Chapter Thirty-Five - The Letter

‘What’s that?’

Arnora froze, snatching a look back over her shoulder, and found Freya standing in the doorway, eyebrow raised. She spun back to the desk, scratching one last hurried mark at the bottom of the page, then threw her hand over the letter, just as her friend arrived at her shoulder.

‘Show me!’ Freya insisted, trying to snatch it from her hands. Arnora held it out of her reach, shaking her head.

‘Mind your business.’ she told her. The morning light was spilling through the open window beside them, falling in pale waves across the organised disarray of her bedchamber. A grand, curtained bed stood against one side, incongruously ornate, hemmed in by dark wooden walls, scratched unsmooth, a floor lined with thick rugs and a scattering of discarded tunics, furs, riding leathers. Arnora had risen early that day, pen scratching at the dawn, listening as the city stirred below, and wondered how long it would take someone to come looking for her. Long enough, apparently.

‘That so?’ Freya asked knowingly. Arnora ignored her, rolling the letter into a tight little scroll and stamping a small circle of dark wax onto the fold. Then she stood up, tucking it into her jerkin and giving Freya what she hoped was a stern look.

‘Yes, it is.’ she told her friend, hurrying past her. She caught a glimpse of her face in the looking glass by the doorway, ignoring the few strands of pale hair that had escaped her braids, then snatched up some furs, leaving her bow and quiver behind, and stepped into the corridor, Freya close behind.

‘You’re terrible at keeping secrets.’ her friend told her. Freya was a little shorter than she was, solidly built, with dark hair tied at the nape of her pale neck and large brown eyes that gleamed in the torchlit corridor. Like her friend, she was dressed for riding, and there was a fur cloak over her arm. When Arnora glanced at her, her face dimpled into a pretty smile, lips pricking upward mischievously. ‘Maybe I need to start charging you for my discretion.’

Arnora opened her mouth to respond, then lowered her eyes as they passed a serving woman laden with fresh linens, clamping her lips shut. There was a cold knot in her gut, curled tight as a vice. She did her best to ignore it.

‘Then you’ll have to start paying rent, too.’ she told her friend as the maid disappeared into the gloom behind them, then smiled and took her by the arm. ‘What would you like to do today?’

‘Do I get a say, now?’ Freya scowled, falling in step beside her.

‘No.’ Arnora replied, still smiling. ‘I was thinking we could go for a ride. I feel like I’ve been stuck in the keep for far too long.’

Freya eyed her suspiciously. ‘Thought I was in for another day of freezing my tits off in the courtyard while you fill a stuffed stag full of new holes.’

‘Practice can wait.’ Arnora told her, thinking of her bow a little wistfully. ‘For today, anyway.’

They continued on down the corridor as it twisted and branched, arm in arm through the broad, torchlit tunnel of wood, gleaming, amber and full of warmth. There were others on the move, as there always were. A hive of busyness, of tasks and errands run in silent contentment. Maids in dark dresses, decked out with cloth and linen and pails of warm water for the noblewomen’s early baths. Warriors, chain-mailed and dour-faced, steel glinting at their hips. Even a hound or two, patting furrily towards the distant promise of food. The girls paid the passersby no heed, and the passage slowly began to open up around them, until at last they came to a broad doorway banded with iron, twice as tall again as they were. Here, Freya drew up short, putting a hand on her friend’s arm.

‘You’re being careful?’ she asked her quietly, frowning, uncharacteristically serious. Arnora hesitated for a moment, then decided it was too early to argue.

‘Of course.’ she replied instead, pushing the door open.

There was always light in her father’s hall. By night, scores of fires gleamed and murmured from around the high pillars, and fine meats would roast until the air was thick with the honey-sweet smell of them. The men and women of the North would eat and drink and sing until the sun crept again over the distant beams, ending a night weighed heavy with the sound of their mirth. A place of music, warmth. Home.

By day, though; shutters thrown back from the windows, pale light showering in silver strands through rows of oak-broad pillars. That day was no exception. Morning gleamed bright and keen against a maze of arches, tracing pale lines across the great, vaulted ceiling. Firelight flickered mutely, and dogs with thick, shaggy fur lay about on the stone floor, basking in the half-glazed heat. They were near the middle of the room, at a broad door set into the side of the hall. At one end, through the shifting shimmer of smoke and sunbeams, a crowd of men and women in thick furs was clustered around the dais. Arnora paused for a moment, watching them, listening to the distant rumble of their voices. Then she turned and took a step in the other direction, towards the pale light of the open doors, but Freya put a hand on her arm, tutting.

