Brotherhood of the Wolf (29 page)

Roland darted around a group of people in the hall who stood in his way, pushed past a fat woman. Sera hurried to keep up. He took her hand, shoved his way through the clotted halls, nuzzling past others until at last he and Sera gazed over the edge of a balcony into the Great Hall, a fine chamber where thousands of Dedicates and servants were gathering.

There was much shouting and crying. Some people shouted for news, others wept openly for their love of a lost king. One old woman screamed as if her child had been torn from her breast and dashed against the flagstones.

“That's old Laras. She's a cook. Her boys are in the King's retinue. They must be dead, too!” Sera said, confirming Roland's thoughts.

Down in the great room the Dedicates who were now Restored gathered in a crushing crowd, along with the cooks and servants who normally attended them. A fight erupted as one burly fellow began pummeling another, and a general melee ensued. Those who wanted news shouted for everyone else in the crowd to hold silent. The resulting tumult filled the room, echoed from the walls.

The Great Hall had an enormous domed ceiling some seventy feet high, and balconies encircled the hall on five levels. At least three thousand former Dedicates were gathered in the hall. They spilled out of every doorway and stairwell, and leaned precariously over the oaken rails of the balconies.

Roland was hardly able to comprehend the scope of what was happening. Thousands of Dedicates Restored at once? How many valiant knights had died in battle? And so quickly!

Seven men of varying ages took seats around an enormous oak table. One man began to beat a huge brass candelabrum against the table, yelling, “Quiet! Quiet! Let us all hear the tale! The King's Wits can give it best!”

These seven men were the King's Wits, men who had endowed King Mendellas Draken Orden himself with the use of their minds, letting their skulls become vessels for another man's memories. Though the King had died, fragments of his thoughts and recollections lived on in each of these Restored men. In days to come these men would probably become valued counselors to the new King.

After a moment, the screaming woman was pulled from the Great Hall, and the others stifled their sobs and their shouts. Sera Crier pressed against Roland's back, halfclimbed his shoulders to get a better view of the turmoil below.

It felt to Roland as if the crowd breathed in unison, every man and woman among them waiting expectantly to hear news of the battle.

The King's Wits began to speak. The oldest among them was a graybeard named Jerimas. Roland had known him at court as a child but barely recognized him now.

Jerimas spoke first. “The King surely died in battle,” he said. “I recall seeing a foe. A man of dark countenance, dressed in armor of the south. His shield bore the image of a red wolf with three heads.”

It was a scrap of memory, an image. Nothing more.

“Raj Ahten,” two of the other Wits said. “He was battling Raj Ahten, the Wolf Lord.”

“No. Our king did not die in that battle,” a fourth Wit argued. “He fell from a tower. I remember falling.”

“He was joined in a serpent ring,” old Jerimas added. “He felt the pain of a forcible before he died.”

“He gave his metabolism,” another fellow croaked as if
he were ill and could hardly speak. “They all gave metabolism. I saw twenty lords in a room. The light of the forcibles hung in the air like glowing worms, and men cried out in pain at their touch.”

“Yes, they had formed a ring. A serpent ring, so that they could battle Raj Ahten,” another Wit agreed.

“He was saving his son,” Jerimas said. “Now I recall. Prince Orden had gone for reinforcements … and was bringing an army to Longmot. King Orden was wounded, and could battle no more, so he threw his life away, hoping to break the serpent ring, and thus save his son.”

Many of the King's Wits nodded. Once, as a child, Roland and some friends had gone into an old ruin, a lord's manor house. In ages past there had been a mosaic of colored tiles on the floor. Roland and his friends had sat one morning piecing together the tiles, trying to guess what picture they might make. It had been an image of a water wizard and dolphins as they battled a leviathan in the deep ocean.

Now, he watched as the King's Wits picked up the tiles of Orden's memory, similarly trying to piece them into a cohesive picture.

Another man shook his head in confusion and then added, “There is a great treasure at Longmot. All the kings of the north will want it.”

“Shhh …” several of the Wits hissed in unison. “Do not speak of that in public!”

“Orden battled to free Heredon!” one of the King's Wits shouted at the fellow who mentioned the treasure. “He wanted no treasure. He fought for the land, and the people, he loved!”

After that, there was only silence for a long moment as the Wits considered. None of them could recall all of what Orden had known. A snippet here, a scrap there. An image, a thought, a single word. The pieces were there, but the King's Wits, even doing their best, could hardly fit them together. Many crucial pieces would be missing—the memories that Orden had taken with him to his grave.

A king was dead.

Roland considered his duty, saw where it lay. In the land of Heredon, his king had died. In the land of Heredon, his own son served the new King.

“What of Prince Orden?” Roland shouted. “Was anyone here a Dedicate to the Prince?” Roland had never seen this prince, only knew of his existence because Sera Crier had mentioned him. King Orden had married only a week before Roland became a Dedicate.

For several heartbeats Roland waited. No one answered. None of the Prince's Dedicates had been Restored.

Roland turned and thrust Sera Crier away. He began pushing through the crowd, intending to leave the keep and go in search of a boat. He needed to leave the Blue Tower as quickly as possible. The King's Wits might be hours telling their tale of woe. But within moments, he knew, others among the Restored would begin hurrying back to the mainland, to visit loved ones. He wanted to beat the others to the boats.

Sera grabbed his sleeve, held him. “Where are you going?” she asked. “Will you return?”

He glanced back into the crowd, saw Sera's stricken face, blood leaching from it. He knew that his answer would not sound gentle to her ears, no matter how softly it was spoken, so he said bluntly, “I don't know where I am going. I—I just need to get away from here. But I am never coming back.”

