In the Eye of Heaven Part 49

And he stopped, astonished at what he saw.

In a momentary bloom of the guttering torch flame, Badan the wolf appeared, working low over one grave, stabbing the earth with a shovel. His red hair hung in tendrils. Then everything vanished as a stubborn gust fought with the torch.

Durand blinked into the sudden blackness for a moment. He heard the shovel bite. The next lull in the wind freed the torch fire to splash over the face of Coensar. He was standing back. The man whose fist held the torch high was one-eyed Berchard.

"What in the name of Heaven's Host..." Durand spoke before he could stop himself.

Berchard glanced up, his face touched with regret Coensar simply looked.

"We're doing what must be done," Coensar said.

"Agryn was the one who wrote," Berchard added, as though this was excuse enough.

Durand blinked. They were mad.

"No one's died, have they?" Coensar murmured, half-wondering. "Since you've come. We haven't lost anyone. Not in the tourneys."

Abruptly, Durand understood. "There's only been one real tourney. The Gla.s.s was something else."

"We're unclean," Coensar said.

Durand saw them hovering over the open grave. He remembered Agryn, fighting for his king. He felt the weight of his sword in his fist. "You b.l.o.o.d.y well are! What in the name of-"

"Killing a man's plain murder," Berchard said. "Ransom's theft. Honor's pride, or vanity." He rubbed the socket of his living eye where fatigue or pitch-smoke needled.

"The wise women hate us, and the Patriarchs won't have us in holy ground," Coensar continued. He sounded tired. "The graybeards put a ban on the tournaments and see no reason to help the fools who die fighting them. Sometimes we find a wandering friar who knows the rites."

"We are unrepentant and likely to draw the attention of Them Below," Berchard said.

Badan grunted agreement.

Yellow cloth flashed in the shovel wounds. He wondered why he should be surprised that the Host of h.e.l.l had its eye on them.

"So what is this?" he asked, finally.

"He's not in hallowed ground," Berchard said, and, glancing around the bare headland, made the Eye of Heaven. "Don't think we do this lightly. A man buried in the open is free for anything that might pa.s.s. Bad business. And worse, sudden death! It's like sounding a hunting horn to the Banished, the Lost, and their kin. Creation's full of things that won't let a corpse lie. And what if the man's soul wants vengeance? You've seen the gibbets at the crossroads."

Durand did not deny it"You don't want the wh.o.r.esons finding their way back to the ones who strung them up.. .or dragging themselves^ home, pining for their kin." Durand gave in.

In solemn silence, then, Badan slit the yellow shroud, baring a flash of bloodless skin.

"Hands and feet, Badan," Berchard said, stiffly. "We'll dig some proper graves."

Badan had a hatchet. He lifted the thing as the others flinched away.

Durand took up a shovel.

They worked deep into the night, digging black graves. Durand worked under the earth, quietly certain that they were all all mad, but that every bit of madness was real. Finally, hands drew him from the darkness, and he helped take up the shrouded bundles, pa.s.sing the bodies down. Each was rigid under its parti-colored shroud as though some dark terror gripped a body robbed of its soul. mad, but that every bit of madness was real. Finally, hands drew him from the darkness, and he helped take up the shrouded bundles, pa.s.sing the bodies down. Each was rigid under its parti-colored shroud as though some dark terror gripped a body robbed of its soul.

Badan swarmed down each hole, looking every bit a werewolf ghoul. They pa.s.sed him down a mallet and long iron nails.

Tock. Tock Tock The mallet fell. The mallet fell.

Durand, Berchard, and Coensar hunkered down by the heaped soil, the sea wind playing. Berchard took a quick pull from a wineskin. There was black sea on either side. "You'll find a lot of burials that start shallow, then get dug deeper overnight. Murders, suicides. Some do it with childbirth mums. And the little ones, too, if they pa.s.s before their naming day. The Lost look through those like ragpickers through old clothes."

Badan worked, and, as he moved in the narrow grave, his weight, for a moment, must have rested on Agryn's chest. The corpse moaned.

Durand's throat locked."Host of Heaven" he hissed. he hissed.

"It's lungs. Like bellows," Berchard said, but he repeated the Creator's sign, and downed another swig of wine. "Just lungs. I heard one naming the Powers that way."

"h.e.l.ls."

Berchard handed Durand the skin. The wine tasted of hickory and acorn. He pa.s.sed it on to Coensar.

Badan kept working, either fearless or soulless.

When he finished, and the graves were mounded with earth, all four men stumbled away and collapsed.

Berchard pawed muddy sweat from his high forehead, sighing, "It's a shame you never learned to write, lad. It's a far cleaner way than this," Berchard answered. "We scratch a few lines from the Book of Moons. Book of Moons. Our old friend-" Our old friend-"

"-Agryn?"

"No names at the graveside. Our friend there, trained to join the Holy Ghosts way back. He'd have been the one." "Aye." Our friend there, trained to join the Holy Ghosts way back. He'd have been the one." "Aye."

Berchard nodded. "Was up at House Loegem or Pennons Gate-don't remember which-for years ready to serve the king. There was a girl or something."

