The Dark Throne (28 page)

I use a different kind of paint
.

The
vyldretning
’s Three walked just behind her, all three abreast, no longer wearing their armor but dressed much the same otherwise. Gray held the gleaming silver bowl that had been used in the hilltop sorcery; steam rose from it in small cautionary curls, and Gray walked with a careful smooth tread. On one side of Gray, Finnead strode with a bloody spear in one hand, the haft scarred and scorched; and Gray’s other side, Arcana walked empty-handed, her arms straight at her sides, her dead eyes staring straight ahead. But even the eerie Evermage couldn’t dampen the spirit leaping around the fire. The rhythm beat faster and faster, like a heartbeat speeding with adrenaline, the wolves’ howls layering with war cries. It seemed as though there were an infinite number of warriors around the fire, a never-ending sea of dust-streaked lithe bodies and gore-smeared paint and gleaming blades, with the pyre and the flames pulsing in the center of this living, roaring creature. The Glasidhe flew in dizzying patterns above the sparks, adding their own bright cries to the din, their auras more and more intense as the dark deepened.

Vell strode down the hill, golden eyes flashing; Luca and Chael waited at the base of the hill, and Kianryk suddenly appeared, bounding before them into the great mass of warriors. The warriors greeted the grinning wolf with another roar, and the huge tawny wolf threw back his head and howled, a long, deep sound that vibrated through my ribs, trailing away into a high bright note. I caught a glimmer of a grin from Luca as he and Chael took up positions on either side of the pyre. I wondered for a moment if I, too, should be a part of Vell’s carefully choreographed pageant; but then I shrugged the thought away, letting the tide of fervor wash over me again.

Vell stopped a small distance from the pyre. The firelight gleamed on the Crown. As the
vyldretning
halted, the thrumming fervor of noise reached a crescendo, crested, and quieted, like a wave breaking over us. She raised her chin, and it was silent save for the hungry whirl and crack of the flames. When she spoke, she did not yell, but her voice rang out, washing over the mass of warriors to the farthest reaches. “Well met, my brothers and sisters.” She nodded gravely, and then thrust a fist up into the air and shouted, “Well met!”

The crowd answered her with a roar and the sudden sharp movement of raised fists; we all heard and responded as one, the High Queen’s passionate voice reminding us again of the rush of battle. The Caedbranr gave me a small prod, reminding me of my place.

Remember you are the Bearer,
its voice said calmly in my mind.

I growled at the Sword and began to push its words away; as Merrick had said scant moments before, who would
not
want to be a part of this joyously wild and fierce gathering, with its Queen and her bright-flashing eyes, her Three with the power rolling from them like a thundercloud. But then I paused, taking a deep breath of the smoke-tinged air. The Sword was right; I knew I was not one of the
vyldgard.
I stood apart, always. The Caedbranr quieted, but I felt it circling in the back of my head in the shadows of my thoughts, lurking in the thicket of my unconscious mind. Yet I turned my attention back to the High Queen, not even bothering to feel irritation, letting the swell of passion buoy me again into that fierce well of joy.

“Mark this day,” Vell said, “for it will be recorded in the annals of history as the day we struck the first blow of the war to end the Shadow!” The blood on her face gleamed in the firelight as another roar rose from the throats of the warriors. Then Vell held up her hand, and it was instantly quiet. When she spoke again, her grave voice carried an echo of the grief that I pressed down in my chest. “But before we feast in celebration, we must pause in mourning. We must acknowledge the sacrifice of our companions.” She gazed out into the mass of gathered warriors, and somehow I felt as though she looked right at me; every warrior must have felt the same, for we all leaned forward slightly, caught by the depth of emotion in the
vyldretning
’s golden eyes. “But also mark this. Our brothers and sisters did not pass from this world in cowering fear.” Fierce pride kindled in her voice. “They did not shiver and hide when the shadow of evil passed overhead. They chose to
fight
, and we will feast with them once again in the halls of the gods, when our journey in this life is over!”

I briefly wondered if the Sidhe warriors believed in the Northern religion of warriors and gods, but it didn’t seem to matter—another roar, this one the loudest of all, rose into the night air.

