Prince of Fools (The Red Queen's War 1)

“All right, but . . .” I got up too, lugging my pack up onto my shoulder. “Explain to me again why a horror from Red March runs a thousand miles and more to some godforsaken hole in the ice?”

“I don’t know it all, Jal. Sageous told me some of it, though that may be lies. Skilfar had more to say—”

“What? When?” I didn’t remember any of that.

“She didn’t speak to you?” Snorri raised his brows.

“Of course she did. You heard her. Some nonsense about my Great-Uncle Garyus and being led by my cock. Dreadful old crone, mad as a brush.”

“I meant . . . without words.” He frowned. “She spoke in my head, the whole time.”

“Hmmm.” I wondered how much faith to place in words spoken in Snorri ver Snagason’s head. It seemed quite crowded in there and who knew how many voices Aslaug might use? Or perhaps Baraqel might be responsible for Skilfar’s words not reaching me—though whether he would be acting in my best interests with such selective deafness, I didn’t know. “Remind me.”

“The unborn are hard to summon. Very hard. Only a few come through, where the conditions are right, where the timing, the place, the circumstances all align.”

“Well, anyone knows that!” All new to me.

“And so they are scattered.”

“Yes.”

“But what the Dead King has ordered in the Bitter Ice, the work his minions are accomplishing there . . . is drawing the unborn, from all corners of the earth. To one place. Perhaps when your friend at the opera found himself targeted and escaped he abandoned whatever mission called him there and ran for the gathering in the North. Or maybe he was always bound there after whatever business drew him into Vermillion.”

“Ah.” Oh hell. “But your wife is in the Black Fort, right? And the unborn are beneath the Bitter Ice? Yes? So we never have to meet them . . . right?”

Snorri didn’t answer immediately, only started walking.

“Yes?” At his back.

“We’re taking the Black Fort.”

I tried to remember Snorri’s tale from the tavern in Den Hagen. The Broke-Oar had told him his son was safe. That’s all he said. He’d also talked Snorri into getting clubbed around the back of the head. All about me the Norsemen were hefting packs, moving on. Already I could feel the faintest tug as the curse binding me to their leader began to stretch out across the slope. “Crap on it.” And I followed in his footsteps.

The True North is much as Snorri described it from experience and much as I described it from ignorance. All of it appears to be sloping up to start with, though later it slopes both up and down as if in a great hurry to get somewhere. The air is thin, cold, and full of winged insects that want to suck your blood. Drawing your breath through your teeth helps strain the buggers out and keep your lungs clear. Also they die away as you gain height.

Much of the place is bare rock. As soon as you gain any altitude it’s bare rock covered with last winter’s snow. From the heights you can see mountains, mountains, and more mountains, with lakes and pine forests huddling in the dents between them. I took Tuttugu’s advice early on and bound about my boots the rabbit furs and sealskin overguards from my pack. With this and my feet in thick woollen socks the snows didn’t freeze my toes. It would only get worse as we headed north, though, into the Jarlson Uplands, where the wind off the interior came armed with knives.

We paused in the lee of one high ridge whilst Snorri and Arne discussed our route.

“Ein, is it?” The scar by his eye gave it away.

“Yes.” The quin with the longest life expectancy flashed me a smile.

“How is it that Snorri’s in charge here?” I asked. “You’re Jarl Torsteff’s heir, aren’t you?” I didn’t plan to undermine Snorri’s authority, unless it turned out Ein could order him to give up his quest—which seemed unlikely whatever the chain of command should be—but as a prince it did strike me as odd that a man whose only birthright was a few acres of sloping rock fields should be ordering the North’s aristocracy about.

“Actually I have seven older brothers. Two sets of triplets and a singleton, Agar, Father’s heir. It might be that they’re all dead now, I suppose.” He pursed his lips at that, as if seeing how the idea tasted. “But Snorri is a champion of the Undoreth. There are songs about his deeds in battle. If Einhaur and my father’s halls are burned—then my authority stands on nothing but ash. Better to let a man who truly knows war to lead us on our last raid.”