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She made her stately progress towards the dais where Vasic awaited her. Beyond him a priest in ceremonial robes knelt, head bowed in prayer as he blessed the wedding cup. She glanced over the ranks of subservient dignitaries and reflected that perhaps ruthlessness was the most desirable attribute in a king.

Minstrels played on the gallery over the door by which she’d entered the room. The music they played was sombre, better suited to a funeral than a wedding. Suitable gravitas for a state occasion, but to her it spoke of departures, not new beginnings. Not that it mattered. None of it would matter soon. The stone-cold certainty brought a chill of recognition: this was a truth she could not alter, would not attempt to. This would be an ending.

Immutable.

For whom, she could not yet see.

She trod towards it with her head held high.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Weaver signed the freemerchant’s contract, inscribing his name beneath where Curtis and Blaine had already made their marks. The last thing he’d put his name to had been the forced confession damning the Lady Alwenna. At least this time it was only himself he betrayed.

The freemerchant stowed the parchment away inside his surcoat, smiling in his supercilious fashion. He had a way of looking sideways at the non-freemerchants that irked Weaver. They couldn’t claim to be one with the other people of the Peninsula, yet hold themselves aloof the way they did. Then again, who was he to criticise? He’d chosen his own path since leaving the family farm. If Marten knew he’d once had a wife with freemerchant blood he hadn’t mentioned it. Perhaps he was one of those who believed freemerchant blood shouldn’t mingle with that of the landbound.

The road they took now led them east out of Brigholm, towards the mountains. They climbed steadily all day, vegetation around them thinning as trees grew sparse. The freemerchant had told them they would be three days on the road. He’d recruited others besides Weaver and his companions: dead-eyed sell-swords who’d obey orders as long as the pay kept coming. And who’d steal whatever they deemed their due the instant the money ran out. The only cause they believed in was holding their own bodies and dubious souls together. The freemerchant was playing a risky game with some of his acquisitions.

One of them – Scoular by name, a solidly built man who fancied himself as something of a leader – watched as Weaver sat in their overnight camp, sharpening his dagger on a borrowed whetstone. The blade didn’t need work, but Weaver’s hands needed occupation – anything to take his mind off events unfolding at Highkell. The feast would likely have started by now. They’d be drinking to the bride’s health. Given the opportunity he’d have drunk himself senseless hours ago. Instead, he sat there with the whetstone, removing non-existent flaws from a perfectly honed blade.

Scoular stood up and wandered over to where Weaver sat. “Carry on like that and you’ll have no blade left.”

Weaver ignored him and continued honing the blade.

Scoular cleared his throat. “I said–”

“I heard you.” Weaver gave the blade one last pass over the whetstone and inspected the edge.

Scoular spat on the ground at Weaver’s feet. “I hate to see good steel wasted.”

“So do I.” Weaver slid the blade into its sheath. “That’s why I won’t be gutting you with it. Not this time.”

Scoular snorted with derision. “I heard you were hard.”

Weaver rubbed the back of his neck, pretending to think over Scoular’s words. “Should I know you?” He rose to his feet, the movement carefully controlled. He was half a head taller than Scoular, but the other man had the advantage when it came to weight. He had the kind of bulk that would run to fat easily, but it looked like solid muscle right now.

Scoular raised his chin. “Most folks have in The Marches.”

Weaver nodded. “Is that so? The womenfolk tell the children tales about you to keep them in their beds at night?”

“Don’t try to get clever with me.” Scoular circled round Weaver, flexing his arms. “You’ve lost your bottle – it’s plain as–”

A bellowing voice broke in. “What’s going on here?” Marten strode across to where the two men faced one another. He was openly carrying a sword on this journey. Were they about to find out if he could wield it?

Scoular eyed the ground in sullen silence.

Weaver shrugged. “We’re just swapping tales of the old days. You know how it is.”

“I know.” Marten glared at them. “If there’s any fighting you’re both out of the company. I don’t pay you to damage each other. Is that clear?”

“Aye, sir,” Scoular mumbled before slouching off to rejoin his companions.

“And you, Weaver – is it clear?”

“It’s clear.”

Marten studied his face for a moment. “Don’t make trouble for me, Weaver. There’s more riding on this than you would ever believe.”