“Beloved ones, stand by your honored dead,” the
vyldretning
commanded, and warriors slipped out of the crowd like shadows, striding over to stand by the head of the dead they had known, their beautiful faces stoic but sorrow-worn. They each carried an unlit torch in one hand. Vell turned her head and this time there was no mistaking—she looked directly at me, a summons in her eyes. Merrick saw it too, urging me forward with a light touch to my arm. So I drew back my shoulders and strode forward, into the dancing circle of light, passing the pyre of the dead and the silent line of Sidhe standing by those they’d loved in life, and now saw in the stillness of death. Luca and Chael passed me as I neared Vell, walking toward the great fire with unlit torches in their hands.

“Your plain blade,” Vell said to me in a low voice. “It will record the spoken names of the dead?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Then let us honor our dead.” Vell raised her chin and strode forward, sheathing her bloody blade and thrusting her ivory staff into her belt. I fell into step beside Gray, who followed Vell solemnly with the steaming silver bowl. Vell stopped at the head of the first body on the pyre. She gripped the shoulder of the warrior who stood by the pyre, and said something in a low, earnest voice to him. Though I stood barely a stride behind her, I couldn’t hear Vell’s words; but I saw the sorrow and pride in the face of the warrior to whom she spoke, and I suddenly knew that all who had hunted and fought the dragon would follow the
vyldretning
until the end of their days.

Vell turned, and Gray offered the silver bowl. Vell dipped two fingers into the dragon’s blood and solemnly marked the forehead and the breast of the dead warrior; I unsheathed my plain blade, the names already inscribed near the hilt gleaming in the firelight. I held the blade horizontally, balancing its cool weight on my flat palms. Vell turned to the warrior.

“Keiran Whitecloak,” the warrior said, naming the dead.

“Keiran Whitecloak of the Seelie Court,” I said. The inscription began to appear on the bright steel of my blade.

Vell shook her head. “No. Keiran Whitecloak of the Wild Court.” She gripped the mourning warrior’s shoulder again as he closed his eyes at her pronouncement.

“Keiran Whitecloak of the Wild Court,” I repeated quietly, pride in Vell blooming in my chest.

We moved to the next warrior, and the next body; and though the ceremony was much the same, I could see that Vell’s conversation with each surviving warrior was unique and heartfelt. After five names had been inscribed on the plain blade, I saw Vell’s lips quiver as she marked the sixth body with the dragon’s blood; tears began to gather in her eyes as we continued down the long pyre. By the twelfth repetition, she wept silently, a tear sliding down her cheek every so often; and I felt tears prickling in my own eyes in response. I realized suddenly that it was the first time I’d seen fierce Vell shed tears, but far from making her seem weak, it endeared her all the more to the warriors whose shoulders she clasped. They gazed at her with awe and longing—even as they spoke the names of their beloved fallen, they wished to draw blades with the High Queen once more. Their loyalty shone even through their sorrow. The crown on Vell’s brow glimmered in the dancing firelight. Gray and I moved in step after Vell, not speaking a word save for when I repeated the names of the dead. It seemed as though hours had passed by the time we reached the end of the long pyre, and I felt exhaustion creeping up under the weight of the ceremony’s emotions. But Vell seemed not to be tired at all, her eyes still bright and her head still high as I spoke the twentieth name to my blade.

We stood to one side of the pyre. Luca and Chael, starting from opposite sides, walked down the long line, lighting the torches of each warrior standing by their dead. Luca finished first and returned to Vell, handing her the blazing torch. She stepped forward. The warriors raised their torches as she held hers aloft. The torchlight shone on the traces of tears that had cut through the dragon’s blood on Vell’s face.

“Until we meet again in the halls of the gods!” she shouted, and as one the warriors threw their torches onto the pyre, backing away slowly as the fire caught hold of broken spears and shields.

