I

Garev

In his decade spent abroad, Garev Raulst had forgotten the cruelty of the south; the

way tendrils of ice whispered down the back of his neck and talons of frost seized him

when the wind blew, sinking all the way down to his bones. The cold gripped him like a

jealous lover, desperate to clutch him to its breast no matter how it might destroy him.

Three layers of furs atop his silks did nothing to warm his body, and when the wind

whipped his cheeks it froze his tears in place.

Since the ship landed in Volkarest they had journeyed two weeks on the backs of

thick, shaggy caribou bartered from the Volkan clan; no other beasts would carry men so

easily through the hard snowy wastes. “These are working caribou,” Garev had argued.

“They are not meant to carry travelers.” He remembered that much, at least. But no one

listened, and they rode on livestock northward toward Raulstengar. It was, he reflected, as

though he had never been Hallaar at all. The cold certainly rejected him. Why they had

decided he must return in winter, Garev would never know. But with the ice-spangled

wind biting at his ears and howling through the furs that did nothing to warm his skin so

used to the kind northern sun, he was desperately homesick for the perpetual summer of

Ankarkand.

It had been ten years since he left Raulstengar, a meek, frightened child who cried

when they ripped him from his mother’s arms and his sister’s side. He had loved the cold

then; he and his twin sister had spent hours in the snow together, laughing as they rolled

down banks and built forts of packed snow and ice and hurled snowballs at one another

and the snorting caribou in their pens. Just thinking about it now made Garev’s bones ache,

if they were not aching already. It was so cold in Hallaar he could not be sure. Every

morning he woke up, at once surprised and anguished that he had not died in the night.

Raulstengar, the only city of the Raulst clan, lay nestled in the foothills of the

Tundra’s Teeth, at Hallaar’s northern edge. Snow sprawled against its high wooden walls,

and the wind whistled through the clustered houses, whipping aside the smoke that rose

blue from the chimneys. There Garev would see his father again, his mother, his sister. He

told himself that he longed to see them, but he could not say with certainty whether he

wanted to see them more than he wanted to return to the place he had for so long called

home, to the warm and welcoming courts of the Ondali.

The Ondali accompanying him on his journey—ministers from the court of King

Kushkavar, and a retainer of guards—had barely spoken to him along the way. At court,

everyone had loved him, the captive prince they would style to rule the Hallaar as the

Ondali king decreed, for Ond held dominion over Hallaa, but on the frozen tundra of the

land that had given him birth, Garev felt they treated him like a stranger.

Ond had only come to rule Hallaa in the past generation; Kushkavar the Great, father

of the current King Kushkavar of Ond, had conquered the southern clans when Garev’s

father was a boy. His father, like Garev, had been sent to Ankarkand to be raised with the

Ondali so that he might come to know their ways, and rule his own people in a way of

which the King of Ond approved. Garev had long watched Kushkavar rule his own

kingdom, but he did not think that the Hallaar were the same men—surely this bitter

tundra did not allow for the gentle hospitality of the north.

He wondered how his twin sister, Charelende, had fared the past decade without

him. Of his family, Garev missed her most of all. She was his other half—they shared each

other’s games and secrets, and when one of them found trouble with their parents, the

other might step in to take the punishment; as children they looked so similar even their

mother could not tell her son from her daughter. Sometimes, in the long bitter nights of the

winter, one of them would creep to the other’s bedroom and they would curl together

under the blankets, keeping each other warm as they whispered hopes and nightmares and

shared stories of the Fae. Garev wished Charelende had been taken to Ankarkand, as he

had. Not only because he wept to leave her, but because he knew she would love it there—

he decided, as the high gate of the city of Raulstengar came into view, that one day he

would have to take her there.

Though they had sent messengers ahead to warn his father of their coming, Garev

was disappointed to see that they entered the city without fanfare—it was a dark, snowy

day; the Hallaar were shut up in their homes, and no returning wayward son would make

them leave. They were met only by a single stone-faced, grey-eyed youth, handsome of

face, with high cheekbones and thick black brows, who sat in the empty street to meet their

party on the back of a great white caribou. The beast stood at least six feet tall at the

shoulder, looming over the smaller livestock caribou they had bartered from the Volkan.

