Had he received her message just a few days earlier her tale of the kitchen worker’s fit would have been a mere curiosity to turn over in his spare moments; but instead this story of a madman who dreamed of the Norn Queen made Tiamak feel like a traveler abroad at night who hears something following him through the trees. On the night the royal party had left Hernystir, Count Eolair had told Tiamak and the king and queen of Queen Inahwen’s worries about Lady Tylleth—that she and some the courtiers were worshipping the terrible ancient goddess, the Morriga, and now here was that name again.

It has to be chance, Tiamak told himself—Eolair himself had said that stories of the goddess were as old as Hernystir itself. But even as he soothed himself, his earlier chill returned, and this time without any cold wind to blame.

The silver-masked Mistress of Tears . . . A deep dread clutched at his heart. Something is coming that will threaten all, he thought helplessly—my library, the royal children, the throne. I can feel it. He took in a long, shaky breath, his heart fluttering behind his ribs like a trapped bird.

The driver flicked his whip to keep the horses together, oblivious to anything but the jingle of harness and the thump of hooves. The sky was still blue overhead, the sun still shone, but Tiamak felt as though he had stepped on what should have been solid ground and found nothing beneath him but yawning emptiness.

7 Island of Bones

The other four members of the Queen’s Hand sat silently on the beach below, waiting for the ship to come. They had already waited on the graveled strand for hours, still as statues while the wind strengthened and the afternoon died with the sun, and would likely sit that way without moving for many hours more, but Nezeru had never before seen the ocean. She had been so taken by its immensity, its vitality, its ever-changing surface and colors that she had climbed the cliffs above the isolated beach to get a better view.

It was not only the size of the ocean that fascinated her, astounding as it was: the snowfields north of the great mountain back home seemed equally boundless. It wasn’t the colors, either, as magnificent and unexpected as they were, the startling jade translucence of the waves, the grays and blues and blacks and ragged whitecaps, because to Hikeda’ya eyes the great icefields of the Nornfells were full of color, too. No, it was the alive-ness of the sea that stunned Nezeru, the constant motion in different directions, the intersection of wave against wave that could turn water into weightless froth and throw it high into the sky. And it was not just the water itself that was alive: seabirds rose and sank on every swell, or drifted above the waves in rotating clouds, their squawking cries filling her ears, filling the sky. Most of them were hunting the silvery fish that sparkled in almost every wave. Life was everywhere. Nezeru knew that if she gathered a sack of Nakkiga barley the size of a house and dumped it onto the snowy ground outside her mountain home, not a thousandth of this array of living things would come to it. There would be crows, a few waxwings, and with nightfall the rats and mice, but the land around Nakkiga could boast nothing like this chaos of noise and movement.

She crouched on the hilltop and watched the sun dive down toward the sea, where it tipped the waves with copper. As the last sliver of the daystar dropped behind the horizon it flashed green, and as that moment came and passed Nezeru happened to look down at the cliff face beneath her feet. Something pale sat only a few arms’ lengths below her, shining in the day’s last light.

Nezeru did not hesitate, but swung herself over the edge and then let herself down the steep rock face, testing each hold before giving it her weight because the sandstone cliff was old and crumbling. In moments, she was dangling by one arm and balancing on the ball of one foot beside a bird’s nest and its lonely occupant, a single pale, brown-spotted egg.

A seagull’s nest, she decided as she examined the frowsy accumulation of sticks and feathers and mud. Few gulls made it all the way inland to Lake Rumiya beside the great mountain, but those who did were of keen interest to the Hikeda’ya and their servants, whose diets were always limited by the bitter cold and frosty ground of their native land. Nezeru knew very well both the look of a seagull’s nest and the taste of the birds and their eggs.

She carefully lifted the speckled thing, testing its weight. It seemed early in the year for egg-laying, but there was no question that something warm and alive slept inside. For a moment she considered taking it—Hand Chieftain Makho was very sparing with food—but after hours standing atop the cliff, Nezeru felt almost like a guest in this place. Also, the nest held only one egg, which made it seem something to be admired rather than used. It was an odd feeling—one that most of her training refuted—but Nezeru gently set the egg back down in the nest.

The light was waning as she climbed back up the cliff, the sky above her bleeding its violet into growing black. She paused to look out to the west where the sun had sunk and the last light of day was fighting and failing. Far out on the horizon, so distant it would have been invisible to less keen eyes than those of the Hikeda’ya, she saw the pale geometry of sails. She glanced down to the beach, but felt certain that the approaching ship must still be hidden from Makho and the rest. As she scrambled to the top of the bluff, pleased to be the one bringing news, a swirl of air brought the sharp and sudden smell of danger.

Nezeru peered above the edge; a boar had appeared, out for its evening forage. It was unaware of her, at least for the moment, but she knew that ignorance would not last long. At first she thought it must be a large male, since it looked to be at least three times her own weight, with viciously sharp tusks as long as her fingers, but the scent and the time of year suggested it was an older sow, in which case it was probably protecting piglets and would be especially aggressive. Worse, to make climbing easier, Nezeru had left her sword and bow with her pack down on the beach.

As she pulled herself onto more or less level ground she slipped her knife from its sheath, although it didn’t give her much confidence. A dying boar pierced by a heavy spear could still drive itself on sturdy, strong legs up the shaft toward its attacker and rip out a hunter’s guts before collapsing.

Nezeru had killed before, and not just animals, but wanted no part of this if she could avoid it. This creature had not sought her out. It might have young to protect. Still, the stink of the sow was powerful, even against the prevailing ocean breeze and its blend of complicated smells. If the creature had recently farrowed, it might not accept anything less than a fight to the death or Nezeru’s running for her life, and a Sacrifice did not run—especially not one of the Queen’s Talons.

It saw her. It will swing its head side to side to strike with those tusks, she thought. My knife is not long enough to reach its heart, but a well-aimed thrust might take it in the eye—

Before she had time to finish the thought, the boar scrambled toward her, back legs shoving hard against the loose, cold dirt, grunting and squealing as Nezeru dodged its first lunge. It turned on her again with such surprising quickness that she had time only to leap up and put her hands on its shoulders, hard bristles digging into her skin as she vaulted into the air. The boar threw up its snout to catch her as she went over, swinging its great head; the muddy tusks missed Nezeru’s belly by less than a hand’s breadth.