“It would be hard not to understand that.” He made the two-handed sign for Bargain Sealed and Makho did the same.

I have set out on a strange path, Jarnulf thought. I must serve the creatures who destroyed my family so that I can do the Redeemer’s will. He could not help marveling at the strangeness of God’s plan. This unexpected meeting may be the answer to all my prayers—that, or the death of me.

Perhaps it will be both.

21 Crossroad

“Is that Vestvennby in the distance?” Miriamele shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare. Out of sight far ahead, royal foot soldiers and local peasant farmers, happy to earn a few coppers, were doing their best to clear the way for the procession. Snow was banked high against the Royal North Road on either side, making a tunnel with white walls and gray sky for a roof, but she thought she could see a faint outline of towers. “Blessed Elysia, I pray it’s so and that we are almost at the Erkynlandish border. I long to be home so badly—I don’t think I’ve ever wished for it so much before.”

“But why, Majesty?” Tiamak asked.

“Because I haven’t ridden so much in years,” she said. “To be entirely frank, my arse is sore.”

Tiamak wasn’t quite certain what to say, but the others in the royal party laughed, even Sisqi, although Tiamak was not certain the troll woman knew the word. At the moment, Tiamak was sharing a horse with Sisqi and Binabik so that they could converse more easily with the rest of the royal company on their tall steeds. Binabik’s mighty white wolf Vaqana paced along beside them, watching her master and the strange creature on which he was riding with obvious concern and perhaps a hint of jealousy. Sisqi’s riderless ram, tethered to the horse’s saddle on a long rope, did not seem to care much one way or the other.

Simon frowned. “I’m not certain that’s the kind of thing a queen should say, my dear.”

“What should I say instead?” Miriamele demanded. “Should I call it my ‘sit-upon,’ as our well-bred daughter-in-law does?”

“I don’t think you need be quite that proper,” Simon said, amused. “Rachel and the chambermaids who raised me always said ‘hindquarters’ or ‘rump’ or just ‘bottom.’ But if you’re in pain, my dear, why don’t you ride in the carriage?”

“And miss everybody’s talk, while you have all the pleasure?” She scowled at him. “Not likely, that.”

“Yes, but if you did, then I could join you and claim I was doing it to give you company, instead of having to admit in front of all my soldiers that my arse hurts too.”

Even the queen had to laugh at that, and for a while the talk was all lightness and good cheer. Tiamak was glad because his own mood had been dark of late—another reason he had decided to leave the carriage and share a horse with Binabik and his wife. But a saddle was not really meant to carry three passengers comfortably, he reflected, however small two of them might be.

Still, he thought, it’s nice for a change not to be the little one. Usually he had to look up at almost everybody he dealt with, but now that the four trolls had joined the royal progress, he could finally enjoy the rare pleasure of being taller than someone else.

Eolair was seldom glad to be old, but as he watched from the doorway of his tent while the soldiers and servants set up camp for the night, he was at least grateful that his age and position allowed him to leave such tasks to others. He was feeling particularly ancient and full of aches tonight.

Too much time in the saddle, he thought. There was a time I rode all day and then danced late into the evening. He laughed quietly at his own complaints. But who would want to dance with me now, a bundle of sticks dressed in courtier’s clothes?

A young guardsman trotted up. “Someone to see you, Count Eolair. He says his name is Sir Aelin and that you will know him.”

“My nephew? Bagba’s Herd, of course I do! Send him to me, please!”

Aelin was not his true nephew but the grandson of his sister—a grandnephew. Aelin had always been one of Eolair’s favorites, and the count had been sad not to see him when they had passed through Hernystir back in Marris-month.

“Is that you?” he asked as the young man ducked through the tent flap a short time later. “By all the gods, it is! It is fine to see you, young man!”

Aelin bowed. “And you, Uncle.”

Eolair looked his visitor up and down and was surprised at how much the youth had changed since he had last seen him. a full four or five years earlier when the young man had spent some time at the Hayholt. For one thing, Aelin was a youth no longer: he had filled out through the chest and had the full beard worn by many of the younger Hernystiri men at the Taig these days. His clothes, though, were rough and road-worn, the bottom of his cloak dripping, his boots smeared with mud. “You have ridden from Hernysadharc?” Eolair asked him.

“Yes, all the way across the New Frostmarch Road through the storms, with important messages for you and the High Throne—thank Mircha and the rest of the gods that the worst of the winter is over. My men and I have been riding for days, Uncle!”

“But why you as messenger, Aelin? I am very glad to see you, but—”

“In truth, I asked King Hugh to let me bring the letters, since I was at Nad Mullach when you came to the capitol.” Aelin looked around, making certain the tent was empty. “One is from the dowager queen, and she asked me to make certain no one but you received it, my lord.”

“From Inahwen? You may give that to me now.” Eolair reached out and took the folded parchment, noting briefly Inahwen’s wax seal before slipping it into the pouch on his belt. “And the others?”

“I did not look, Uncle. But I believe they are from Lord Pasevalles.” He smiled. “I hope he has made your life easier. I hear he is a good man—perhaps even the next Hand of the Throne when you return to Nad Mullach?”

“He will be if I have my way. But I think Duke Osric, Prince Morgan’s other grandfather, might think differently. He considers Pasevalles an upstart.” Eolair called for a servant to bring wine. “But come, sit down. You have had a long, wearying ride.”

“Long, yes, and more exciting than I’d like.” Aelin took off his cloak, swung it out to show his uncle. “See how it is torn and tattered? I was pitched off my horse just north of Vestvennby.”

“Praise the gods you weren’t hurt! That was a piece of luck.”

“Luckier than you might think. I was ahead of the others, and I fell out of the saddle because a giant nearly had me, except the unholy beast was as startled as I was. It stood in the middle of the road as I came around a bend.”

“The Royal North Road? Here?” He felt something clutch in his chest. “Can it be true? They have never come so far south since the bad old days—the days of the Storm King. Are you sure it wasn’t a bear or . . . or some wandering woodsman with even more beard than you?”

Aelin laughed at that, but his face was serious. “It was no bearded woodsman, Uncle. And no bear could swing a paw and nearly take my head off while I was standing up in my stirrups.”

“Heavens save us.” Eolair shook his head in distress. Too many strange events, too many fell signs! “Tell me what happened.”

Aelin described the surprising encounter on the road, a mere few miles south of the royal encampment. “I did not look back for the monster, I simply limped after my horse as fast as I could and dragged myself back into the saddle. By the time I turned the giant was long gone, but the rest of my company saw its footprints.”