Its legs were striped with thin slashes of black, and in the winter its proud head bore no

antlers. Its young rider sat silent, waiting, as the leader of their small caravan approached.

The caravan leader was a short, fat man who still wore his brightly colored Ondali

silks beneath his riding furs. A gold chain that must have been colder than made it

worthwhile to wear glinted against his neck, and his finely styled moustache glistened with

frost. Shekar Shivari, he was called, one of King Kushkavar’s most loyal and least beloved

courtiers. He drew himself up before the youth as though he were not loomed over, and

looked down his nose at the boy.

“Young man, show respect. This is Garev Raulst, son of Olyvar Raulst, High King of

Hallaar who sits before you, awaiting his father’s company. You will escort us to your

master at once, or I assure you, he will hear of this disobedience.”

To Shekar Shivari’s dismay, the youth snorted at him, and then began to laugh.

Garev was surprised to hear how merry and high his voice was. His laughter rang from the

snowbanks, and even the great caribou tossed his head, lowing as if in amusement. With

each echo, Shekar turned a deeper shade of purple, until the laughter abruptly stopped.

The youth’s eyes hardened at the courtier, and he reached for his spear, pointing the head

at the man’s chest.

“Old man, show respect. I am Charelende Raulst, daughter of Olyvar Raulst, High

King of Hallaa, and I have come to meet my brother.” She looked up, and her eyes met

Garev’s; he felt his mouth fall open in surprise, and for just a moment, Charelende smiled.

Then her gaze returned to Shekar Shivari. “And even if I were some callow boy, I would not

be lectured by a man astride a caribou meant for eating.”

Shekar bristled at her. “I will not be spoken to this way by a woman!” He turned to

Garev. “Your Highness, remind your sister of her place.”

Charelende laughed again, and this time her laugh warmed Garev’s heart. She found

his eyes again. “Come, brother. If Father sees you on that beast, he’ll laugh until spring. I’ll

take you to him.” She patted her caribou’s neck.

Reluctantly, Garev climbed off the sturdy little beast and approached her. In the

background, he could hear Shekar still complaining, but how different he and his sister

looked now! Years of soft living in Ankarkand had made him pudgy and round, and his hair

had grown long. But his sister was tall and slim, with short-cropped black hair. Her face

and body were angular, though Garev suspected their faces may still be similar if his cheeks

were not so padded. Charelende reached a hand down to him, and though they both were

gloved, when he clasped it he thought he felt the warmth of her skin again. “You’re sure?”

he asked.

She grinned at him. “You’ve gotten fat, brother, but I think Tooba can carry you.”

She patted her Caribou’s neck. “Tooba!” The beast knelt, and Garev climbed on. He had not

forgotten the great caribou of Hallaar, but he had forgotten how big they were. When

Tooba stood, Garev felt himself a child again, sitting with his father atop the Black Beast of

Raulstengar.

“This is Tooba, the Snow’s Shadow,” his sister said, as the great beast stamped the

ground. Garev reached around her to scratch the bull’s mane.

“It’s a pleasure, Tooba,” he said. Tooba snorted at him.

Charelende looked out at the assembled Ondali. “My father has prepared a place in

his hall for you, Ondali, but I am not your escort. You will follow behind us.” Her gaze

focused on Shivari. “You would be advised to mind your tongue. If you disrespect me

again, I will have your head on a spike.” Garev swallowed at the thought, but his sister

spurred her caribou and they rode off.

“You wouldn’t really put Shekar’s head on a spike, would you?” he asked, once they

had cantered away.

“Of course not,” said Charelende. “Waste of a good spike.” He could not tell if she

was smiling.

Their father’s house, the high hall of Raulstengar, sat on the edge of a cliff

overlooking the city. It was a foreboding place, all wood and dark stone, and Garev felt

nothing but apprehension as they approached. What is there for me here? he wondered. He

missed the great library of Ankarkand, and the workshop where he had spent most of his

hours, the scantily clad, laughing girls who splashed in the fountains in the castle gardens.

He would find no gardens here.

They stopped just outside the hall, and when both had their feet planted firmly on

the ground, Charelende grinned and threw herself at Garev, her arms folding around him in

a tight embrace. “I missed you,” she said.

“I missed you too,” he said, hugging her close. “I didn’t even recognize you.” He

pulled away, feeling guilty now, and rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought you were a

boy.”

