Would they—had they—disputed with their fellows about it? Had their deaths come about that way? Or had they died before the spell, with only circumstance leaving them so unconnected?
If there was a way of knowing, he didn’t have it. His training had been scant on ghosts.
Marcus’s Latin was getting better. He didn’t stumble over the phrasing at all when conducting his second funeral. God willing, that wouldn’t come up again—Erik thought of trinities once more, and sent up a silent prayer of aversion.
Around him, the men bowed their heads in more vocal prayer, and he joined them. Most of their Latin was off, too—they didn’t stumble, but the responses were too quick, the words jumbled together, as with all forms learned out of habit without knowledge behind them. Samuel’s and Sence’s were a shade more precise. Franz’s weren’t, but he looked the better as he said them, losing some of the haunted look that had been in his eyes ever since they’d discovered the spell.
Toinette, who had been trained better, who had at least learned Latin, slurred her responses anyhow, just as her crew did. She kept her head bent and her hands folded neatly in front of her. Her slashed dress said otherwise, but the posture was that of a respectable and pious merchant’s wife.
Of course, at the end, she stepped forward to take one of the shovels and the image shattered—but there had been that moment. And Erik, filling in one of the graves himself, watched her and wondered if she knew she was trying, and how hard she was trying, and why.
* * *
The groups had divided further. Marcus and Samuel stayed in relative safety on the beach, fishing and drying what they caught; Erik led John, Sence, and Raoul further into the forest, seeking any object that might anchor the spell; and in the clearing, Toinette and Franz hacked notches into pine logs. It was sweaty, exhausting work, but it was simple physical labor, with the clean scent of pine rising in the air as they cut, and Toinette gave thanks for it, much as she disliked the cause.
After cutting notches, they laid the first logs out in a rectangle, fitting them together at the corners. The next layer went on top, and so on: with two of them working, they could produce a cabin twice as tall as a man, and one that could fit all of them inside. It would be a bit close, but Toinette had seen farmers and poor city folk alike living in less space—and the more people inside, the warmer it would be come winter.
The walls were halfway done when Franz caught his breath and narrowed his eyes. Toinette worried that he’d seen another image, or was about to go all odd and prayerful again, but he actually looked both calculating and hopeful. “Captain,” he whispered, slowly reaching for the small bow on his back, “I think there’s a deer nearby.”
Almost immediately she could taste venison, and her mouth watered. And when she tried, she could smell the animal, though long habit kept her from saying as much: a shade muskier than the deer she remembered in Loch Arach, but it had been a long time since she’d hunted in the wilderness. “Go slowly,” she whispered back. “Remember this place is tricky.”
She hated to remind him and see the sudden fear in his face, but she would have hated more to see him die.
As Franz slowly walked forward, moving upwind with an arrow fitted to his bow, Toinette trailed behind. Even in human form, the scent of the dragon-blooded was generally enough to scare herd animals. It was hard to find a horse that would tolerate her, and the time in Morocco when she’d tried to ride a camel had become a running joke with Marcus and others of her crew.
She still thought she should have just eaten the creature.
Up ahead, the brush rustled, making far more noise than any normal deer or even a man would have caused. Franz stopped and raised his bow. Toinette put a hand to her sword, in case what came through wasn’t a deer.
They were both right.
Slowly, a long brown head with a pouched jaw pushed its way into view. It paused to shake massive flat antlers free from the surrounding trees and bit a shoot off a branch. Then the creature stepped forward, and Toinette stifled the urge to whistle. Its body was a bit like a deer’s in general shape—four long legs, a stubby tail, no claws or wings—but at the shoulder it was almost as tall as she was in dragon form, and the rest of it was proportional.
While she stared, gape-mouthed, Franz had no such moment of disbelief. He drew and shot quickly, sending an arrow deep into the creature’s neck.
It turned. Toinette briefly thought she saw surprise in its small dark eyes, but the shot was a clean one, and the arrow had sunk deep. The beast made a low grunting noise, then its legs sagged sideways and it fell, several small plants snapping beneath its dying weight. Its ribs heaved up and down a few times. Then all was still.
Toinette swore, quietly and in Italian, and stared back and forth between the creature and Franz. “You win the prize for archery. And for quick thinking. What in God’s name do you think that is?”
“Elk, that is,” said Franz, surprised but in no way uncertain. “With my grandfather I used to hunt them, though it was rare for us to catch one, and dangerous to try without many men and dogs.”
“I’d think so.”
“But I thought, here there are many more dangers, and we’ll need food. The meat keeps well. And you’re here.”
Toinette blinked, and smiled before she realized she was doing it. She’d known Franz for many years, long enough to tell that he was being sincere. She cleared her throat. “Well. Nicely done. That should set people’s minds at ease a bit about food, and it’ll make a damned fine change from fish.”
“That it will,” said Franz. He knelt, clasped his hands together quickly, and said a brief prayer in German. Toinette caught the name of Saint Hubert, patron of hunters, and she echoed Franz’s “Amen,” though the rest of the prayer was unfamiliar and her German spotty at best and mostly fit for taverns.