‘You won’t get away that easily.’ her friend murmured pointedly.

Arnora hesitated, and the roll of parchment at her breast shifted uncomfortably. She stared at the brightness of it all, and the hall stared back. She couldn’t hear any music, or feel any warmth. It had all seemed much further away, these past few weeks. Didn’t matter how loud they were singing. How close the heat of the fires. She turned back reluctantly towards the dais, sighing.

‘Fine.’

Rows of arches blurred in the hazy heat of the fires as they walked, and Arnora blinked, suddenly a little queasy. She watched the firelight licking against the patterned pillars, instead, tracing the stories carved in the wood. Warriors flailing axes bigger than saplings, leading legions of giants against monstrous shadows, longships carving swift paths through frozen storms, prows tall and proud as thrones. She had always liked the carvings.

‘Hurry up, then.’ Freya whispered beside her, tugging at her arm.

‘Wait.’ Arnora told her, looking at the crowd with a frown. There were almost at the dais, now, but she still couldn’t see her father. A couple dozen shaggy-haired warriors stood about idly, leaning against the pillars, holding their hands over the fires. Manes of thick, braided hair knotted over their furs, mail scratched with use. Northmen were tall and broad, with thick, muscled arms and square jaws like anvils hidden somewhere in their gorse-thicket beards. The women weren’t so different. Thick, scarred, notched, hair braided like rope, arms covered in rusted mail. Built for fighting; quick to anger, quick to laugh. Arnora knew most of these particular killers better than her own hand. She’d been training with most since she was a girl. Something was amiss, today, though. A jerkiness to their movements, hands fidgeting with well-worn hilts. She realised that none of them were speaking. She took another step forward, peering through the throng, and the warriors peeled back from her, letting her through.

‘I hope his Majesty will take time to consider the King’s proposal.’

The man standing before the dais was unfamiliar to her. Dressed all in a vivid blue, narrow, sloping shoulders beneath his fur-lined cloak, smaller by a head than the warriors around him, women and men both. His smooth, bald head was leather-dark, and his black beard was cut short, pointed around the chin. A Westerner? The man was flanked on both sides by several other men, dark-cloaked and unsmiling. Arnora looked towards the dais, but she could only see a handful of noble heads shifting uncomfortably.

‘There is no need.’ Her father’s voice, low and measured, as always, but there was a hard edge to it. ‘He is no King of mine, and you have my answer.’

The dark-skinned man opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. He bowed low to the floor, thick cloak dripping over the stones. Then he turned on his heel and hurried away, his companions close behind him. Her father’s warriors drew back as he came, hands brushing the steel at their waists, but the man did not hesitate. He hurried on towards the other end of the hall, narrow, hawk-eyes gleaming as they roved the watching Northmen. Arnora stepped back as he passed, but not before she caught a glimpse of the brooch pinned to his chest. A silver fox. She frowned. Not a Westerner. A Valian. Dekar’s whisperer.

‘If I may, Your Majesty.’ a voice said quietly as the foreigners drew away out of earshot. ‘It might be wise to reconsider.’

Arnora looked back at the dais as a man with pale hair stepped forward. Lord Elkan. His furs had the sheen of fresh work to them, and his close-cropped beard and bright eyes spoke of a man not yet thirty. As he spoke, the corner of his mouth pricked up slightly in a careful, encouraging smile.

‘Speak, boy.’ her father’s voice grumbled back. ‘Or am I supposed to guess your meaning?’

The crowd before the dais shifted, again, and there he was, sitting on the edge of his seat, steel-bearded, pale eyes watching the young nobleman coldly. Ragnolf wore the same chainmail and furs as his warriors, and his chair was simply wrought, without adornment. But for the narrow iron band at his brow, he might have been another warrior, and his thick, bronze hair was tucked behind it, braided at his cheeks, same as the rest. But he was a big man, even for the North, shoulders towering over the room, and he carried his size with a quiet confidence that most men want, and few have. There was a sword in his hand, a simple, well-worn strip of steel, its tip pressed against the stones at his feet. He turned the narrow hilt in his fingers as he spoke, and the point groaned softly against the stone.

The young lord hesitated for a moment, then lowered his voice again.

