The Gathering Storm

Page 173

He nudged a pile of debris on the ground which she recognized belatedly as a fire pit stacked with dried dung. As she knelt, her knees popped and creaked like those of an elder. A finger bone slipped under her knee and rolled away into the fire pit. What manner of predator devoured human flesh yet built nests like a bird?
She already knew the answer.
Although it was difficult to coordinate her movements with her hands numb and aching, she pulled off one glove and rested her fingers on the lowermost layer of dung. Out on the open ground, she had called fire indiscriminately; here, she must probe as with a needle, sewing finest silk, so as not to engulf herself in her own conflagration.
Fire caught in the fuel and licked upward as she sat back hard, out of breath. It was so cold. So cold.
“Where have you come from?” asked the man.
With an effort, she lifted her head. He crouched down opposite her, eyeing her with an intelligent if disturbingly intent gaze across the waxing fire. His hair had settled, not snakes at all but long, thick, black hair furiously tangled by the wind. It made her think of Sanglant—who had never tired of combing out her hair, the one thing he could sit still for, who was always needing to pace, to walk, to move.
Ai, God, where was Sanglant now? Where was their daughter? She had prayed that the force of her longing for them might drag her back close to them, but now she despaired. What reason had they to be wandering in this wasteland? She didn’t have time to seek them out, because time and tide and the infallible turning of the stars would not wait. How could she get back to them knowing that she might be driven onward on a path that would not intersect with theirs for days or months or even years? She did not know how long she had been absent from this world. She did not know how much time she had left until the great conjunction.
“Tell me first,” she said carefully, “who you are.”
“If I were your enemy, you would already be dead.”
She laughed because, as he spoke, the tenor of his face reminded her of Cat Mask. She touched her sword, Lucian’s friend, to reassure herself that it still hung faithfully at her belt. “Perhaps. It is possible that you are not capable of killing me. It is possible that you would not wish to.”
“It is possible that you are now my hostage.”
“It is possible that you are mine.”
He laughed, an echo of hers, but his voice cracked and she had an uneasy feeling that he was hiding something profound, not just his identity and his purpose here but a deeper secret, like a fire smoldering beneath peat that may burst out unexpectedly to scorch the digging hand.
“I am no one, just a man in search of griffin wings.”
“And this—” She gestured. “—is a griffin’s nest?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are in the right place to meet the fate you desire.”
He laughed again, that disquieting cackle. “Are you? Where have you come from? What do you seek?”
She said nothing.
He brushed a hand along the curve of his throat. The casual movement unsettled her. Not meaning to, she touched the gold torque she wore, which she no longer had the right to wear.
“Only the lineage of the regnant wears the ring of gold at their neck,” he said. “Who is your father?”
“A humble man with neither king nor queen in his ancestry. How is it you speak Wendish? Are you a merchant?”
“I am nothing, nameless and purposeless, until I have griffin wings.”
“Then what will you be?”
“That depends on whether I defeat my enemy. He also wears a gold ring at his neck.”
She flushed, feeling heat on her skin, the racing of her heart. Henry might be fighting the easterners. It was too much to hope that this man knew the whereabouts of Sanglant, and she dared not reveal knowledge he could use against her.
“How will griffin wings defeat your enemy?”
“The feathers of griffins are proof against magic. Maybe even proof against yours, Liathano.”
He was, probably, a little mad, and certainly he played this as a game, shifting ground, casting straw into his opponent’s eyes. This man was not her friend. It was still difficult to gauge whether he was her enemy. She changed her tactics.
“How do you know my name?”
The fire snapped as he regarded her, tilting his head to one side, listening. She heard only the howl of the wind and the whispering rustle of the outermost layers of the giant nest.
“I have been seeking you because yours is a name of great power. Because you burned down a palace. Fire is a weapon.”