“I think our plans for today just shifted a touch,” she said, when he stood up again. “Do you know how to clean this thing? And can you tell me how to assist you?”
“Gladly so,” said Franz.
They were moving forward. It wasn’t in the direction Toinette would have liked, and she had to admit that it might not be for a long time, if ever, but it was forward all the same. She took comfort in that.
Twenty-Two
“Wind’s in the west,” said Erik. It felt good on his face: a fresh breeze after the close, clammy scent of the far forest. He and John stood on the edge of the cliff, looking out to sea and waiting for Toinette and Raoul to join them. “Autumn soon.”
He didn’t expect the other man to answer, not in more than a grunt or a dispassionate mmm. John took instruction well enough, but he’d never sought Erik out, nor started conversations. As far as Erik knew, the Englishman was as hostile as he’d been the first day aboard.
Therefore, when John spoke, thoughtfully and at length, it took a moment for the actual words to take shape in Erik’s mind: “The harvest will be coming on well, back home.”
“Aye. I’d give much for a ripe apple, or a loaf of fresh bread.”
John actually smiled. “It’s bread I miss when I’m away. That and my wife, of course.”
“You’re a good man to say it, and rare.”
“She’s a patient woman.” John looked from the sea and the clear sky to Erik. “You don’t know the thing you’re here after, do you? Not in any specific.”
“No.”
“But you’re hoping it’ll give your lord power.”
“My land, rather.”
“Your side, let’s say.” John rubbed at his beard. “If you do get back, say, and the treasure’s as powerful as all that, what do you imagine you’ll do with it? What would your lot do if they won, and could keep on? Would David take London?”
Shades of Artair came back to him, and easy words died in Erik’s throat. “I’d think not,” he said after a long time had seemed to pass. It wa
s the best he could manage. “We didn’t before. I’d say we’d settle back to the borders we’d had. The men I led are tired of war. So am I.”
“Kings don’t tire so easily as other men.”
“Yours didn’t, that’s for certain,” Erik replied hotly.
“Well—” John began to respond in similar temper, and Erik had to admire him in that moment. Not many would speak that way to a dragon, no matter how provoked. Nor did he think it was fear that stopped John’s tongue, but a wiser, more worldly emotion. “No. No, and there’s not much honor in what he did, in the end. But honor’s for your sort. For me, I want to know that my home will be safe, and my family.”
“I think they will. From us, at any rate. A king will find it hard to fight a war if his lords are against it, and mine wishes no more fighting than I do. We’ll claim our own again, and that’ll be an end of it.”
“And if you’re wrong about your lord?”
“Then I’ll do my best to change his mind,” Erik said, though he winced inwardly at the notion of trying to change Artair’s course once he’d set it. “This thing, if it exists, might keep our sons from killing each other. That’s my hope.”
John nodded slowly, then as slowly asked, “Do you have any?”
“No. It’s…difficult, for us, with mortals.”
“I keep dreaming of mine,” said John. “Not good dreams.”
“I don’t think anyone has good dreams here.”
* * *
Darkness, death, and a voice: “This is what waits.”
His answers echoed, hollow: “This is a nightmare. We made it. You can show me all the corpses you want; I know this is a dream.”
“Dreams speak truth. You know this.”
“Not all dreams are prophecy, and not all prophecy is fixed. Go away.”
“You can’t stop it. You are one.”
“I’m not alone.”
“They break. They fear. They run.”
“Who are you?”
“She cares for herself. For her pets. She would turn on you to save them. She will.”
“What are you?”
“This is what waits.”
* * *
“We’ll set a circle of protection around the camp,” Toinette said, filling waterskins, “and another at the cabin when we come up for the winter. Erik says that should keep out anything uncanny, though it won’t go very far.”
“What is it, this magic that you’re doing?” Franz asked, the gray light of the cloudy day making his solemn face even graver.
“Calling on angels,” Samuel said before Toinette could. “So nothing that should alarm you too much.”
“No, I didn’t think… I don’t think you would traffic with demons,” Franz said with an apologetic look at Toinette. “Do they reply?”
“Not in so many words,” said Toinette. “If the spell works, that’s an answer. Actions speak loudest and all.”
In motions that had long become reflex, they drew strings tight and knotted them, tied the skins to their belts, and stood. Franz looked off into the woods. “You will laugh,” he said, “but I swear it… I hear voices.”
“I won’t laugh,” said Toinette. “I’ve heard a few of my own.”
“And I,” said Samuel. “In the wind, at night?”
“And my dreams,” said Franz.
“Aye,” Toinette agreed. “What do yours say?”
“I can’t remember my dreams, never could,” Samuel said, “and I’m glad for that. I’ve not heard many words from the waking ones. ‘You,’ maybe.”
“And ‘nichts.’ That’s ‘nothing’ in English. That they speak different languages is new.”
“Or we hear different,” said Toinette.
* * *
“You have nobody,” said the voice from around her.
“Pigshit. If I had nobody, I’d not have a horrible voice in my dreams, would I?”
“You have nobody. I am nobody. I am nothing. You are nothing.”
“Go to Hell.”
“Hell waits for you.”
“Now you’re a priest?”
“You are damned. You know this. They know this. They all know.”