She laughed. “I only recognized you because you were the only one who was not

Ondali.” She looked him up and down, frowning at the Ondali cut of his clothing and the

spectacles on his nose. “But you almost look like one.”

“I’m—” He had opened his mouth to tell her he was glad to be home, but he was not

glad at all. And how could he lie to Charelende? “I’m glad to see you again.”

“I’m glad to see you.” She smiled. “Father and Mother will be glad to see you too.”

There was a brief hesitation in her voice, and Garev wondered if the shadow of his

brother’s death still haunted the high hall. “Aunt Amirende will be too,” she said, and led

him inside.

Inside the hall, it was finally warm. Charelende led him down the long corridor of

the entryway, to the great hall where his father could feast a thousand men. The floor was

oiled wood and the ceiling rose high above; black and green banners hung from the high

rafters, proudly displaying the Raulst clan symbol: a spear held between two caribou

antlers that were sharpened and ready for battle. At the center of the hall there was a large

banner with the symbol of each of the four clans, met in the center by the stone ring of

Hallenskaar. Nowhere, Garev noticed, were the banners of King Kushkavar’s court. A fire

blazed in the long hearth that overtook the far wall, and long tables had been laid out

through the hall in preparation for the High King’s guests. Along the walls were the heads

of great beasts; a snarling white wolf and the enormous head of a Great Bear, now said to

be extinct in Hallaa. Between them there were the antlers of Great Hallaar Caribou, the

mounts of rivals slain in battles between the clans or the antlers of caribou ridden by great

clan leaders. Each pair was unique, for each rider carved and sharpened the antlers of their

caribou, engraving them with patterns unique to the beast and its rider. Garev’s eyes roved

over them, and he even remembered some: Korra, the Night’s Lightning, had been ridden

by Allyg Raulst, Olyvar’s father, who had once been High King himself; Cerwen, the

Stonebreaker, ridden by Daddak Raulst, who had led the clan at the Battle of Winter’s

Whisper long ago; Stuka, the Hidden Thunder, who had been the mount of Dekkar Karr, the

malicious High King defeated by Olyva Raulst. But the most prominently displayed antlers

in the hall, those that sat above his father’s seat at the high table, were those of Kushkavar,

the Kingbreaker, ridden by Nen Volkan.

By Hallaar standards the great hall was lavish, but Garev longed for the opulence of

Ankarkand’s feasting hall, where the tables were inlaid with gold and the seats cushioned

in silk, where stained-glass windows streamed light of all colors to dance in harlequin

patterns on the floor. There was always music in Ankarkand, but the great hall was stifled

and silent, save for the distant crackle of the fire. The preparations for a feast were being

made in the kitchens, but for now the room was empty, save for the two waiting figures at

the near mouth of the corridor.

Olyvar Raulst, leader of the Raulst clan and High King of Hallaar, was much the same

as his son remembered. He was a great looming beast of a man, barrel-chested and broad-

shouldered, with a thick dark beard and black hair that tumbled over his shoulders,

streaked here and there with gray. Atop his head, the silver Crown of Tabende, twisted to

look like many entangled antlers, rested in his hair. Over his hulking shoulders, he still

wore the cloak he had made from the pelt of Kushkavar the Kingbreaker. When the twins

were little, their mother used to tease them, and say their father was a bear who had

learned to wear clothing and shave himself to look like a man, and they would laugh and

play growl and snap at one another, pretending to be half-bears. Now, though, their

father’s fierce nature frightened Garev, and he approached slowly, aware that all the

softness he had so lovingly cultivated in Ankarkand would not be welcome here.

His father looked him over, a frown etched on his heavy features, and Garev saw

disapproval written in his face, but after a moment sadness breathed on him, and he shook

his head and reached out to draw Garev close. “What have they done to my boy?” he said

softly, and Garev wished he had slid a knife between his ribs right then, so deeply did those

words wound him.

“He’s still the same boy who left us, Olyvar,” their mother said sharply, and opened

her arms to her son. Lanja Weysler was a small woman, a head and a half shorter than her

husband, with neat brown hair and watery blue eyes. Garev hugged his mother close and

she caressed her fingers through his hair. “I was worried I would lose you too,” she told

him, and Garev knew that his brother still clung to her like a phantom.

