The Wheel of Osheim (The Red Queen's War 3)

“I will do what needs to be done.”

He looked so grim, so determined, that I let the matter drop. Perhaps he knew something I didn’t. I didn’t ask. Snorri could keep his secrets— I had no appetite for stories from the deadlands—but maybe they waited for me anyway in the days to come, perhaps like the Wheel they stood in my path and could not be avoided.

Snorri still had a strangeness about him, that mixture of death and legend he’d carried with him back from beyond death’s door. We both stood, watching the dark waters of the Seleen escape the mist and vanish beneath our prow, neither of us talking.

The events of the past day unfolded themselves across the blank page offered by the river fog. The whiteness at first the smoke of Father’s pyre, twisting and rising, then the hot clouds billowing over the Appan Gate, thick with the screams of the dead and the dying amid an inferno of my making. I saw Darin’s face, shaped across the mist. Barras appeared too and I realized I couldn’t remember when I saw him last. Had he been with me when I led the charge to save Darin? I didn’t know. I had an image of him, wild-eyed, swinging his bloody sword amid a crowd of dead, but where and when it came from, and what happened after I couldn’t say. Lisa told me I’d let Barras die, abandoned him to his fate because he’d married her. I saw Martus there too, his face raised to me, as he was when I threw him my sword. He hadn’t been the best of brothers, and not the best of men either, but damn it, he was my brother, my mother’s son, and knowing he was gone left me hollow. The sword hung again at my side, the last point of contact between us.

What Snorri saw in the mists I couldn’t say, but neither of us spoke until the autumn sun unravelled the last white thread from the riverbanks. By that time the current had borne us ten miles and we’d seen no trace of the Dead King’s army at any point.

Murder, sensible horse that he was, proved to be terrified of boats and the process of getting him on to dry land without anyone getting kicked to death proved tricky. It wasn’t far off noon by the time all four steeds had been assembled ashore and we’d checked our gear. Garyus had foisted Luntar’s “box of ghosts” on me, saying it might prove useful in Osheim. I suspected he just didn’t want a box of ghosts any more than I did.

“What is that?” Snorri asked as I carried it away.

“That,” I said. “Holds the ghosts of a million Builders. Aslaug’s in there too.”

“I thought you locked her back in the dark place?” He didn’t look as worried as he should be.

“Well, not Aslaug, the woman who became Aslaug. Her ghost. It’s complicated.”

“Aslaug was human once? What about Baraqel? Is he in there too?”

“Probably. Don’t know. Don’t care. The thing gives me the creeps. None of them have anything useful to say anyway.”

I buried the box deep in a saddlebag on my back-up mount, a chestnut mare with the unreasonable name of Squire, and did my very best to forget about it.

Half an hour found us riding at a measured pace along the road to Verona, two gentlemen about their business on a day as pleasant as any autumn has to offer. The fields lay empty, the richness of their harvest gathered in, each farmhouse stood undisturbed, quiet in the fastness of the land, the honest folk of Red March about their duties. We passed a charcoal yard, a wagon at its gates filling up with sacks, a yellow dog on the step of the owner’s shack, too lazy to chase us. It seemed amazing that life passed so gently here, undisturbed by the horror at Vermillion. Looking back, I couldn’t even see the smoke of the outer city.

“I could almost feel safe out here.” The road wound past a copse of trees all burning with autumn’s fire, only the oaks held to their green against the distant threat of winter and even they were touched with gold. “Almost safe. At least with a good horse under me.” I slapped Murder’s neck. The night’s terror nibbled around the edges of my imagination but sunshine and open country helped me to do what I do best—lock all the bad stuff away and forget it for the moment. “There’s a good inn along this stretch of the road. I’m sure of it. We should stop and get some lunch. Roast pork and ale would do nicely.” The loss of a night’s sleep started to weigh on me, combining with the day’s warmth, and the thought of a good meal, to make me dozy. I fought to keep my eyes open, yawning wide enough to click my jaw.

The next turn of the road brought a sight so unexpected that every ounce of sleepiness dropped away, along with every trace of the sense of security that had been winding around me.