering. Ambrose wondered what the Fifteen had made of the news, if they had heard about it by now. Had they laughed? Had they been angry, that he had tacked their own banner from mere rags? Most probably they had not known what to think. No one ever did.

  No one did. That was why it was the Doubting Moon. There's a piece missing, the child with the fire in her eyes had said. A piece missing. What was it – a shadow, a batwing, a sign of doubt? Each of his ancestors had had his own answer. His father too must have had an answer, and he had never learned it. Now they were gone, and they had left it to him.

  His powers were the Oak, and the Moon: both stained; both corrupt. And so were the people who remembered them.

  Uncle Adam – how could he forgive that?

  How?

  The ghosts of Develin whispered answers, but they were ghosts. Force had killed Faithfulness, and killed Forgiveness, and had left them bloody in the passages.

  Because I need them!

  And if they kill again? And again? Will you forgive them again? And what will your forgiveness matter – to anyone but yourself ?

  He had no answers. He felt only the need to hurry.

  He needed to hurry. He was in his father's land, and his father was gone. He was in the enemy's country, and the enemy was always ahead of him. Where? Mocking, beckoning; that sick-memory, that scent of dark water – he knew it now. It showed him the mist in the bowl of the world, it brought him the cry that rose from the pit.

  I need help!

  But how can I forgive the help I need?

  His hands played with the hilt of the sword. He teased the little pouch that he had tied there. He felt the shape of the last white stone within it: the pebble that had been cut from the bone of the dragon Capuu. He had seen Capuu. He should remember that. He had looked into the eye of the dragon that bound the world together.

  He could remember that eye, looking at him. And he could remember the soft voice of a man, speaking in the wall-turret at Develin. The goddess stood for rage. But there was also the dragon Capuu. Capuu was a strength that endured.

  And with strength, then yes, perhaps he could forgive.

  Looking at it that way, how could he not forgive – since unforgiving was the pit itself ?

  ‘It is something close to that, perhaps,’ he said aloud.

  His legs were numb from sitting cross-legged. He rose to his feet and paced for a little. Then, quietly, so that he did not wake Aun, he began to build up the fire with logs from the beacon-pile. It was a warm night, but there was plenty of wood and he wanted more light. He wanted light to drive the shadows a little further off.

  Light to beckon the armed men, hurrying through the night towards him.

  Sophia dreamed of shadows moving.

  They had been with her for so long, she could not tell when they had first come. In her dream-memory she had grown used to them. All they had done was watch her, and follow what she did. But now they were restless, shifting among themselves, sidling closer. They seemed to be expecting something. She did not like to think what it might be. She could see their shapes. She had begun to think that they had faces, although they were masked in all that shadow that hung like hoods or cloaks upon them. She thought that soon one of them would sidle close to her, and the shadows would part and she would see its face at last. She was horribly afraid of those faces.

  One of them was coming closer. There were fingers, trembling as they were held out to her. A soft, cooing sound came from it. She knew she was dreaming. And yet she knew she could hear it. She could hear the voice in her ear, saying urgently, Wake up! They're coming. Wake up!

  She was waking. And she could still hear it.

  It was a woman's voice, low and urgent.

  ‘Wake up! You must wake up!’

  Her arms pushed herself up from the ground on which she had been lying. Her head was dizzy with the plunge out of sleep. She was lying on a grassy hillside at night. Someone was crouching beside her, with a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘You must not stay here,’ said the woman. ‘Go up the hill, quickly. Make for the fire and remain there. Are you listening?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sophia managed to say.

  ‘Do not stop, whatever you hear or see. Whoever you meet. Ambrose is up there. If you can help him, he will help you. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Quickly!’

  Sophia put her hands to her head, trying to clear it of sleep. When she looked up she was alone.

  There was almost no light – only the wide, pale-dark stretches above her and before her where the sky and the lake must be, and the deep-dark immediately around. Whoever it had been was gone into the night.