It was Charelende who showed him to his room. “It’s the way you left it,” she said,

as they sat together on his bed, staring into the fire, watching the flames dance as they had

done so many nights throughout their childhood. Garev wished it felt the same now. He

toed the rushes on the floor, thinking how poor and desolate this place was, compared to

the voluptuous chambers he had called home in Ankarkand.

“I have something for you, Lende.” He dug under the layers of fur he still wore, for

even within his father’s hall he was not as warm as he wanted to be, and withdrew a thick

gold disc on a long chain, which he offered to Charelende, his hands trembling a little with

his own excitement. “Here.” A faint ticking sound emanated from the disc, and she did not

reach to take it.

His sister’s nose crinkled. “You brought me jewelry?” she asked. “Ondali jewelry?”

This time it was Garev’s turn to laugh. “No.” He pressed a button on the side of the

disc, and it flipped open to reveal the face of the watch—ebon letters etched in an ivory

face, with slender hands to point to the time. “It’s a clock,” he told her. “Well, a pocket

watch, really.”

She reached out and he put it in her palm, and her grey eyes traced over the watch’s

face. “What’s a clock?” she asked. She tilted her head at the ticking. “It makes a nice noise.”

“It keeps time,” Garev explained. “In Ond, they divide the day into hours, and clocks

keep track of what hour it is.” He tapped the face. “See, the big hand tells you the minute,

and the little one points to the hour.”

His twin frowned at the clock and Garev felt his enthusiasm ebbing away in the face

of her disapproval. “It’s backwards,” she said.

“What?”

“Hours are larger than minutes. The larger hand should tell the hour, not the

smaller.” She looked up at him. “Why is it that way?”

“Because the big one extends farther, so it can tell you the exact minute more easily.

You don’t need a big one to point the hour, because hours are bigger.” He hesitated. “I

could change it for you, if you like.”

“Change it?” Charelende raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Of course. I made it,” he said. “So I can change the hands, if you want the big one to

point to the hour.”

Her grey eyes widened, and for the first time, Garev saw a spark of the excitement

he felt in them. “You made it?” she asked. “How?”

“Well, here. I’ll show you.” He handed her the clock and got up, going to rifle

through the packed belongings the servants had brought up until he found the set of fine

tools Anvikar had given him when he first began to learn horology. When he came back to

join Charelende, his twin had looped the chain about her neck, and held the watch in her

hands. He paused for a minute, looking at her, thinking how unlike other women she

looked—at least, unlike the women he was used to seeing. Her hands were wide and

calloused from the spear and sword; all the hands of the Ondali women he had met had

been soft, oiled and powdered. Women in Ankarkand wore colorful silks that revealed

their midriffs and were oft slit up the side to reveal their legs and cut low to reveal the

curve of their breasts. Charelende’s curves were so obscured by her furs and leathers that

Garev wondered if she had any at all, or if her chest was as flat as a boy’s. Women in

Ankarkand also wore their hair long, often braided with threads of gold and dabbed with

scented oils and perfumes; he imagined his sister would have none of that. It was no

wonder he had mistaken her for a boy, when first they had met again. He sat next to her on

the bed and took the watch.

“See?” he said as he opened the back, exposing the gears that moved inside. “The

gears move the hands and keep time.”

Charelende gazed at the gears as they ticked along. “That’s amazing!” she exclaimed,

and pride blossomed through his chest. Her dark eyebrows drew together and she looked

up at him. “How do they know what time it is?” She sounded skeptical again. Garev

laughed.

“They don’t. You have to set the time, then wind it to keep the gears moving. Here,

let me show you.” She watched as he showed her how each gear worked, and how to wind

and set the watch so they all moved as they should.

“But,” she protested, “if you tell the clock what time it is, then the clock tells you,

how do you really ever know what time it is?”

Garev smiled. “Well, you can set it based on another clock. But mainly, clocks track

the passage of time. See how the big hand is at the four now? When it’s at six, you’ll know

that two hours have passed.” He could not keep himself from beaming as he put the watch

back together.

Charelende took it from him gently. “You really like this, don’t you?” she said. Garev

felt his cheeks burn.

“It’s silly, I know.”

“It is.” She looped the chain about her neck again. “But I’m pleased to share it with

you. Thank you, Garev.”