“I won’t make trouble, but I can’t speak for Scoular. If he starts something I’ll have no choice but to finish it.”

“Then you’ll both be out of the company. Is that understood?”

Weaver nodded. “Understood.” Either the freemerchant had realised he had a bad bargain in the sell-swords, or something more fundamental wasn’t going to plan. Whichever it might be, time would tell.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

Alwenna halted before the dais while the ladies-in-waiting gathered her skirts so she might ascend the short flight of steps with all due ceremony. The air vibrated with tension, as if a thunderstorm approached. Could no one else in the room sense it?

Vasic studied her with his lips curled in a smile of welcome. It was the smile of the victor, about to claim his prize. Poor fool. Let him enjoy this moment – it would not last long. Again, that certainty. Stone cold, it burned within her, setting nerve ends afire and gripping her in a strange rapture a thousand times stronger than that she’d known after Hames’ death. She smiled.

A burst of rain lashed against the window beneath which the priest still knelt, his back to the room. A man of slender build, he rose easily to his feet. A shiver of recognition ran down her spine. She knew him before he even turned, his hands raised in benediction. Instinct recognised her enemy before he even spoke. And he spoke with Garrad’s voice, Garrad’s duplicity.

“You will join hands and kneel, that we may beseech the blessing of the Goddess upon this marriage.” His eyes slid over her, cold, without any hint of welcome. Strange, since she’d not been good enough for Tresilian, that he should look with approval upon her marriage to Vasic, his chosen lord. A puzzle, but of little consequence. Not now. She was certain.

Vasic took hold of her hand and gave a subtle tug in a downward direction. She resisted, but did not remove her hand from his grasp. She was aware he’d turned his face to her, but she kept her gaze fixed on Garrad.

The priest avoided meeting her eye. “You will kneel, that we may beseech the blessing of the Goddess upon this marriage.”

“I will kneel before the Goddess, but not while this abomination presumes to mediate on her behalf.” Her voice rang out loud, startling in its clarity. All the years of elocution training she’d endured were finally worthwhile.

A shocked murmur ran around the room behind them.

“Cousin, this is not the time to cause trouble,” Vasic hissed.

“Then remove the traitor Garrad from my presence.”

Another murmur rose, louder than the first.

Vasic’s grip tightened on her hand. “Garrad is the most exalted priest of the brethren at Vorrahan, and he is my loyal servant.”

“He has been loyal servant to many kings, often to more than one king at once.” She had no doubt most of the assembled onlookers had heard her words. But her next words were for Vasic alone. “You would be wise to heed my warning.”

Vasic dropped her hand as if she’d burned him.

“Dismiss him, Vasic, if you would have me trust you.”

He wouldn’t. It was certain.

Immutable.

All she had to do was wait.

The rain hurled itself against the window harder than ever and the sky darkened. Alwenna suppressed a shiver. It would be soon.

“I warned you, your highness. She is cursed, I tell you.” Garrad pointed an accusing hand at Alwenna, his voice reverberating about the great chamber. “She is the abomination in this room.”

Alwenna smiled back at him. “The Goddess will speak soon enough, Garrad. And I call everyone here to witness her decision.” Alwenna raised her own hands in mimicry of his benediction.

For three heartbeats there was silence. Then, minutely at first, the floor began to resonate.

Garrad gaped at Alwenna in disbelief that changed swiftly to anger.

The vibration grew stronger until the floor shook palpably. Behind them onlookers raised their voices in alarm. At the back of the chamber the doors were pulled open, the groaning hinges drowned out by the buzz of panic as people fled.

“Curse you, you hell-spawn bitch!” Garrad’s voice carried over the commotion, and he pulled a ceremonial dagger from his belt. The jewels glinted, as if waking from a deep sleep. Alwenna had seen that knife before: held in Vasic’s hand, in a dungeon, spilling her husband’s blood.

“No!” Vasic caught hold of Alwenna’s hand, trying to pull her away.

“Stand clear, cousin. Let him try his worst.” Alwenna shook off his grip and spread her hands wide, palms uppermost, smiling. “Come, holiest of fathers, do your work.”