  ‘Chawlin?’ she said in a small voice, hoping that he was awake, too.

  There was no answer.

  She freed an arm from her blanket and felt around where she knew he had been lying beside her. She could not find him. She could not hear him breathing. The only sound now was the soft seething of the wind and the lakewater.

  Her fingers touched blankets. They were empty.

  ‘Chawlin!’

  There was no answer. Chawlin had vanished. The night was full of shadows that watched her and did not move. And a faint smell, like water at the edge of pools, was stealing through the air.

  ‘He killed the King!’ exclaimed the Wolf, pacing in the light of the fire. ‘He didn't warn me! He just did it!’

  Ambrose stayed where he was, kneeling by Aun's sleeping form. He kept his hand on his sword-hilt and watched. He did not think the Wolf wanted to attack him, or to stab Aun as he slept. But he must have come for a reason. And he was more wayward than ever. He seemed unaware of how he stepped to and fro, or shook his fists before him as he talked. He might change his mind in a moment. Anything could happen now.

  ‘He had no need to!’ the man said. ‘We were doing what he wanted. Why kill the King?’

  ‘Did you find the cup?’

  The Wolf scowled. ‘No. I went through the place afterwards. They all thought I was searching for gold and laughed at me when I didn't find any. But he tricked me. It wasn't there.’

  ‘It was all for nothing,’ said Ambrose. ‘The Widow, and all those people.’

  ‘I know. I know. I wouldn't have done it if I'd known.’

  ‘He tricked you.’

  The man cursed. ‘I've done everything he wanted! All the things he likes! And he'll only let me drink once more – once! This time it was just to get away from the king's men. They blame me for his death. I'm an outlaw – a sneaking, starving, grovelling outlaw! That's not fair! He was the one who did it. Why doesn't he treat me as he should? Why does he always want you? I don't want to give him you!’

  He had stopped and was looking at Ambrose. Was he going to attack? Ambrose made ready to shake Aun by the shoulder.

  ‘You've cost me a lot, you know,’ said the Wolf. ‘I could have cut your throat months ago. I could have given him everything he wanted.’

  ‘Would he have given you anything you wanted?’

  The man scowled again. ‘Don't try to talk me round to your side, because you can't. I'm not a fool. I'm just not his worm, that's all. I play with him. He plays with me. We're equals, really.’

  Ambrose waited. He did not think the Wolf was the Heron Man's equal. The Wolf had done nothing but complain: about the Heron Man, about the King's friends, about the
way he had been treated. Maybe he had come here because Ambrose was the only person left in the world that he could complain to.

  It was stupid. Aun might wake at any moment.

  ‘It isn't fair!' exploded the Wolf, softly.

  The wind flustered the low fire. It was full of night noises – leaves rushing, twigs dropping in the woods on the side of the hill. An animal – it might have been a marten – gave a high chittering cry. A bigger animal, perhaps a horse, blew noisily some distance away.

  The Wolf lifted his head and listened, like a sentry hearing the chink-chink-chink of men riding in the dark.

  ‘Don't think you can talk me round. I'm sorry about what's happened. But you can't give me what I want …’

  I didn't try to talk you round, thought Ambrose.

  There was the slightest movement under Aun's blanket. Ambrose looked down. Aun's face was at his knee, turned away from the firelight. The eyes were shut fast. His breathing did not seem to have changed.

  ‘He can, if he decides to,’ said the Wolf. ‘And I'm going after him to make sure he does. But I've come out of my way to tell you one thing. Don't trust any friends you may meet, tonight or tomorrow. They're the ones he gave the cup to – just so I couldn't have it. They've led him to you. He knows where you are now. And one way or another …’

  A branch cracked somewhere down the hill, as something heavy trod upon it.

  ‘It may not come to that, of course.’ He grinned. Aun's blanket stirred again. Ambrose looked down. It was the same movement – a hand, creeping down under the cloth towards the belt.

  Aun kept a knife at his belt!