That evening when they went down to dinner in the great hall, Garev saw his sister

was still wearing the watch; the gold chain looped about her pale neck and disappeared

beneath the high-cut tunic she had changed into. She wore dark breeches and a matching

vest of soft leather, and underneath the thick furs, he saw she did have some curves, slight

though they were. She sat at their father’s right hand, and Garev sat next to her. Their

mother sat on Garev’s other side, and was sipping her wine already when he came

downstairs. He still wore the Ondali silks he had packed, for he had no proper Hallaar

clothes that fit him, and from the head of the table Olyvar Raulst eyed him with derision.

On their father’s left side sat his sister, Amirende Raulst, who served as a Speaker to

the Fae. Though she was younger than Olyvar, her hair was almost entirely silver, and

tumbled in haphazard tangles down her back. Her apprentice, little Ofana Raulst, sat by her

side; she offered Garev a shy smile and ducked her head. Next to her sat Dirjat Vireet,

dressed in his Ondali finery in honor of their guests. Vireet was his father’s advisor, sent to

him from King Kushkavar’s court. He was a tall man with a thin face, and he eyed Garev

with curious scrutiny from across the table. “You,” he said finally, “are not what I

expected.” He sipped his wine. “You actually looked like you enjoyed your time in

Ankarkand.”

Garev knew better, but he found himself smiling. “I did, Sir. Thank you.” He could

feel his father scowl and he dared not turn to look at him.

“I look forward to advising you, when you are High King,” said Vireet. Olyvar Raulst

snorted into his ale and Vireet offered him a wry smile. “Your father is quite headstrong.”

“Mind your tongue,” the High King growled into his drink. “Else I might send it back

to Kushkavar with these buffoons.” He swept his hand out at the assembled Ondali

drinking in his hall, chattering amongst themselves with no heed paid to their hosts.

“I’m sure he would send someone with an even sweeter voice to whisper in your

ear, Your Majesty,” Vireet said, and took another sip of wine.

The hall was filled with guests: the Ondali who had accompanied Garev sat at a long

table just below the high table, and beyond them his father’s retainers filled the hall;

hardened men and women who would gladly die for his father in battle, here now from

their homes despite the time of vauchai to remind the Ondali that Clan Raulst was not

lacking in strength.

The feast that night was brought out by servants; thick turnip and potato stew in

trenchers of dark bread followed by cold pickled fish in an apple jelly and roasted quails

stuffed with dark sweet berries Garev could not recall the name of. The main dish was an

entire roast caribou, not unlike the ones they had ridden from Volkarest, its deep red meat

dripping with blood and gravy. Garev ate slowly and kept his eyes on his food; he felt as

though every eye in the hall were upon him. The food was terribly bland in comparison to

the decadence of Ankarkand, and he felt a slight twinge of remorse that this was the best

his father could offer. When I am High King, he reasoned, I will have to do more importing.

Halfway through the meal, when the Ondali were ignoring their caribou roasts and

picking at the trenchers of their stew—Garev wondered why Dirjat Vireet had not warned

his father that the Ondali eat very little meat—the High King raised his mug of ale in a toast.

“To our Ondali guests,” he said, standing and sweeping his hard-eyed gaze over the

room, “who have finally brought my only living son back to me.” His gaze lingered on

Garev. “Worse though he is for the wear.” Next to Garev, his mother scowled, and for a

moment he feared she would rise from her chair and confront him, but her face was flushed

with wine and even her hands were unsteady; she kept her seat. Charelende watched their

father, her gaze impassive, though the hall had quieted in anticipation of a speech and

Garev could hear the ticking of the clock beneath her tunic. “I would encourage you all to

partake of my feast and my ale and wine, to sleep in my hall, and to return to Ankarkand as

quickly as your stubby livestock may carry you.” He downed his mug and sat, and

Charelende drank as well. The gathered Hallaar cheered, but when their voices died,

Shekar Shivari rose from his seat.

“Your Majesty, if you wish us a hasty departure, there is one more matter I have

been ordered to bring to your attention. A request from his Graciousness King Kushkavar

himself.”

Olyvar Raulst beckoned him forward. “Speak your piece, then.”

Shekar Shivari stepped to the center of the floor, his silken garb whispering as he

drew a scroll from his sleeve and unfurled it. Silence descended upon the hall once more as

the High King raised his hand, and Shekar cleared his throat and read.

