Armel frowns. “We can’t stay here. We don’t have any allies.”
Cybel ignores them both and points at me. “What’s on your arm?”
Lugh pulls away and I have to bite back my protective growl when he frees himself from my embrace. He lifts a hand to my bicep. His fingers trail over the twisted golden cords of Thorburn’s armband. “This isn’t yours,” he murmurs.
“Thorburn’s,” I say.
Drest swears, Armel closes his eyes and swallows, and Cybel steps closer to me, gaze fixed on the piece. “Thorburn’s?” he asks.
“When we were fighting our way out of the hall, he gave it to me,” I explain.
“What did he say when he handed it to you?” Cybel asks.
“He said to take it and head north.”
“No,” Cybel says. “What exactly did he say?”
I frown. It’s odd of him to push like this, especially over something so unimportant considering our current circumstances. I force myself back to that moment, to the panic in that small space, and say, “‘Take this. Reach our lands. We’ll fight for you.’” And then, since it might also matter, I add, “And as Voll and the others were getting their horses, she told me they’d find us.”
Cybel used to stare at me the same way when I was a boy and was trying not to lie about sneaking out with Lugh at night to explore the Wylds. It doesn’t matter if I’m grown now, or if I’ve fought more
than enough battles at Cybel’s side to prove my trustworthiness, his inspection is as cutting as I remember. After what feels like forever, he turns away from me and marches back toward Armel, holding out his hand for the map. “We wait.”
He’s met with instant protests, but ignores them and focuses on the map instead. “We had the advantage of ghost lights,” he says. “Voll and the others will need more time.” He glances up at the sky and the still falling snow. “At least it hasn’t started in earnest,” he grumbles. “They’ll find our tracks.”
“And that’s a good thing?” Drest protests. “If they can find our tracks, Goodfellow and his followers can too.”
“Let’s start a fire,” Cybel says. “We’ll be here for a while and might as well keep warm.” When no one moves, he finally looks up from the map. His glare is threat and promise combined. “Fire. Now.”
While Armel and I gather what’s needed for the fire, Lugh sends a raven with a warning to Queen Mab. He’s done by the time the fire’s going. Cybel was right; despite the danger of smoke being seen, the warmth helps knock out the chill of the night’s ride. We argue over the few tasks we have to complete before Voll and the other Northerners arrive. Cybel refuses to let me act as lookout. Drest offers to go instead, leaving Armel and Cybel puzzling over the map. Lugh uses the time to clean and bind his wounds. The punctures over his ankle are the worst. Every movement of the joint makes the punctures gape. He grits his teeth against the pain, packs the wounds with more herbs, and rebinds the bandages until he can hobble and mount Liath with obvious discomfort, but no serious limitations. I sharpen every weapon I can get my hands on and check my father’s axe for any signs of injury from the fight with Goodfellow. I’m putting everything away when we hear Drest’s call. Friends have arrived.
It’s a larger force than I expect, too many to fit in the grove with us. The huscarls end up huddling around our fire, murmuring quiet greetings to us all, even Lugh, who seems surprised by their continued use of his title. Jensson, Kermode, Voll, Jokinen, and Resnik are the only survivors of Goodfellow’s coup. Olofsdotter and Thorburn fell holding the hall so the rest could escape. The news makes the golden ring around my arm weigh heavier.
“We need to leave quickly,” Kermode warns. “Goodfellow was organizing a group to follow us.”
“Not the main army?” I ask.
Kermode shakes his head. “No. He and Bouchard are moving on the Seelie sídhe as we speak.”
Lugh says nothing, but I see the panic in his eyes when he looks at me across the fire. If Goodfellow takes the Summer Court, he’ll march on the Winter Court next.
“Are you certain?” Cybel asks.
“One of Olofsdotter’s men heard it as he escaped. Bouchard’s army is already on the Summer Court’s doorstep. They were simply waiting for Goodfellow’s command to begin the assault.”
Drest frowns. “Then who’s following us?”
“A smaller group. Maybe twenty? All young and lean and hungry.” Kermode scuffs the toe of his boot against the snow and glares into the dying fire. “The kind with something to prove.”
“Probably some of the young fighters from the villages,” Lugh murmurs to me. “The ones I saw in those visions.”
Probably. Young zealots willing to follow Goodfellow’s commands would be the easiest people to convince to chase us through the Wylds.
“We need to plan our route back to the North,” Jokinen says. She nods toward Armel’s map. “We don’t want word of what happened at Krigsmöte spreading and ruining our chances for escape.”
“Why are you doing all of this?” Lugh asks quietly. “You know who we are now, who I am.”
To my surprise, it’s Jensson, who rules one of the smallest territories, who speaks up for the group. “You’ve protected our lands long enough to become legend and earn your title. Our thegn trusted you,” he says. He stands and brushes snow off his cloak. “For as long as Keiran trusts you, we will as well. His wishes are ours now.”