James West - Queen of the North

On the heels of that thought, a small voice asked, What right have you to judge anyone? It was you who dropped a cliff on the Lamprey . You had no care for her safety then .

Thin as it seemed, Edrik’s answer was that he had acted to save Targas, not some diabolical need or desire to see a woman suffer. Besides, he reasoned, if Nesaea had died aboard the Lamprey , it would have been a mercy, compared to what she had suffered at Jathen’s hands.

He had almost vindicated himself, but couldn’t escape the truth that he and everyone he loved needed the woman to suffer, for what else besides that would bring Rathe rushing back?

Edrik searched the faces of his people, who were all looking between Fira tending her silent companion, and the cold forest concealing their salvation.

Where is he? Edrik thought, his own gaze turning to the tree line. His heart quickened when a stirring in the brambles at the edge of the riverbank caused the snow to slough off their branches. All went still again, and his heart sank.

“Perhaps we should try again,” Danlin whispered.

“The Summoning will work,” Edrik said, wanting to believe it, but finding it difficult to escape his doubts.

“But what if it failed?” Danlin asked. His gaze cut toward the soldiers. “If we don’t act soon, they will take to their ships. And as they are still holding us, I fear they mean to force us to join them.”

A reverent murmur turned Edrik’s head. Several soldiers were helping a man and woman out of a longboat. By the humble words of fealty, bows, and salutes, Edrik understood that the newcomers were the soldiers’ king and queen. If he’d had any doubt on that score, the golden crowns spoke plainly of monarchs. The king’s crimson cloak and robes, overstuffed with resplendent sable and decorated with golden needlework, was garb ill-suited for the bank of a river. Edrik turned his attention to the queen.

Dressed in pale blue, from her slippers to the veil obscuring her features and held in place by a circlet of gold, she moved with an otherworldly grace, leaving the soldiers aiding her without much to do. She was the true power here, Edrik knew at once, unsure how that helped matters.

“Before trying again,” Edrik said to Danlin, “we’ll wait a little longer for the Summoning to work.”

“Why not now?”

“You know why.”

“I’m more interested in staying alive,” Danlin hissed, “than worrying over the proper use of the Blood of Life.”

“Betray the edicts of our Order at your peril,” Edrik warned.

Danlin’s lips wrinkled back from his teeth, but he said no more. Thinking to soothe his friend, Edrik said, “If it comes to it, we will drink the potion again, but not for a Summoning.”

The anger on Danlin’s face melted away. “You suggest we perform the Sight-binding here , out in the open for all to see, and dare speak to me of betraying the edicts of the Munam a’Dett?”

“If it comes to it,” Edrik said, “the ire of our masters will be the least of our troubles….” His words faltered at the sudden silence around them.

All eyes had turned toward the forest, and Edrik thought sure the Summoning had finally worked. He was wrong.

“What’s that fool doing?” Danlin asked, as Rathe stepped into the open. Loro came next. Both carried swords and daggers.

“Not a fool,” Edrik said, awed despite himself. Seeing the bloody-faced man come willingly against such insurmountable odds destroyed all the hidden doubts he had carried in his heart about the legitimacy of the Oracle’s foretelling. “He is the hope of Targas.”

“Only if he lives.”

“He will. The Oracle foresaw it.”

One of the soldiers walking beside the king gave a shout, drawing a dozen men to his side. Without further word, they set off toward Rathe and Loro.

Another movement, almost lost within the forest’s deepest shadows back behind Rathe, caught Edrik’s eye. A pocket of darkness swirled, as if struggling to gain substance, then blended back into the shadows that had birthed it. Other than Thaeson’s vague descriptions, he had no idea what to expect from a Summoning. Could this be it?

He glanced skyward, looking for a clearer sign. Snow swirled like flakes of dirty gold in the torchlight, but he saw nothing else. Still, Edrik sensed things beginning to move and shift around him, subtle stirrings that prickled his shaven scalp.

“Make ready, lad,” Edrik heard the captain of the Lamprey whisper to the golden-haired giant beside him-a man with the looks of one born in the eternal light of Targas, if markedly larger.

The big man met the eyes of the battered crew, and gave an imperceptible nod. Edrik watched with mounting horror as each sailor picked up an icy stone and held it against his leg. They mean to fight!

Rathe halted at the approach of a dozen Kingsguard. The soldiers spread out along the riverbank turned to watch, but otherwise kept their distance. Rathe focused on the commander of the group, thinking he looked familiar.

“Should we start hacking pieces off these whoresons straight away?” Loro asked. “Or do we want to give them a chance to surrender?”

Rathe’s laughter made his head pound, but he kept laughing. Few things stirred his blood as much as the thought of battle. Invigorating as it was, he also despised it. He was no murderer, but he was a killer, and he would leave it to sages to decide the difference between the two.

“At least they don’t have any archers,” Loro said.

Rathe sobered. “Seems we have a bit of luck, after all.”

“Black luck, at best.”

Silence fell between them.

Rathe made a study of the officer in the lead, a squat man with a face as craggy as a timeworn boulder. He knew the fellow after all-and well he should, as the man had foretold Rathe’s downfall. How long ago had that been? Not so long as it seems , Rathe thought, finding it hard to believe that less than two seasons gone he had been raiding with the Ghosts of Ahnok across the plains of Qairennor.

“Halt!” the officer called, ten strides from Rathe and Loro.

Rathe stepped forward. “What brings you so far from Onareth, Commander Rhonaag?”

The man’s smile was humorless and bitter. “Who but you, Scorpion, could drag me to such a godless wasteland?”

Rathe looked to the sky. “I believe there are gods here, but they prefer ice and darkness, to warmth and sunlight.”

“Be that as it may, after learning that you’d killed Lord Sanouk, brother to the king who set you free instead of having off your head, I resigned from the Fists of Rydev and joined the Kingsguard.”

Rathe’s eyebrows rose. “I’m surprised you were so eager to throw your lot in with King Nabar who is-how did you once put it? A fop and a coward who has always fancied Princess Mirith, the witch-queen’s youngest daughter.” Ignoring the soldiers’ uneasy shifting, Rathe searched over Rhonaag’s shoulder. “Unless my eyes deceive, it seems you were right about Nabar wedding Mirith, so I wonder if Onareth has become a ‘den rife with necromancers and mystics,’ as you also predicted.”

“I’ve no love of witches and their ways,” Rhonaag growled, “but the good of Cerrikoth outweighs my hatreds. Such is the reason I hunted your cowardly arse across the northern territories of the realm, sailed two seas, and ended up here. Long have I prayed for Ahnok to let me find you.” A rare and genuine smile touched his lips. “Now I have. When I return to Onareth, I’ll be sure to thank Ahnok by giving your severed cock as a burnt offering.”

“That sounds unpleasant,” Rathe said, the sharp ache behind his eyes having receded, his heart hammering in anticipation of the coming fight.