“King Kushkavar of the Ondali and the Hallaar would like me to remind you that in

the interest of uniting our two kingdoms, he would request that you name your son Garev

as your successor as High King.” To his father’s credit, Olyvar’s face remained still at that

command. “Additionally, his Graciousness has devised an idea to further bind our

kingdoms together.” Here Garev saw his father raise an eyebrow, and Charelende turned in

her seat to look at Shekar. “As you well know, the great gods have never chosen to bless his

Graciousness with sons. The heir to the king’s throne is his nephew, Javik Nirasti. His

nephew is without a wife, and the king believes it would be in the best interests of both our

kingdoms if he were to wed your daughter.”

Charelende’s grey eyes narrowed and her thick brows drew together, though Garev

suspected what was on her mind, he said nothing. Olyvar Raulst for a moment maintained

his silence, then stood, crossing his arms across his massive chest. His throat worked

beneath his great beard as he gathered his words together. “You will return to your king,”

he said carefully.

“—Our king,” Shekar interrupted.

“—And you will thank him for his generous offer.” His face hardened. “But this is

not Ond, and here kings do not order anyone’s daughters to marry. If your king’s nephew

wishes for my daughter’s hand, he can come here himself and beg her to choose him.”

Garev could see the intimidation in Shekar Shivari’s eyes, surrounded as he was by

the strength of Raulstengar. Still, he held his ground. “Perhaps you misunderstood. This is

not a request. Your daughter will ride with me to Volkarest, and from there she will sail to

Ankarkand and wed the king’s nephew. You are welcome to accompany us, if you wish to

see her wed.”

Charelende stared at the courtier, her jaw clenched, disgust written on her face as

plain as the carvings of an antler. Olyvar Raulst clenched his jaw in kind, and Garev could

see the vein throbbing in his father’s neck. He wondered if he would ever look as similar to

their father as his twin did. The High King made to step toward Shekar, but Dirjat Vireet

stood, clearing his throat.

“Your Majesty,” he ventured, “if I may be so bold, perhaps this is not an entirely poor

idea. You could accompany your lovely daughter to Ankarkand and protect her, and see to

it that she likes this man the king wishes her to wed.”

The High King snorted. “The last time I was in Ankarkand,” he said, “Kushkavar

tried to claim my head. He will not claim my daughter.”

“Your daughter is not yours,” said Shekar. “Just as your son is not.”

“You will take my daughter nowhere!” snarled Olyvar Raulst, his voice booming

through the hall like rolling thunder over the hills, “and if you try, I will have your heads

mounted on spikes all along the walls of Raulstengar, to warn the next fools who think they

may come to claim her like a plot of land.”

“A most fertile one, we should hope,” said Shekar, “for the benefit of both our

peoples.”

Silence fell over the hall then; the servants stopped pouring wine and ale, the

Hallaar retainers stopped breathing, and it seemed to Garev that even the flames in the

hearth ceased their crackle. Even Olyvar Raulst fell silent. Garev feared that he might see

his father truly become a bear, and tear the courtier in half at such a comment, but his calm

was eerie. Instead of Shekar, he looked at Charelende, who sat stone-faced in her seat, still

save for the tremble of her jaw where she clenched her teeth. “He’s yours,” he said. “Do

with him as you will.” He sat down in his chair and waved a servant over to refill his ale.

Charelende Raulst rose from her seat, and Garev felt a strange sadness pool in his

gut for Shekar Shivari. He had not liked the man, but he wished that he had heeded just one

of his warnings about the cruelty of the south. Shekar sneered at his sister, fearless, for

who might fear a woman? Charelende beckoned to the head of the household guard, who

lingered in the darkness by the hearth like a shadowed spirit.

“Dakkan, fetch me a block. And an axe,” she ordered. Dakkan Raulst disappeared.

At her worlds, the guards who had ridden livestock across the Hallaar tundra rose, their

hands reaching for swords they had refused to leave by the door, and all the Hallaar

warriors rose with them; for a moment, the hall was a sea of bristling steel, sharpened

edges glinting like the crests of waves in the torchlight. “Don’t kill all of them,” Charelende

ordered. “Someone must take our message to his Graciousness.” The Ondali sat down,

leaving their master to his fate.