“Piss off.”
“They fear you. They hate you. Every smile is a lie.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“He serves his master. You are no kin. He has his task.”
“Go away.”
“They let you live for fear. Nothing more. You’re not their captain. Never were. All a lie.”
“Go. Away.”
“No woman. No human. No soul.”
“Go away.”
“Damned. Monster. Devil. Misbred.”
“Go away!”
Twenty-Three
She woke in the cold, damp darkness that had marked all of her nights for a month. Overhead, the sky was flickering sickly green. The voice still echoed in her head: Monster. Devil. Toinette stared across the sand at nothing and held still.
The men slept in the shelter. She and Erik slept outside, each off to one side: sentries, harder to kill than most of the crew. Toinette had volunteered shortly after she and Erik had returned. Nobody had spoken against the idea.
Turning her head, she could make out the figure on real sentry watch: Raoul, that night. He still looked hale enough. As she watched, he scratched the back of his head. All was, if not ever well, as well as the island got.
It was a dream. Go back to sleep.
When she closed her eyes, she saw the faces again: Jehan, Gervase, the man she’d stabbed in Mecklenburg, the bodies from plague carts, her mother. The dead lips spoke again, their writhing splashed in paintings across her mind.
“Shit,” she muttered, and got to her feet.
Quiet as she was, Raoul was alert—good lad—and turned to meet her eyes. “Captain?”
“Can’t sleep. Walking a bit.” She saw the recognition in his eyes. None of them were sleeping easily of late. That was just what a crew already wound wire-tense needed, but there was nothing to do about it. They needed the wine to make the water good. “Don’t mind me.”
“Yes, Captain,” he said, and turned back to his duty: still obedient, still earnest, as though that would save him.
They all made their own armor. Sence’s was his faith, John’s and Samuel’s magic, hers… She wished she knew. Duty usually sufficed; duty was a damned poor fabric when she kept suspecting they’d be better off without her.
She walked. She tried not to look at the sky, and failed.
Erik slept behind a semicircle of rocks, shielded from the wind. Halfway there, Toinette realized her destination, shrugged, and kept on. Making sure he was safe would do as well as anything else for a task.
She suspected that seeing him might calm her too, but she didn’t want to dwell on that.
By the time she reached the ring of stones, she knew that Erik’s sleep wasn’t easy either. The sound of his body tossing back and forth came in unsteady counterpoint to his frantic breathing. When Toinette did stand above him and look down, she saw his brow wet with sweat and his eyes moving frantically beneath their lids.
She knelt and put a hand on his shoulder.
Instantly his hand clamped around her wrist in a bruising grip. He was half up off the ground, grabbing her by the shoulder, before he fully woke; then Erik froze, his wide eyes staring into hers, his mouth stilled mid-oath.
“Do you see the dead too?” she whispered.
“…aye,” he said, coming back to her from a long and horrible way off. Toinette knew the path he walked. She gently eased her wrist out of his hand and helped him sit up.
“I hate this place,” she said.
“Aye.” He sounded more certain about that, and less surprised. Slowly he gathered himself, wiped his brow, let out a bre
ath: the steps of reasserting himself as a man and the world as less horrible than it was in his dreams. She knew that well too. It was what had driven her to find him, after a month when she’d avoided being alone in his company.
“Bear in mind,” she went on, keeping her voice quiet but knowing how welcome a voice speaking rationally would have been to her, “I’ve been in some wretched hives. Place up north where we all had bad meat—I never thought I’d hate anywhere more. And yet, there’s this. The world just keeps surprising me.”
“It’s…enterprising that way.”
“Would you like some water?”
“I’d like strong drink. Otherwise…” He shrugged. Moonlight picked out the muscles of his shoulders beneath his unlaced shirt. “No need. Thank you for waking me. I didn’t cry out, did I? Disturb you?”
“No. I had the same problem. I thought…” It sounded stupid, now that she came to say it, but she’d learned that the only cure for sounding stupid was to keep going. “I thought a walk might do me good. And I wanted to be sure nothing had made off with you in the night.”
“Don’t trust your sentries?” he asked with a semblance of his usual grin.
“Four eyes are always better than two.” She pushed back her hair, aware suddenly that she’d probably been thrashing around in her sleep fully as much as Erik had been, and that she’d not even tried to mend her appearance. “Or maybe I just wanted company that didn’t have to keep watch.”
“Oh?” He lifted his eyebrows, and the way he smiled let her know exactly how he was interpreting what she’d said.
Toinette opened her mouth, starting to protest that she hadn’t meant it that way—but then, why not? They were away from everyone else’s view, neither of them were on sentry duty, and the beach had always been fairly peaceful regardless, and there was nothing like sport to make you know that you were alive and not, say, in a nightmare den of underwater talking corpses.
She leaned forward and kissed him. She was better at that motion than she’d been when they’d been young. It was easy for her mouth to settle atop his, to curl one hand around the back of Erik’s neck as she let her breasts graze against his chest. His arms slid around her with far more grace than before, and the splay of his hands on her back was unhurried, without pressure. They were old enough to be smooth now, when anger and despair didn’t drive them.
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