‘Trade with Valia is no threat to us, Your Majesty, and there is much wealth to be had across the Sea of Storms.’ he said quietly, smile fading. ‘The harvests… Your people are hungry, Your Majesty. I implore-’

‘Implore?’ her father grumbled back.

‘Apologies, Your Majesty.’ the younger man said quickly, lowering his head so that his pale hair hung out in front of his face like a veil. ‘I meant only that we should not be too hasty.’

‘Hasty, am I?’ her father told him, pale eyes gleaming. ‘You are young, Elkan. Too young, maybe, so I will not judge you too harshly for not remembering. But I do. I remember when the North was Valia, too. I remember the price we paid for our loyalty. The thousands of our men, women, and children the Red King hung along the road to the sea. And I remember the man who sits on the Night Throne, now that he’s gone. I remember the price he paid to take it.’

‘Your Majesty, I meant no-’

The King looked up from his sword, eyes flashing dangerously.

‘I’ll hear no more of it.’

Lord Elkan opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. He dipped his head politely, stepping back into place, face hidden from sight. The other nobles watched without a word, but Arnora noted a couple of poorly hidden frowns.

‘Arnora!’ her father boomed, suddenly on his feet. He shoved the sword into his belt, grinning. ‘Get up here!’

Arnora smiled, darting through the last of the crowd and hopping up onto the dais. Her father snatched her off her feet as though she weighed no more than a feather, laughing his thundering laugh and giving her a squeeze, broad arms folding around her shoulders. Then he set her down again, eyeing her closely. Any other man laid a hand on Arnora like that, she would have filled him full of arrows before he got a word out. But there was a sincerity to her father’s smile that seemed to make all things a kindness.

‘More beautiful, every day.’ he told her, smiling. Arnora felt herself blushing. ‘You’ve your mother’s eyes.’

‘Thank fuck it weren’t her father’s!’ one of the warriors shouted from below, and a roar of laughter went up to the rafters. The King grinned.

‘Quiet, you whores!’ he boomed. ‘Or you’ll be digging shitholes till spring.’

More laughter. The King paused, looking at her closely.

‘You are well, daughter?’ he said, more quietly, this time.

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‘Yes, father.’ she told him with as much earnestness as she could muster. It seemed to satisfy him, and he smiled at her again, giving her shoulder a squeeze. The warriors paid her no more heed than usual, but she could feel the eyes of the other nobles on her, prying, whispering. The scroll at her breast shifted, and the cold weight in her gut knotted a little tighter. She shook herself, looking towards the other end of the hall instead.

‘Who was that?’

‘Who?’ The firelight caught her father’s hair as he turned, picking out the streaks of grey across his temples. Hadn’t had those, when she’d been a girl.

‘The Valians?’

‘Oh… Nothing you need fret on, my love.’ he told her, giving her shoulders another squeeze. ‘Where are you off to?’

Arnora hesitated, and for a moment the little scroll in her jerkin weighed against her skin like an anvil. ‘For a ride.’ she said after a moment, tripping just a little over the words.

‘No bow, either? Next you’ll be telling me you’re off to Bard Street to drink tea all afternoon.’ he raised his eyebrows, smiling. ‘What was it she used to say about poets, Freya?’

Freya had stepped up onto the platform beside them, grinning. ‘Just a man who couldn’t lift a sword.’ she replied, and the warriors below roared in approval, stamping their feet.

‘Quite right!’ the King told her, grinning. ‘Your father raised you well.’

‘And what about mine?’ Arnora demanded, jabbing a finger at his belly.

Ragnolf winced, throwing up a hand to defend himself. ‘He was busy!’

Arnora laughed, and his face softened.

‘Be sure to take Einald with you.

‘Yes, father.’ she told him seriously, taking Freya by the arm. The longer she lingered, the more her nerves jittered. The more questions she’d have to answer. The more eyes on her. Time they were off.

‘Husband!’

There was a commotion below, then, and her father’s warriors made way again, clinking. A small, slender woman burst through the assembled shifting of furs, flaxen hair bright as burnished gold as it tumbled wavily over her back, youthful face beaming. Mari’s light step and flighty grace seemed out of place amongst the chainmail and heavy shoulders of the King’s hall, and her pale dress flowed around her feet like silk. She was bearing a child in her arms, and the boy was grinning at everyone in sight, cheeks round and ruddy.

‘Wife.’ Her father reached down and took her by the hips with both hands, lifting her up onto the dais, and planted a firm kiss on her smiling lips. Arnora felt her stomach churn again, and she squeezed Freya’s arm a little tighter.