“You wouldn’t dare kill me,” Shekar spat. “I am acting as the hand of our king, who

acts as the hand of the gods. You may not like your fate in this world, woman. But you will

obey it.”

Dakkan Raulst returned with a heavy broadaxe and put it in Charelende’s hands. He

dropped the block before Shekar Shivari without much ceremony. Garev’s sister only

stared at him. His back faced the hall, and his men stared at their tables or their boots. A

few clasped their hands in prayer. “Do you think I am not a woman of my word?”

Charelende asked.

Shekar snorted. “What?” he asked. Charelende snapped her fingers, and Dakkan

seized the courtier, twisting his arms behind his back and slamming him to his knees,

pressing his head against the block. For just a moment she wavered before him, the axe

trembled in her grip. Then Garev saw her set her shoulders in a rigid square, the way she

had done so often when they were children, facing something they both feared. She seized

the shaft of the axe, her knuckles white, and stepped toward Shivari. Now the Ondali

looked up from their seats, and some reached for their blades, but it was too late.

“I told you, just this afternoon, that if you disrespected me again, I would have your

head upon a spike.” She stepped toward the block. “And you came into my father’s house,

and spoke of me as though I were chattel.” There was almost sympathy in her grey eyes.

“My father did try to warn you, kind man that he is, but you would not hear him. And now I

will have your head.” She raised the axe. “If you are lucky, the first blow will kill you. But

you do not strike me as a lucky man.”

The axe sang through the still air as it fell, and in its place a gout of crimson arced

upwards. The Ondali gasped and cried out as though they all had been struck, and from his

seat Garev could see Shekar’s purple face, his eyes bulged wide in death, his tongue lolling

like a slug from his mouth. As it turned out, he was a lucky man. Another chop severed his

head from his neck, and more blood spurted forth to soak the rushes as it rolled away. Bile

rose in Garev’s throat, but he would not look away. I have disappointed my father enough

today, he told himself. Dirjat Vireet had his head on the table and covered it with his arms

like a child hiding from an imagined monster. The stump of spine in Shekar’s neck gleamed

like a knot of pearl. Charelende handed the axe to Dakkan and picked up the courtier’s

head by his hair, holding it aloft for his countrymen to see.

“You may take this body back to his family; we would not deny them his bones. But

this head was taken in recompense, and it belongs to me.” She walked to the antlers of

Kushkavar the Kingbreaker, their prongs gleaming above the high table, and thrust

Shekar’s neck upon them, so his cloudy eyes gazed out at all those assembled. She stayed

there a moment, studying her work, and Olyvar Raulst moved to stand before the block.

His boots squelched in the sodden red rushes.

“Take this message to your king in Ankarkand!” he boomed. “A man may rule no

people without consideration, and he has none for us. He is not fit even to pretend he rules

Hallaa!” His gathered soldiers cheered, and his voice resounded through the hall. “We will

no longer bow our heads to the softbodied fools of the north!” He raised his hands,

addressing the gathered cheering warriors. “Hallaar! Who rules in Hallaa?”

The cheers were a unanimous storm. “Olyvar! Olyvar! Olyvar!” The hall seemed to

shake with their voices, until the High King of Hallaa dropped his arms for silence. He

turned his hard dark eyes on the Ondali, who cowered at their table. “Go,” he commanded.

“You are not welcome the night. Flee to Volkarest and sail home, and take your livestock

ere I slaughter them for my next feast! Tell Kushkavar if he wants my only daughter, he

may come and claim her, if he so dares!”

Never had he seen such a shameful exodus of men, and Garev had far less shame

than his father would have liked. The Ondali fled their seats and the hall like men chased

by the Ruach, who feared even the slightest brush of its shadowed claws. They overturned

chairs and left in their cloaks in haste, and none of them returned to gather Shekar Shivar’s

chilling corpse. Dakkan Raulst barked a command, and the servants swept in to clean the

mess. Dirjat Vireet sat staring at the corpse, his wineglass clasped halfway to his lips where

shock had frozen him. He looked almost too pale to be Ondali.

When Olyvar Raulst turned back to his family, his grin was wide, though his wife

scowled at him. “What have you done?” she demanded. “What will we do if they descend

upon us before Ach’vauchar?”