"That's why he could quote so well," said Berchard. "The Book of Moons "The Book of Moons and all that. No matter what else they get up to behind their walls, those Holy Ghosts teach their lads properly. A few lines on a bit of copper-or lead if there's no copper at hand-and past the dead man's teeth. Best chance; the Banished can't get past it. Worst, they can't get out. and all that. No matter what else they get up to behind their walls, those Holy Ghosts teach their lads properly. A few lines on a bit of copper-or lead if there's no copper at hand-and past the dead man's teeth. Best chance; the Banished can't get past it. Worst, they can't get out.

"Good thing we had Badan around. b.l.o.o.d.y awful work. A soldier I knew in Aubairn once, he confessed it to a priest. Priest made the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d march to the Shrine of the Cradle's Cradle's Landing in Wave's Ending. And the priest was right." He shook his head. "You can't do a thing like that without it marking you." Landing in Wave's Ending. And the priest was right." He shook his head. "You can't do a thing like that without it marking you."

The one-eyed campaigner almost grinned. "But Badan's a wh.o.r.eson b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

28. Upon the Rock of Tern Gyre

In the profound sleep that followed, Durand dreamed of movement through the darkness. A thousand thousand shapes flitted like the shadows of every bird that flew under Heaven. Sketchily visible, one detached itself. Like a creature of deep seas, the thing rippled between the tents: a shape of claws and smooth muscle, flat skull, and eyes like blue coals. It had nothing to do with Radomor or Lamoric or Ragnal or even Durand. The wild thing slithered with the haste of an eddying wind between the canvas walls of the encampment. Durand felt himself tugged along behind, floating and watching.

Suddenly the hulking, scurrying monster came upon two long rectangles in the gra.s.s. Durand remembered the graves. The thing seemed to stare in an intent pause, then it pa.s.sed its talons through the earth, which rippled and flowed around its hands. Durand recognized the mud he had tamped with his own shovel.

The thing plunged. It sank as it had flown, treating earth and air like water. With the sinuous power of a reptile, it churned downward, and Durand was tugged along for the ride. He caught the glint of needle-teeth. After a moment, through the thick slurry of earth, came a flash of yellow. A winding sheet. Durand saw crude st.i.tches, then earth, then the stiff white curls of cold lips and nostrils.

Invisible fingers worked at rigid lips, darting in for a look at the smooth blue-gray pa.s.sages beyond. Then it pulled back to tug. Its talons caught in the winding sheet and it jerked and pulled as it coiled upward through the earth. The corpse of Agryn rolled out of the straining cloth as the creature pulled and pulled, jerking the shroud away. The body itself was snagged on the nails Badan had driven through, and it hung like a drowned man caught on the way to the bottom. The greedy fiend heaved and tugged, frantic. Finally, it burst into the air yet again to tug on a corner of canvas-the only bit of Agryn that had made it to the surface.

IN THE YELLOW and green half-light of Cerlac's old tent, Durand winced a little air through his broken nose and blinked thick eyelids. He smoothed out his bedroll and checked his few possessions. His fighting surcoat was stiff as a butcher's ap.r.o.n, cold, and more brown than green. Slashes scored the face of his shield. Here and there, popped links scabbed his hauberk. The long leaf blade of his razor was powdered with rust. and green half-light of Cerlac's old tent, Durand winced a little air through his broken nose and blinked thick eyelids. He smoothed out his bedroll and checked his few possessions. His fighting surcoat was stiff as a butcher's ap.r.o.n, cold, and more brown than green. Slashes scored the face of his shield. Here and there, popped links scabbed his hauberk. The long leaf blade of his razor was powdered with rust.

They must not only survive another day; they must win. The wait was like an itch in his joints.

A ruby slit of light shot into the tent gloom as a woolly head appeared through the tent flap, bobbing a few feet above the floor. It was one of the shield-bearers. "Sir? I'm shield-bearer to Sir Berchard. Guthred sent me after your surcoat. He says he'll be cursed if he lets you ride into the lists in soiled gear and make Lamoric look a fool. He's told me your horse had no trapper, sir?"

"What?" started Durand. The boy's floating head blinked up at him in complete innocence. "No. There's no cursed trapper."

The young man nodded and stepped inside, unselfconsciously ignoring explanations that didn't concern him to tromp after Durand's muddy, b.l.o.o.d.y surcoat. "There's been no time," Durand said at the top of the shield-bearer's head. The boy balled the mess up and backed out, grinning politely without listening.

"There's breakfast," the boy said.

Again, Durand stood in the empty tent. The acid scent of lye bit his eyes. It had carried in with Berchard's boy-likely up to his armpits in it for hours. Honest work, but no longer his to do.

He pulled on his cloak and went after his breakfast.

As he stepped into the dawn, he shot a glance down a chance aisle between the tents. The churned earth of Agryn's mound lay dark against the east and the cliff's edge, and he thought of his dream. Uneasy, he walked the canvas alleyway toward it.

As he stepped squinting from the lane, two silhouettes ceased speaking. Durand was already too close to step away. Lamoric and Deorwen turned to face him. He could only bow.