‘How’s my son?’ The boy looked back boldly at the big, bearded man before him, all tousled fair hair and rosy cheeks. He reached out one little hand and took hold of a tuft of his father’s beard, yanking hard. The King laughed, pinching the boy’s cheek, and the toddler giggled, the musical, happy sound of a child without fear.

‘Strong, like his father.’ his wife told him, meeting the King's eye. He kissed her again, lifting the boy from her arms and setting him against his chest.

‘I can see that!’ he told the boy, squeezing his arm gently. ‘Come, Ake. Say hello to your sister.’

The boy reached out his hands towards her, little fingers clutching at the air. She smiled, dutifully stepping inside of his reach, and he took her cheeks in his chubby little hands, planting a kiss on the tip of her nose. She laughed, returning the favour, and the boy scrunched up his face happily.

‘Nowa!’ he told her seriously.

‘Good morning, Ake.’ she replied, folding his hand in hers. She could feel her mother’s eyes on her. ‘Good morning, mother.’

‘Arnora!’ the queen gushed, as though she had not seen her daughter until now. She rushed forward, planting a kiss on Arnora’s cheek and embracing her. They made a strange pair, despite their kinship; clothes aside, Arnora was taller already, and markedly broader, even if her face had the look of her mother. She had always fancied herself her father’s daughter. The Queen stepped back, then, wrapping an arm around her husband’s waist and settling herself against his shoulder. Her head barely reached his chest. ‘You are radiant! Though I do wish you would wear a dress, every now and then.’ she paused, putting looking at her daughter with exaggerated earnestness. ‘How are you?’

Freya nudged her in the ribs again. ‘I am well, mother.’ she replied politely, gritting her teeth. ‘And this suits me just fine.’

‘And Freya! You are growing more like your mother by the day.’ Mari went on, as though any replies were incidental to her own monologue, still beaming.

‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ Freya answered, dipping her head respectfully, then raised an eyebrow at Ake, smiling. ‘And good morning to you, little prince.’

Ake giggled in the King’s arms, happy to be involved. Arnora took a deep breath. The letter shifted in her jerkin, and she flinched at it, frowning. She could feel the eyes of the nobles on her skin, still pricking at her, silent questions on their tongues. She could almost hear their whispers. The other end of the hall, the door, escape; all seemed a little too far for comfort.

‘How are your parents, Freya?’ the King was asking.

‘They are well, Your Majesty. I had a letter from them just last week. The crops are in, not so poor as expected, and they are ready for wint-’

‘Come, Freya.’ Arnora said under her breath. ‘We should be off.’

‘So soon?’ Her father frowned, bushy brows knitting. ‘And without breakfast? Hog’s warming up nicely.’

‘We have already eaten.’ Arnora replied, forcing herself to smile. ‘And I know your breakfasts. I want to make the city before noon.’

The King chuckled, apparently satisfied by her answer. He bounced Ake in his arms, and the boy squealed a little, pawing at his beard. Around them, the little gaggle of nobles had begun to disperse, sensing the business of the day finished. Arnora sighed gratefully.

‘Remember to look your best this evening, Arnora.’ her mother told her quietly, laying a delicate hand on her leather-covered arm and leaning forward so the remaining nobles would not hear. ‘We will have guests, and…’

‘Yes, mother.’ Arnora agreed, already turning away. She hopped down from the dais and strode off towards the far end of the hall, Freya hot on her heels. The throng of dark-eyed warriors parted as she came, a curtain of fur and glinting steel.

‘Remember Einald!’ her father called after her.

‘Yes, father!’

Freya caught up with her as they passed out of earshot. She glanced over at her friend, tutting under her breath.

‘What?’

‘It won’t do any good, antagonising her.’ Freya told her quietly.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Freya raised one eyebrow pointedly. Arnora sighed.

‘I know.’ she admitted, lowering her eyes.

‘Then why do you do it?’

‘I don’t know.’ Arnora lied. That was a truth she was not yet ready to tell herself, and Freya knew better than to press her.