Now his father turned his gaze upon Garev, and for the first time it was without

derision. “How long did it take you to travel here from Ankarkand?” he asked.

“Six weeks,” Garev told him. “It took us a fortnight to ride from Volkarest, and a

month to sail there.”

The High King stroked his beard. “The Ondali have nothing as fast as caribou,” he

mused. He looked at his sister. “When do the signs point to Ach’vauchar?”

“Two months,” Amirende answered. “Perhaps three. I will consult the spirits again,

if it pleases you.”

He nodded. “Do so.” Then, to himself, “it will take the messengers six weeks to

return to Ankarkand. If they take two weeks to prepare for war and another month to sail

to Volkarest, it will be at least fourteen weeks before they are upon us.”

“Are you so sure they will go to war?” Garev asked. His father laughed, but it was

not a merry laugh like his sister’s.

“One of their men died in my hall, after I refused Kushkavar’s own order. Kushkavar

has no choice but to ride to war, lest he show weakness before his people.”

“The Ondali are not warriors,” Garev protested. “They’re very peaceful.”

“Then they should not have styled themselves the rulers of warriors.”

“We can still avert a war, though!” Though he feared his father and the disapproval

his argument would garner. “Charelende could marry him!” His sister’s scowl at those

words hurt more than any look his father could give.

His father snorted. “It is too late for that,” he said. “And it is not our way. Have you

truly been gone from us so long you do not see that?”

Garev shook his head. “I only see an unnecessary war.”

Olyvar Raulst gave his son a long look, as though he were truly appraising him for

the first time. And then he said the words Garev feared had been on his mind all night. “I

do not know what Kushkavar taught you in his court, but you will not be his creature and

rule with his hand. As I live and breathe, I will never name you the future High King of

Hallaa. You have become Ondali.”

Garev Raulst’s heart dropped into his stomach even as relief bloomed there. He

looked away, but any protest he might have offered was interrupted by his sister, who

returned to the table.

“What if the Ondali don’t sail to Volkarest?” she asked. “They could sail to the

western coast, just past the Shivering Wood, and cut two weeks from the journey. And they

wouldn’t have to capture Volkarest to do it.”

The High King shook his head. “They cannot land their ships in the Wood. They will

sail to Volkarest.”

That night, Garev found himself sleepless in his strange new bed, tossing as he tried

to oust the worries of war from his mind. He rose and, as he had done during so many

sleepless nights of his childhood, he went to Charelende’s room. The door opened at his

hand, but he found his sister was not within, though a low fire still glowed in her hearth.

Her bed was neat, it had not yet been slept in.

His search brought him again to the great hall, where the tables had been removed

and the retainers lay snoring in their sleeping skins and bedrolls, guests by the High King’s

hearth. Fresh rushes had been strewn on the floor, and there was no stain, not even a hint

that a man had bled his life out there only hours before. There also he found Charelende,

standing before the carved antlers of Kushkavar the Kingbreaker, staring at her ghoulish

trophy with its twisted, frozen face.

As he approached, Garev saw sadness welling in her gray eyes. He had meant to ask

her why she would not just marry the prince and one day be crowned queen of Ond, but as

he stood at her side he found his words had dried up in his throat. “I had never killed a

man before,” Charelende whispered, her voice thick. “Not like that.”

“Why did you kill him?” Garev asked, recalling how Shekar’s head would have

wasted a spike in the afternoon.

“Should I have suffered his insults?” she asked. “If I had not killed him, Father would

have. And Hallaa would have thought less of me for it.”

“You don’t have to kill men to be respected,” he told her, though in his heart he knew

it was not as true in Hallaa as it was in Ond.

She laughed softly, but this time there was no joy there, and Garev’s heart broke a

little to hear it. But she turned to him, smiling. “It’s a shame you weren’t born a woman,

Garev.”

“I—excuse me?” His blood rushed to his face as though it could defend his cheeks

from insult.

“I think you would have liked to marry the future king of Ond.” From anyone else,

the words would have been another knife between his ribs, but from his sister, they were

kind. Despite the years they had lost and all the time they would never share, she

understood him better than anyone. “You miss it, don’t you?”

In that moment there seemed no shame in hiding. “I do,” he said, and Charelende

turned her gaze back to Shekar’s head.

“It really is a shame,” she sighed. “Such a waste of a spike.”