"Durand," Lamoric said.

"Lordship; Ladyship," Durand said. Deorwen was playing her part, appearing mild and easy even after all that had happened.

"Did you see my brother yesterday?" Lamoric asked. "I don't-" Durand faltered.

"My brother. Father sent him. With our vote. Gireth. So he's come. I saw him up there." "No. I didn't think-"

"No. But that's him. Landast the heir. Too wise to go haring off to tournaments and rebellions with duties at home." He gave his wife an apologetic glance. "But that's how it's always been. Him at home, and me off riding. Him taking up burdens, and me playing games." He waved to the others and the Red Knight gear he still wore. "But it doesn't matter, does it?"

Durand thought of a thousand things that he should tell this man. Deorwen was right there. Even now, he was tempted, but he looked the man square in the face.

"This is the grave?" said a voice from the brightness.

Across the mounded earth stood a socket in the bright dawn: the Lord of Mornaway. No one answered.

"Lord Lamoric, after what has happened, I must-"

"Moryn, I have not always been the sort of man a brother would wish his sister to marry," Lamoric said. His hand crossed to Deorwen's arm, and she allowed him to take her hand.

After a moment's silent consideration, Lord Moryn abandoned much of what he must have planned to say, asking simply, "Why have you come to me now? Why"-his empty hand then faltered over the gray mounds-"this?"

"We had good reason.""Radomor.""He thinks he will be king."

Moryn did not argue, instead nodded slowly. "Many might follow such a man."

"If Ragnal loses the crown, some might suffer a man like Radomor of Yrlac to pluck it up, but when we are victorious today none of this will matter." Ragnal loses the crown, some might suffer a man like Radomor of Yrlac to pluck it up, but when we are victorious today none of this will matter."

"Why only then?""He will take your vote from you."Moryn made to protest.

"He will have the victor's boon," said Lamoric, "if he can best us."

Moryn stopped a long time, then. The shadowed face turned Durand's way, needled through with dawn's rays. "It would be his right."

"He will snare you with your honor."

"I have sworn," Moryn murmured. "As commander of the North Company, I've vowed to keep the customs of this place under the eyes of the prince and the king. Kandemar the Herald stood by. By their word are half-a-thousand knights bound to my house, and we to them. Trees and fields and mills and rivers beyond counting. I must serve as the king's justice in a thousand cases." He paused. 'There is no recanting."

'There will be no need," Lamoric vowed. "We will see to it, brother. Return to your people. Arm yourself and speak to any who will listen. On this day, it is in our power to keep war from our doorstep."

Lord Moryn faced this oration in silence. The grave was between them.

"He was close to you," he said.

"Agryn kept his own counsel, but I have known no wiser man," Lamoric allowed.

"He spoke to me," Durand said.

Moryn nodded, then straightened his surcoat. "Let us make certain that his life has bought more than one day," he said and left them standing around the grave.

'The others are nearly prepared to go in," Deorwen prompted.

Lamoric nodded, touching Durand's shoulder. "I am glad that you turned us back," he said. Then Deorwen and Lamoric left as well.

Durand settled to his knees, facing the dawn as Agryn had only a day before. His fingers closing in the chalky earth sc.r.a.ped a tatter of cloth: a yellow triangle of winding sheet jutted from the turned earth. It could have been some strange flower. He took the canvas between two fingers, letting the fabric slide as he looked into the earth.

In an hour, the rain returned.

DURAND WATCHED THE king and his train of black-clad toadies take their places. king and his train of black-clad toadies take their places. Despite the black sapphire crown on his brow, Ragnal looked like he should be in the battlefield breaking armies, not perched among traitors and cowards and fools. Despite the black sapphire crown on his brow, Ragnal looked like he should be in the battlefield breaking armies, not perched among traitors and cowards and fools.

Rain slithered through steel links.

The lines waited under the low Heavens. Iron-mailed hands scratched collars, slapped the necks of horses, and juggled battle helms. There were no pretenses. Agryn's ride had turned the mood. If anyone felt he wasn't part of a real battle, he was mad. Some had even changed sides: rats leaving the Mornaway ship.

Heremund stood among the shield-bearers, his shoulders up around his ears as the rain pattered down. "Radomor's got as many men today as yesterday. Not one fell. No one so much as wrenched his ankle."

Though the drizzle darkened their shoulders, Yrlac's green men stood straight as ever. Yrlac himself scowled fit to steam the rain from his skull. Before him the monstrous Champion knelt, his helmed head on the earth. Neither man seemed much the worse for a fall that had killed a strong man and three horses only the day before.

Today, the Rooks flapped through the lines, stirring up the animals.

"I don't like it," said Heremund. "Yrlac and that Champion of his should've gone for a start. Radomor and his friend never so much as popped a shoulder. They had to drag drag Radomor off. He shouldn't be there." Radomor off. He shouldn't be there."

Guthred grunted, rain trailing down his stolid face.

"And your company's down quite a few as well, I see," Heremund ventured. A score had gone. "Looks like the square after market day."

"Men are what they are," Guthred said. "More'll leave for fear than join for conscience."

The skald nodded. "A shame."