Child of Flame (Crown of Stars 4)

From his chair, staff in hand, he surveyed the assembly gathered before him: a host of RockChildren spread out on the gently sloping land that descended toward the strand that marked the water’s edge. Twenty-two staffs lay at his feet, and the chieftains who had surrendered their staffs to his authority stood at a respectful distance. The warriors of Rikin tribe stood behind them, intermingling with those warriors who had sailed to Rikin with their war leaders. Beached on the strand and anchored farther up and down the fjord lay at least eighty ships, each one manned with no less than fifty warriors. Yet even this large assembly represented only a portion of the army he could call on now.

They were many, and more waited in the fjords that were home to the other tribes. But the humans still had greater numbers in their own country than all of the RockChildren leagued together.

That was what Bloodheart and the old chieftains had always failed to understand. The humans might be weaker in body, but they had the implacable strength of numbers.

The assembly waited. Distantly, wind sang down from the fjall, where the WiseMothers conferred in the silence that is the privilege of stone. Behind, the SwiftDaughters shifted restlessly. They did not have the patience of their mothers and grandmothers. Not for them the slow measure of eternity. Like their brothers and cousins, they would tread the Earth for no more than forty or so winters before dissolving under the press of time.

o;You would risk your precious daughter so near to me, my lord prince?” Yet was there a glimmer of vulnerability in the old Eagle’s expression as he leaned forward to stir the fire with a stick? Sparks drifted lazily up into the night, flicking out abruptly where they brushed against the stone.

“I can’t trust you, it’s true. This might all be a ruse on your part. But my daughter is well guarded by a creature that never sleeps, and who will soon know what manner of threat you pose. And it seems to me, my friend, that when we first met this night you had snuck into my camp without being seen. You were close enough to my daughter to kill her, had that been your intent. A knife in the dark offers a quick death. Yet she lives, despite my carelessness.”

Was that a tear on Wolfhere’s cheek? Hard to tell, and the heat of the fire wicked away all moisture.

Sanglant smiled softly and glanced at Heribert, who only shrugged to show that, in this case, he had no advice to offer. “Travel with me and my company of thistles, Wolfhere. What better option do you have? You don’t trust Anne. King Henry has pronounced you under ban. At least I can protect you from the king’s wrath.”

Wolfhere smiled mockingly. “It isn’t the king’s wrath I fear,” he said, but he raised no further objection.

VII

A DEATH SENTENCE

1

STRONGHAND had seen in his dreams that it was the habit of humankind to make their festivals an interlude of excess and self-gratification. They let fermented drink addle their minds. They ate too much. Often they became noisy, contentious, and undisciplined, and they spent their resources extravagantly and as though their cup of plenty ran bottomless.

Even the chieftains of his own kind had grown into the habit of celebration after each victory. They might command their warriors to parade treasure before them, or they might lay bets on fights staged between slaves and beasts. By such means, and in the company of their rivals, they boasted of their power.

He had no need of such displays. The ships of his dead rivals lay beached on his shores and now swelled the numbers of his fleet. Weapons he hoarded in plenty, and the ironsmiths of twenty or more tribes hammered and forged at his order. The chieftains of twenty tribes had come to Rikin Fjord at his command to lay their staffs of authority at his feet. They had accepted him—some willingly—as ruler over all the tribes: first among equals, as the humans styled the regnant who reigned over those who called themselves princes and lords. He had named himself Stronghand, by the right of naming given by the OldMother of his tribe. He was, after all, the first chieftain to unite all the tribes of the RockChildren under one hand.

But he felt no thrill of triumph, no ecstasy of power. He had no wish to celebrate. He nursed in his heart and mind only the chill knife of ambition and the cold emptiness that marked the absence of the one whom he had known as a brother in his heart: Alain, son of Henri, now vanished utterly from mortal lands.

Stronghand no longer dreamed. This lack was a nagging source of bitterness and sorrow.

But dreams were not all of his life. He did not need his dreams. He had thought through his desires with all due calculation. Not even the loss of his heart would divert him from his purpose. After all, ambition and will serve best the one who is heartless.

From his chair, staff in hand, he surveyed the assembly gathered before him: a host of RockChildren spread out on the gently sloping land that descended toward the strand that marked the water’s edge. Twenty-two staffs lay at his feet, and the chieftains who had surrendered their staffs to his authority stood at a respectful distance. The warriors of Rikin tribe stood behind them, intermingling with those warriors who had sailed to Rikin with their war leaders. Beached on the strand and anchored farther up and down the fjord lay at least eighty ships, each one manned with no less than fifty warriors. Yet even this large assembly represented only a portion of the army he could call on now.

They were many, and more waited in the fjords that were home to the other tribes. But the humans still had greater numbers in their own country than all of the RockChildren leagued together.

That was what Bloodheart and the old chieftains had always failed to understand. The humans might be weaker in body, but they had the implacable strength of numbers.

The assembly waited. Distantly, wind sang down from the fjall, where the WiseMothers conferred in the silence that is the privilege of stone. Behind, the SwiftDaughters shifted restlessly. They did not have the patience of their mothers and grandmothers. Not for them the slow measure of eternity. Like their brothers and cousins, they would tread the Earth for no more than forty or so winters before dissolving under the press of time.

Rikin’s OldMother stood at the entrance to her hall, witnessing, as was her right and obligation. He felt her respiration on his neck, although she neither spoke nor made any sign.

This was his day. After all, even when she relinquished the knife of authority to the YoungMother and began her slow trek up to the fjall, she would live far longer than any of her children. His great endeavor must seem to her like the sport of young ones, briefly fought and briefly won.

Yet he intended to make of it as much as he could.

Hakonin’s chief came forward, last of all, and laid his staff atop the careful pile, last to come because Hakonin’s OldMother had been first to understand the scope of Stronghand’s ambition and to offer alliance. Then Hakonin’s chief, too, stepped back to wait at the fore of the assembly, beside Tenth Son of the Fifth Litter, Stronghand’s helmsman and captain, his own litter mate.

Stronghand rose. First, he cut into the haft of each staff the doubled circle that signified his rule. He stained these cuts with ocher to make each incision clearly visible. None spoke as he confirmed his authority in this manner: the staffs of these chieftains would be permanently marked with the sigil of Stronghand’s overlordship.

When he had finished, after each chieftain had come forward to receive his staff, he stared out over the fjord. The waters ran cold and still. Nothing broke that calm surface.

Nothing broke the hush cast over the assembly.

Let them wonder at his lack of expression. Let them fear him because he did not howl in triumph, as any of them would have. What need had he for howling and shrieking, yammering and outcry? Let those he struck against cry and wail. Silence was his ally, not his enemy.