Face suffused with rage, Garrad took a step towards her and the floor pitched more wildly. A stone fell from the outer wall, crashing through the timber dais barely two yards from where they stood.

Garrad spun to face it, struggling to keep his balance, then turned back to Alwenna.

“End it now, Garrad,” she goaded. “Let all those gathered here witness it.”

Garrad’s expression of hatred crumbled, giving way first to doubt and then to rank fear. He stared at Alwenna as if mesmerised. Gripping the dagger in both hands, he raised it above his head. Beneath his fingers the jewels in the ornate hilt glinted and his gaze was drawn to them, an expression of wonderment overtaking the fear. An expression of ecstasy. “My Goddess, I am your faithful servant. I do only your bidding.”

He plunged the dagger deep into his own throat, blood spurting over Alwenna and Vasic where they stood.

Vasic staggered back in horror.

Alwenna felt a bubble of laughter rising within her chest and she saw no reason to contain it. She laughed out loud as Garrad crumpled to the ground. The knife clattered to the floor and lay there, the blood-spattered jewels still glowing with vibrant colour.

“Cousin, the Goddess has spoken.” Alwenna smiled at Vasic, but he backed further away from her.

The floor continued to shake and more masonry fell from the top of the outer wall above the window. “Truly, Vasic, you are wiser than I once thought. But this time you have nothing to fear.” The floor pitched sideways and they all staggered. The dagger rolled over and over until it came to rest against the wall. Screams from the back of the room intensified as the remaining onlookers fought to escape.

And their fear was delicious. Alwenna could taste their panic as she breathed it in, more intoxicating than any wine.

She was dimly aware that Vasic had turned and bolted for the door; dimly aware, too, of a determined tug on her arm.

“Highness, you cannot stay here.” The servant girl; the silent, watchful servant girl.

“I’m safe enough, Erin. The Goddess has not finished with me yet. Not this day.”

The girl gaped at her in horror and tugged harder. “My lady, the wall.” She pointed to where the ornamental dagger lay. Alwenna was just in time to see the glint of the precious gems as the dagger rolled away, falling out of sight through a yawning gap that split the wall from floor to ceiling. As they watched, the gap grew ever wider and the floor tilted steeper, threatening to pitch them over the edge after the dagger. Then Erin lost her footing and slid towards the abyss. Without thinking, Alwenna snatched a handful of her robe and heaved her upwards, away from the sheer drop. She caught hold of the edge of the tilting dais and somehow they scrambled together towards the door at the opposite side of the window alcove. Alwenna had no thought in her mind at all but she saw the twisted snakes that formed the door handle and grabbed them. Together they clung there. Screams grew louder from the far end of the room, and with a great rushing and rumbling a whole chunk of the outer wall fell away, the floor sliding after it, sending up a great cloud of dust that stung their eyes and filled their mouths and eyes with grit.

The deafening roar of falling masonry died away and the dust cloud began to settle, revealing they were clinging to a doorway near the edge of what remained of the floor. Then once again the ground beneath them pitched and the walls reverberated. With an ominous cracking sound another section of floor sheared away, dropping down the precipice. Then with a great shudder the whole wall began to peel off in its wake, dragging the two women down with the doorway in which they clung as dust boiled up to engulf them.

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

Weaver was out of shape. The time he’d spent in the Highkell dungeon had taken its toll on him, as had the time he’d spent contemplating the bottom of an ale tankard since. A morning back in the saddle after their first long day on the road was doing nothing to help the nagging pain in his ribs, despite the fact they were travelling at an easy pace. He thought briefly of that farm on the northern coast, but there was no turning back. He’d signed the freemerchant’s contract and now it was down to him to earn his keep. The road wound ahead of them over the plain, climbing almost imperceptibly towards the distant mountains. Scrubby vegetation dotted the rock-strewn landscape. It was said this had once been a vast sea that froze so hard every living thing was turned to stone. It was an uneasy place, too silent by far. Occasional creatures scurried away out of sight, startled by their approach. The same nondescript colour as the sandy ground, the creatures dived into burrows dug in the shade of the rocks.

The freemerchant slowed his horse to ride alongside Weaver. “If you’re fast enough and hungry enough you can catch them, but dried beef’s better for travelling here. Well salted.”