Beryk slunk with silken movement through the crowd of warriors, Rialla appeared regally on the other side of the fire, and huge Kianryk stalked at the edge of the firelight. Beryk threw back his head and howled, and as the wolves wove their voices in a song of mourning, Vell took a deep breath and began to sing. I fought the urge to stare at her. First tears, and now song…tonight was certainly a night of firsts for the High Queen. This was far different than her incantation on the hilltop. Though Vell’s voice was not the sweet soprano or smooth alto of a seasoned singer, she carried the melody of her song well, and she knew how to project her voice. I saw Chael stiffen as he heard the first notes of the song, and he looked at Luca; Luca raised his eyebrows, and Chael inclined his head slightly, the hint of a smile on his lips. Then there were three voices raised in what I realized to be a Northern song of mourning, a song sung by the
ulfdrengr
to honor their dead. The melody was wilder than the Sidhe song I’d heard after the battle in the Royal Wood; the language of the North sounded fierce, and as the song drew on, Vell picked up the tempo, Luca and Chael following her lead. Chael began to sing harmony, weaving his lilting tenor in a haunting pattern around Vell and Luca’s steady voices. I listened, transfixed, as the song slowly transformed from one of sorrow and mourning to a fierce exultation, a celebration of the warriors’ strength and valor. Though the three
ulfdrengr
still sang in their own tongue, a matching ecstasy shone in the eyes of the Sidhe warriors. The pyre blazed, and the song of the proud, fierce
ulfdrengr
rose with the smoke into the dark dome of the night sky.

The fierce exultant song reached a crest, and the wolves howled; though the flames of the pyre danced unabated, a sudden breathless silence descended in the wake of the last chord. Vell strode back toward the hilltop, and we all moved with her, until the host of warriors was spread at the base of the hill, and Vell stood on the rise of the hill in the last golden reaches of the firelight. Finnead and Gray stood on either side of the
vyldretning
; a copper spark betrayed Arcana as she lurked in the shadows just beyond the light.

“We have honored our dead,” said Vell, voice ringing through the darkness, “and now we will honor the living!”

Gray stepped forward with the silver bowl of dragon’s blood. A ripple of anticipation swept through the gathered warriors as they realized the meaning of Vell’s words. A little burst of adrenaline tightened my chest. I was nervous, but not for me—I wouldn’t be named one of the
vyldgard
, yet I still watched Vell in anxious exhilaration, waiting for her to anoint her chosen. I saw a flicker of excitement in Gray’s eyes as her gaze swept out over the assembled Sidhe, and Finnead wore his small secretive smile. I wondered if they already knew whom Vell would choose. Merrick, standing by my shoulder again, drew in his breath.

Vell nodded to Finnead. He gracefully slipped into the crowd and emerged with two warriors in tow. Beryk herded another young warrior toward Vell, and in this way they gathered the chosen at the base of the hill; the
vyldretning
soon faced a score of warriors, dusty and bloodied, bandaged and bruised. But the vestiges of the battle against the dragon only underscored the awe radiating from the warriors—some of them tried to maintain their smooth masks, but I could still see their euphoria in their eyes. It was as though they were being given the thing they most wanted in the world, and disbelief tinged their joy. The Caedbranr uncurled and stretched lazily behind my ribcage, watching again with a bit of interest.

Freedom
.

The Sword spoke the word so softly that my mind almost didn’t catch it.

They are joining another Court. It isn’t as though they’re able to walk away,
I replied, watching as the warriors knelt in a long line facing Vell. Beryk stalked down the line, inspecting each warrior, his massive head even with their own; none of them flinched, and the black wolf returned to Vell’s side.

One can never truly be free. The free fall one by one. The united fight.

“I hate it when you speak in riddles,” I muttered at the Sword. As I looked at the long line of kneeling warriors, I only vaguely recognized a few faces. Indignation swept through me, but I didn’t look at Merrick. I guessed it would be hard enough for him to maintain composure without any sympathetic glances.

But there is a great measure of freedom in this new Wild Court,
the Sword mused in the back of my head.
This new young Queen is interesting.

Awfully chatty tonight, aren’t you,
I thought grumpily at it, crossing my arms. A thin thread of emerald light shone through the fabric of my shirt—my war-markings didn’t want to be forgotten, apparently. My skin prickled as power unfurled on the hill. Vell would be breaking the bonds that these Seelie had with Titania, and sealing them to her.

“Brothers and sisters,” Finnead said, stepping forward, his drowning-blue eyes gleaming from that deep scarlet paint, “do you swear your fealty to the High Queen?”