“But—”

He touched his forefinger to her lips. “You served me well, for many years.” Roland knew that men learn to love best those whom they serve most wholeheartedly. Sera Crier had cared for him for years, had lavished affection on him in his sleep, had perhaps dreamed of what he might do when he awakened.

Those who served in the Dedicate's Keep were often stray children who performed menial chores in return for the barest necessities. If Sera remained, she'd likely wed some lad in the same predicament, and the two of them
would raise their family here in the shadows of the Blue Tower. She might never walk on the green mainland under the full sun again; she would be forced to listen to the pounding of the surf and the calls of the gulls for the rest of her days. Clearly, Sera Crier hoped for something better. Yet Roland had nothing to offer her. “I thank you for your service, both for myself, and for my king,” he told her. “But I'm no longer a Dedicate, and have no place here.”

“I… I could come with you,” she suggested. “With so many men Restored, freed from their servitude today, no one would really miss me if I left.”

I am a good servant, he thought. I give my all to my lord. You should do the same.

He squinted toward the nearest door, a dark passage crowded with bodies. He prepared mentally to shove past them all. He had few connections to the living. After twenty-one years of sleep, his king was dead. His mother and his uncle Jemin had been old even back then. In all likelihood, they were gone. Roland would never again see them. Though men would now call him “Restored,” in fact he felt he had been restored to nothing. He had only one thing left: a son to find.

“Sera,” he whispered, “take care of yourself. Perhaps someday we will meet again.”

Baron Poll wakened him. “Good morning to you all!”

Roland looked up. The sun was well over the hill, and Baron Poll stared down at him with a playful grin. He had a day-old loaf of bread in his hands, and he tore a piece off and munched contentedly.

Averan came awake, wrapped in the green woman's arms. She turned over, gazed at the green woman. “What's she been eating?”

Roland rose up half an inch. Earlier, in the predawn light, he'd not noticed the dried blood smeared liberally all over the green woman's chin.

“It looks like she caught something,” Roland said.

“Not our horses,” Averan intoned with relief. The mounts were lying beneath the windfall.

“She didn't catch a something,” Baron Poll said with evident gusto. “She caught a
who.
I'd say she waylaid him quite well. Come and see the evidence.”

“Some traveler?” Averan cried in dismay.

Baron Poll did not answer, merely turned and led them downhill. Roland leapt up, as did Averan, and they followed Baron Poll over the top of the hill. The green woman strode behind, apparently curious about the excitement.

“How did you find him?” Averan asked.

“I was searching for some fortunate sapling upon which to empty my bladder,” Baron Poll offered, “when I stumbled upon the remains.”

At just that moment, they reached a slight depression. The grisly sight that awaited them would be forever indelibly impressed upon Roland's mind.

Averan did not cry out in horror as other children might have done. Instead, she went up to the remains and studied them with morbid fascination.

“He was creeping up on us, I'd say,” Baron Poll conjectured, “when she pounced on him from behind. See here, he had an arrow nocked, and a long knife. But it's broken now.”

Roland had been the King's butcher. He knew knives, and had bought one like this in the market once. “A khivar,” he corrected. The man had worn a black cotton burnoose under his robe. A broken necklace near his ragged throat was decorated with gold trade rings. “One of Raj Ahten's assassins?”

“He had a little purse full of human ears,” Baron Poll confirmed. “I doubt he was a surgeon.”

Roland bent over and pulled the necklace of trade rings free, slipped them into his pocket. He glanced up at Baron Poll. The Baron grinned. “Now you're learning, man. No use leaving them for the scavengers.”

“Blood,” the green woman said. Then she said more softly, “Blood—no.”

At that, Averan grinned wickedly and said in a loud voice, “Blood—yes!” She walked over to the corpse, pretended to wipe her finger in the mess, and said, “Good blood! Mmm … blood—yes!”

The green woman stared, the dawn of comprehension glowing in her eyes. She went over to the body, sniffed it. “Blood—yes.” But apparently she wanted none of it.

“She likes them fresh,” Roland suggested.

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” Baron Poll asked Averan. “Teaching her to kill people?”

“I'm not teaching her to kill,” Averan said. “I just don't want her to feel guilty about what she did. She saved us. She didn't do anything wrong!”

“Right, and because she's got the blood lust out of her system, I'm sure she'll be of cheery temperament all day,” Baron Poll said. “But of course, next time she's hungry, she'll just grab someone by the roadside.”

“No she won't,” Averan said. “She's very smart. I'm sure she knows more than you think.” She reached out and scratched the green woman's head, as if she were a dog.

“Oh, she's smart all right,” Baron Poll said. “And the next time the High King levies taxes, I'll have her right over to figure my dues.”

Averan glared at the Baron. “Baron Globbet, have you ever thought that maybe she could be of use to us? What if she killed this man because she knew he was trouble? What if there are more assassins on the road? She could kill them for us. She seems to have a strong nose, and they all smell like ginger and curry. She might smell them out. Don't you think so, Roland?”

Roland merely shrugged.

“I like a bit of curry myself,” Baron Poll argued. “And I don't fancy the notion of having my innards ripped out because some inn chooses to serve it for dinner.

“Besides, she's not smart,” Baron Poll continued. “I've seen crows that mimic your words as well as she does!”

Averan's belief in the green woman seemed far-fetched, Roland thought, but the green woman
had
learned a lot of words this morning. Given a day or two, they might teach her to hunt.

More to the point, he wasn't quite sure what they could do about her. He hadn't had any luck at killing her yesterday.

They'd tried to outrun her, leave her after last night, and the green woman had merely loped after their mounts, shouting for blood.

No, the green woman was a problem, maybe one that only the King and his counselors could fathom. She was Averan's charge for the moment, and Roland didn't have any fancy notions about how to handle her.

14
DEYAZZ