*

A short while later, they were trudging quietly through the snow-covered courtyard towards the outer wall, boots crunching in the fresh fall. Behind them, the roof of her father’s hall rose proudly into the stark blue of the wintry sky, and ahead, the walls grew out of the hillside like great stony teeth, ice gleaming on every curve, warriors with tall spears and fierce manes patrolling the broad parapet. Beyond, the slope fell southwards towards the steaming rooftops of the city far below, lapping against the edge of the Sea of Storms like spilt oil, poked through with the scattered dark spires of abandoned Stormtowers. A blanket of snow lay across it all, knee-deep already, set aflame by the pale light of the morning sun, and swirling drifts of it danced in the wind. Arnora looked out over the wall, watching the sunlight play against the crumpled surface of the water, smiling as the wind sang in her ears.

‘It’s too bloody cold for this.’ Freya groaned. ‘Let’s go back to bed.’

‘Quit whining.’

The guard post was on the other side of the keep, facing out over the snowy plains to the east; a broad turret that clung to the side of the walls like a barnacle, puffing breaths of pale smoke into the air above. Over the edge of the parapet, the dark shadow of the Teeth lurked at the edge of the world, brooding, tall as the sky. Arnora put a hand to her chest, touching the place where the letter lay waiting beneath her fur-trimmed cloak, frowning.

‘Hurry up.’ she called back over her shoulder. Freya grumbled something, trudging through the snow, and Arnora ignored her, yanking the turret door open.

The air inside was stiff and dry, heavy with the smell of dust, and still as lead. There was narrow stairway in front of her, disappearing upwards into the beams. Arnora waited, listening for the sound of footsteps above, but nothing stirred. She was alone.

‘No one in?’ Freya asked, stepping wearily through the door behind her. She stood just inside the threshold, sniffing the air disapprovingly and rubbing her hands together under her cloak.

‘Doesn’t sound like it.’ Arnora replied, looking back at the stairs.

‘He won’t be happy.’

‘What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.’ Arnora told her with a quick smile. ‘Besides, you told me to be careful.’

Her cloak glided across the old, uneven stairs as she climbed, flitting upwards easily. Every dozen steps or so a narrow slit opened in the wall beside her, and pale light gleamed fell in shafts over the old stair, but she did not stop to look. The letter weighed heavy against her breast, shifting. The sooner it was on its way, the better.

She reached the door and put her hand on the handle, pulling it open. A faint flutter of anxious sounds spilled through it, and she hesitated for a moment, then stepped through. The aviary was always bright by day. Scores of narrow gaps raced around the pointed roof of the turret, and a myriad of sunbeams twisted and twirled about the attic, flecked with motes of dust and drifting feathers. The door to the parapet was closed, and the air was cool and still. Dozens of red eyes blinked back at her from the walls, considering the new arrival. She gave a soft cooing sound under her breath, and there was a moment of silence as the birds inspected her carefully. Then they responded, rustling their wings and wooing softly on their perches, clicking their talons on the wood.

‘Never liked pigeons.’ Freya muttered as she appeared behind her, brushing stray feathers away from her face.

‘What’s wrong with them?’

‘Their eyes. Give me the chills.’ Freya shuddered a little, shrugging deeper into her furs. ‘And they’re so dirty!’

‘I quite like that about them.’ Arnora replied, running a finger over one of the bird’s heads. It cooed at her, shifting happily. Freya tutted.

‘What would your mother say to that?’

‘Nothing good.’

‘Do you even know how to send one of these?’ Freya asked.

‘How hard can it be?’ she said quietly, scanning the coops, then unlatched one marked with a ’T’. She took hold of one of the birds in both hands, lifting it clear. It cooed at her, eager to be off, and she closed the door behind it, setting it down carefully on the table beside the cages.

‘Hold him still, would you?’

Freya grimaced. ‘I’ll be washing my hands for weeks.’

‘Give it a rest.’ Arnora told her quietly, already reaching inside her jerkin. She drew out the scroll with a little flourish of her hand and set it down on the table beside them.

‘Now, what do they put them in?’ she murmured quietly to herself, looking around the room. Her eyes caught on a little sack hanging on a peg beside the roosts, and went over to it, rummaging inside.

‘I’ll just have a read, whilst you’re busy.’ Freya said behind her.

‘Don’t you dare.’ Arnora told her without turning. She drew her hand out of the sack triumphantly, holding a little wooden tube in her fingers, fixed with a small iron shackle at its tip. Then she went back over to the table, opening the little container and slipping the letter inside.

‘How much longer do I have to hold this thing?’ Freya whined, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. The pigeon cooed happily again, quite indifferent.

‘Till you learn how to be quiet.’ Arnora replied, taking hold of the bird’s foot and gently fixing the tube to its wiry ankle. The animal didn’t make a sound, waiting patiently until she was done, thinking of the free air of the winter sky beyond its cage.