  Ambrose cried out. At the same moment the Wolf saw it, and cried out, too. Aun's blanket whirled from the ground and caught him at the ankle. He stumbled. Aun was up, springing at him, a knife in his hand. The Wolf yelled and jumped away. He staggered and nearly fell. Aun launched himself at his son again, snarling like an animal. The Wolf scrambled backward. As he did so Ambrose saw the light change. In the dimness of the fire and a dull sky he glimpsed the brown rocks of another landscape. The Wolf was among them, cursing. Aun had missed his blow again. Now Aun stopped, on the rim of the other place, and the night closed again around them.

  From somewhere unseen the Wolf ‘s voice rose, cracking with rage and tears.

  ‘I didn't want to kill her! I didn't want to kill him!’

  The night wind breathed across the hilltop, and no other sound came.

  Aun swore, and settled himself back down again. He was staring at the darkness where his son had disappeared.

  ‘What was that place – where he went?’

  ‘It's a magic that the enemy has given him. He can go from this world to that place and come back out again somewhere else.’

  Aun grunted. ‘It will be hard to catch the old scarecrow, if he knows the same trick.’

  ‘He does it better,’ said Ambrose.

  Soft clinks told from somewhere on the hillside, borne to him on the wind. Aun had not heard them yet.

  ‘So. Damned witchcraft. When I get hold of him …’

  There were horses on the hilltop, moving in the darkness around them. Ambrose climbed to his feet.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Now Aun had heard them. He scrambled upright, swearing, and grabbed from the ground nearby the big sword that he had spoiled from the dead knight Mar.

  ‘Back to back!’ he hissed. ‘Talk, if they let you. But if it's them, don't bother to talk of Law!’

  Ambrose could hear the horses clearly, circling. He tried to count them. They seemed to be all around. Here and there in the darkness metal gleamed and shifted with the faint glow of reflected embers. Twenty yards, he thought. I can't see them.

  How did they get here so quickly?

  But they were here.

  He remembered, then, to stoop and pick up his own sword from where it lay among the blankets. Aun's hand touched his shoulder lightly, pushing him to his right, towards their mounts, which stood tethered at the edge of their camp. Obediently he stepped in that direction.

  The horses in the darkness had stopped now. He could still hear them snorting and shifting where they stood. They seemed to be all around the fire in a ring. A dull clickety-winding sound broke into the night. Ambrose had heard it before, somewhere. Behind him, Aun stiffened and stopped his sideways movement.

  Feet hit the turf, heavily, a few yards away. Someone had dismounted. Grasses swished in the night. One of the horsemen was approaching. Straining his eyes, Ambrose could see a pale shape floating towards them out of the darkness. For a moment he could tell neither its size nor its distance. Then it came closer.

  It seemed to be the disembodied head of a man, with white skin and long white hair, that hung in the air about six feet above the ground.

  XXIII

  The Harvest of Pearls

  ut up your swords,’ said the head. ‘We can shoot you where you stand.’

  ‘You have a sweet shot among you then,’ said Aun. ‘For I have heard you wind just one crossbow, to pin two men and two mounts.’

  The head grinned and shifted. Now Ambrose could see that it was indeed a man – a man in black armour, and his body barely showed in the light. He moved slowly and his face was old. On his shoulder, pinning a dark cloak, was the small, pale badge of the Doubting Moon.

  ‘Two men?' He leered at Ambrose.

  ‘My name is Ambrose Umbriel, of Tarceny.’ His mouth was very dry.

  ‘I had heard there was a pup who claimed that name. And do you know mine?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You do not. Well, boy, my knees have become stiff these past years. I do not bend them for any name. And you will now put up your swords, or I will ask you less politely.’

  Behind him Ambrose heard Aun ram his swordpoint down into the earth. Ambrose did the same. It tilted, but did not fall. He could still grab the hilt quickly if he had to.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ said the white-haired man. He gestured into the night. Ambrose could hear more men dismounting from the ring.

