“Do not tell me what I can and cannot think.”
He quelled, nodding fearfully, but perhaps there was some truth to what he was saying. She puzzled on that for a moment, though in the end it did not matter. They had won the day regardless, and whether the seneschal was lying or not did not make a blind bit of difference. It was only his trust she needed now.
“The Great One is dead,” she said, putting the matter aside. “His loyalists have been slain, and the rest will bend the knee. I am told that several longships managed to get away. No doubt some of the occupants of these ships will flee to other islands, and when the pirate lords discover that the Blubber King has fondled his last serving maid they will seek to take advantage. You know these men, seneschal. You know these so-called Lords of the Lake. You say you wish to serve me? Well, I will give you that chance.”
He tried not to look too elated. “I…yes, of course. Whatever you need, Lady Daecar.”
“My need is simple. Parley with these pirates. Tell them they will not come to harm for former crimes should they submit to the rule of the crown. Inform them that the king’s soldiers will come here to take control of these islands. That they will be opened for the sanctuary of refugees. If these pirate lords welcome such terms, they will be allowed to keep their wealth, and some measure of influence here as well. If not, they will be killed.” She took a pause, to make sure he understood. “What say you, seneschal?”
“I say…I say I am your humble servant, my lady. I say I am yours to command.” He crept from the pool of shadow in which he’d been cowering and went down to his knees before her. She gave him the back of her hand to kiss. Then he rose, lank hair bobbing on his shoulders. “I will see it done.”
“Good.” She turned to leave.
He went to follow.
“No,” she said, spinning back to face him. “You’ll stay here for the time being, seneschal. To think things over.”
“I…my lady, I don’t need to think things over. I am your servant, your humble servant…”
Who deserves to squirm a little longer, she thought, stepping out through the door. “Bar it shut,” she told Sir Montague. “If he makes a squeak of complaint, toss a bucket of fish guts over him. That ought to keep him quiet.”
The man smiled. “Gladly, my lady.”
The fighting was wilting like a weed in winter, done or thereabouts. Amara paced back along the beach until she reached the captain. “Did you tell them what I asked?”
“Aye. Will the seneschal yield?”
“Aye,” she said, mimicking him.
He grinned. “Well, that’s that then. Seems the lake’s turning a bit rough out there, m’lady, so be best to store the oars for the night. We can leave on the morrow, when Matmalia’s in a better mood.”
Matmalia was the Rasal goddess of waves, Amara recalled. “Tomorrow is fine,” she said. “Though the word ‘if’ is not one of my favourites, Captain. I thought you said the weather was set fair tonight?”
“Aye, I thought it would be. But the gods are capricious, aren’t they? Never quite know what they’re doing to do.”
“I suppose not. Though their cruelty is oft something one can count on.” She heard a voice hailing her, and saw Sir Connor striding over. He had not yet had time to dress in his armour, though had taken no further wounds. Thank goodness. Her gloomy household knight had been her rock for a long time now.
He went to a knee. “My lady, the battle is done. All enemy loyalists have been defeated. The rest have thrown down their arms, and are willing to submit to your rule. Shall I gather them to swear you their oaths?”
That seemed like a pointless exercise. Most men would swear an oath one day, only to break it the next. “That won’t be necessary, Sir Connor. Tell me. How fare our men? And stand, please. You’re embarrassing me.”
He did so. Then he said, “Sir Hockney has taken a wound to his thigh, but it does not seem serious. Sir Penrose, Carly, Jovyn are all well, as is Sir Talmer and Ben Barrett. Sir Ryger has taken command of the palace, my lady, the larders at the rear, and the way down into the underground. We should have some warning if anyone comes up from that way. And there are some others who wish to join us when we leave. They are prepared to swear you their swords.”
Amara nodded. She would have time for that later. But first… “His larders, did you say?”
“Yes, my lady. They are plentiful, as you can imagine.”
She did not need to imagine, having watched the Blubber King stuffing his face for weeks on end. “What happens after a battle, Sir Connor?” she asked the knight.
He cocked a brow. “Well, typically the dead are gathered and counted, funerals pyres built, graves dug, rites spoken, wounds sewn…”
That wasn’t what she was getting at. “A feast, Sir Connor. After battle comes the feast.” She smiled, looking at the captain, who smiled back, and the scores of men and women and children huddled about the shore. His children, she thought. And the lot of them, half-starved.
She turned back to Sir Connor Crawfield. “Tonight we feast,” she said.
29
“It will be secure here?” Elyon asked. He needed to be absolutely certain. “No one but you and I will know where it is?”
“It will remain between you and I, Prince Elyon. You have my word.”
“Swear it by godsteel, my lord. I will have your oath.” A part of him hated these oaths now, after that one Amilia had forced him to make, but men of honour tended to stand by them, and Lord Morwood had proven himself such a man.
“As you wish,” the jowly watch commander said. He gripped the leather handle of his godsteel blade and spoke words that Elyon deemed appropriate. Then he looked at him. “Will that serve?”
“It will have to.” Elyon sighed, hating this. He hated much and more these days, his damnable injury foremost among them. “Lock it up, then. But if you breathe a word of this to anyone…”
“I will curse myself to a wretched afterlife. I know the punishments for breaking a godsteel oath, good prince.” He opened the chest in his chambers, an unspectacular trunk of hard ironwood, banded in lengths of old dull steel and hidden in the depths of a cupboard. “Please. Lay it here.”
Elyon grimaced as he drew the Windblade from its sheath, the mists swirling and twisting uncomfortably, as though knowing it was going to be abandoned. He could hear the harsh whispers in the back of his mind, hissing their cautions and concerns. He hesitated a moment, his shoulder throbbing. After a while Morwood gave a cough.
“My lord. I think it would behove me to remind you that you did warn me you might equivocate. And that I should be firm on you when you did, and urge you to leave it here, rather than take it with you. It will be safe, you have my word. It will be waiting for you when you return.”
Elyon nodded reluctantly. “Fine. I’ll…I’ll leave it here.” He took a deep breath and placed the Windblade in the trunk before he could second-guess himself. He took a step away, wrenching against some hidden force. “Shut the chest, my lord. And do it quickly.”
Morwood saw to it, shutting it, locking it. Then he stepped back and closed the cupboard door, locking that as well. Elyon was staring at the door like an addict, his obsession locked beyond two inches of solid wood. This is good, he tried to tell himself. Some time away from it can only be a good thing, even if it’s only hours. He knew that was the case but it didn’t make it any easier. With a great effort, he spun on his heels and marched away out of the room, Lord Morwood trailing behind him.