‘So… we just… let it go?’ Freya asked softly, still holding the bird.

‘I suppose so.’ Arnora murmured, taking the bird from her friend’s waiting hands. She walked over to one wall and reached up towards a dash of open sky above her, ready to set it loose.

The door to the parapet slammed open beside her, and she jumped back with a yelp, dropping the bird. It fled screeching into the rafters, and its fellows cooed frantically as cold air swept through the cages, setting their feathers twisting. A large man wrapped in old furs ducked through the open doorway, thin hair brushing against the beams. He was wearing a chainmail shirt and leather vambraces, the silver ship of Jotheim gleaming at his wrists, and the sword hilt protruding from his waist was scratched and worn like an old kitchen knife. He stopped in surprise on the doorstep, well-wrinkled eyes blinking, as the loose pigeon flapped and clawed at the beams overhead. Then he stepped quickly into the room, closing the door behind him, and held out his hand. A moment later, the maddened bird landed calmly on his arm, cooing softly.

‘Your Highness!’ he grumbled politely, bending slightly and lowering his eyes till his braided grey beard touched his chest. ‘I didn’t expect you.’

‘Good morning, Einald.’ Arnora said cheerfully, doing her best not to look guilty.

‘Have something to send, do we?’ the old guard asked her, smiling. Freya snorted beside her.

‘Ask her where it’s going.’

‘Quiet, Freya!’ Arnora hissed, nudging her back. ‘Tarling, Einald.’

‘Ah, the Highlands. Say no more, M’ladies.’ the old man said seriously, taking the bird from her hands and unlatching the tube from its foot. ‘Though might I suggest a different bird? I’m not sure the merchants of Tolvag will be expecting your letter…’

Freya let out a little yelp of glee, and Arnora blushed. ‘Einald…’

‘Not a word, your Highness.’ Einald told her with a kind smile, eyes softening. ‘Come, let’s get Aric back to his roost.’

‘Aric?’ Freya asked.

‘Every animal deserves a name, if you mean to keep it.’ Einald replied, unlatching the coop again and setting the bird back in his place.

‘All of them?’ Freya said incredulously, looking around at the rows of blinking eyes watching them from the walls. There must have been nearly a hundred of them.

‘All of them.’ the old guardsman told her, reaching for another. He lifted it clear with the care of practised hands, bearing it over to the table, and the girls clustered about him, watching him as he fastened the tube to its foot. Einald had always loved his birds. It was underlings’ work, in truth, hardly fitting for the Captain of the King’s Guard, but Einald wouldn’t hear of anyone else doing it. Arnora smiled, watching him close the latch with gentle care, frowning with concentration.

‘He’ll be on his way in no time.’ Einald said as he worked, not looking up. Arnora could feel Freya smirking next to her. ‘Is there anything else I can help with, Your Highness?’

‘We’re going riding.’ Arnora said with a quick smile. ‘Father asked if you would accompany us?’

‘Of course. Let’s get Sona on her way, and I’ll get a couple of the lads together.’ he replied, straightening, holding the bird in one broad hand and running a finger over the animal’s downy neck. It cooed softly, shifting, ready to be off.

‘Thank you, Einald.’ Arnora said earnestly, smiling at him, and he dipped his head politely.

‘Say nothing of it, Your Highness. Come.’

They went out onto the wall together, and the cold rushed back in around them like icy water. The wind was stronger on the parapet, but the air was clear, and the pine-laced plains stretched away to the east like snowy paper drawn flat across the rocky grass. Einald set the bird loose, and it hovered for a moment, wings flapping vainly against the wind, then caught a current and soared away over the battlements, dusky feathers gleaming in the pale light of the morning. Arnora watched it go, until it was but a speck of grey in the distance, thinking of the little tube bobbing in the breeze. There was a tightness in her chest, she found as she watched, closing around her heart like a vice, and her gut was full of cold.

*

She is on the wall.

It’s cold, cold as ice, and the wind is howling. He’s standing there, at the edge of the world. Red and pale and green all at once. His eyes look like spring.

She stares at him, and he stares back. Somewhere below, the city is smoking, full of shadows. But it doesn’t seem to matter. She’s far more interested in the strange little boy with his strange red hair and serious eyes. They stand for a time, quiet, together. What words they say have little meaning but to them, and snow fills the air, pure and white and perfect.