  He's a white lion, thought Ambrose. A White Lion. And then, with his pulse racing and his throat dry, he could not help thinking: Does he still have teeth?

  Of course he does.

  Mail clinked and leather squeaked. Figures appeared out of the gloom. One took Stefan and the mule and stood by their heads. Two or three more were going through their saddlebags. Others were moving around the fire. They were grouping their own horses, as well. More men came up to join their white-haired leader. Their faces were lined. Their eyes glittered in the firelight. A short, round fighter stepped forward, reaching for Ambrose's sword. Aun's arm shot out and caught the hilt of his own.

  ‘Another step may cost you a head,’ he said.

  ‘Aun!’ said Ambrose.

  ‘Leave it, Hob,’ said the White Lion. ‘For the moment.’ He lifted his voice.

  ‘Anyone found anything?’

  ‘Not here,’ said a voice from the gloom by the saddlebags. ‘Some coin. Not much.’

  The Lion and the man Hob exchanged glances.

  ‘Didn't I say, last season?’ said the man Hob.

  ‘So you can skin that pup Raymonde for me when we catch him. If,’ he added with a nasty grin at Aun, ‘if his old man hasn't found him already.’

  ‘Search them,’ said one of the men by the fire. ‘Or maybe they've buried it.’

  ‘What are you looking for?’ said Ambrose.

  ‘The truth, first,’ said the White Lion. ‘Very important, the truth. It's like iron, or fire. Now,’ he said, kicking at an ember, ‘you have the remains of a good fire here. Not enough to turn iron red, no. But I don't need that. Just enough to get it hot. People tell the truth very quickly when they see hot iron, boy. What do you think?’

  Behind him, Aun was breathing hard. Ambrose could sense how close he was to seizing his hilt again. And if he did that …

  ‘You'll get the truth from me,’ he said.

  ‘So nice of you. So,
you say you are the son of Tarceny. Believe me, there's not much to be proud of there now. I say this, and I live there. But it was a rich place, once. Many treasures. I remember that. Many treasures of different kinds. And I did hear, not long ago, that you carried some of them.’

  ‘I can guess who told you …’

  ‘The truth! Or by the Angels, I'll use hot iron!’

  Ambrose swallowed. ‘We didn't have any.’

  ‘None? No gold, no jewels? Buried anything? Careful, boy, I'm watching you, and I'll know if you lie.’

  ‘No.’

  The men were grouping around him. He felt them willing him to tell of hidden gold. Wild stories gabbled through his head. He kept his eyes on the White Lion.

  ‘There was a purse of copper I had once. I don't know if that came from Tarceny. I spent it getting across the lake.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘We'd been fighting for two, three years after all,’ said the man called Hob to his leader. ‘We were selling the furniture, by the end.’

  ‘All right,’ said the White Lion, suddenly. ‘I never had much faith in that part of it. And yet I have a strong feeling – let's say I've heard from someone who should know – that the real son of Tarceny does carry a treasure. What might that be, do you think, if not gold or jewels?’

  Ambrose hesitated. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Guess what I mean,’ roared the White Lion.

  Ambrose knew he had heard that voice before. It had bellowed out of the dark from the woods at Chatterfall, before Adam and Evalia had died.

  He swallowed, and looked the Lion in the eye.

  ‘You might mean a cup …’

  ‘Good guess, but no. Try again.’

  ‘A book then,’ said Aun tightly, from behind him. ‘A book that came from his father.’

  ‘Not so good a guess. I heard that you had that, you moth-eaten old wolf. Try again.’

  Ambrose was silent.

  The White Lion stooped to look him eye to eye.

  ‘Are you sure,’ he said, ‘that you have nothing from Old Tarceny? Not – one – single – thing?’

  Slowly, reluctantly, Ambrose reached for the hilt of his sword and fumbled at the strings that held the little pouch there. The White Lion stepped back, out of reach of a sword-swipe.