Full Circle (33 page)

Ash shivered. There was a terrible intensity to Bramble’s eyes. She hated Thegan — it was his men who had tried to kill her
in Golden Valley, when she and Ash first met.

Acton came forward and stood in front of Beck.

“Hostages are useless, it seems. Work with your Travellers and you may survive.”

“Why would they stand with us?” he asked. “If I were them —” He stopped, unable to frame the words.

Ash felt the weight of the pouch at his belt grow suddenly heavier, as if the stones wanted to remind him of their presence.
“I can convince them,” he said. “Let me talk to them.”

*   *   *

The warlord’s house had fine stone steps and Ash stood on them, Beck by his side, while the soliders chivvied a small crowd
of Travellers from one of the outbuildings to stand in front of them. Behind, the townsfolk clustered at the gate.

Acton and Baluch stood behind Ash, but Bramble slid away from them as they climbed the steps and joined the crowd.

Ash had never made a speech before, but he’d performed often enough, and seen his parents control a crowd.

He took the pouch from his belt and held it up. “I am a stonecaster,” he said, realising that it was the first time he had
said those words. “And in this pouch is a new stone.”

A shock ran through the crowd like a drum roll. He could feel the River listening, and he knew that the gods were leading
him.

“Change the stones, change the world,” he said as the murmurs quietened. He let his voice build, as his mother would at the
climax of a song. “The stones have spoken. It is time for us to change the world.”

I
N THE
shadows of the enchanter’s progress, Leof made mental notes about the ghost army’s numbers, groups, skills. He was an officer,
trained in scouting and assessing an enemy, and knew they would want that information in Turvite. So Leof curbed his desire
to just ride until he reached the city where he was sure Thegan had taken Sorn.

But they were a rabble, not an army. Their only show of organisation was at dusk and dawn, when a ceremony took place in which
they queued for something. Leof couldn’t get close enough to see exactly what.

More worrying was the number of Travellers who had already joined their ranks. Two hundred, maybe, men and women and children.
Leof suspected that many didn’t want to fight, but felt safer with the ghosts than they did with Acton’s people; and who could
blame them?

He rode across country to avoid the hordes of people fleeing along the roads, streaming in every direction, but mostly towards
Turvite. Carlion was closer, but clearly no one trusted that it was safe. Turvite would need warning, he decided, that it
was about to receive a domain’s worth of visitors, hungry and probably without any silver to pay their way. And for how long?

Cross country on a decent horse was faster, anyway. They were in Three Rivers Domain now, and the warlord here did not spend
money on roads the way Thegan did. They would be in South Domain soon, and the roads there were even worse. Should he stop
at the fort at Wooding and let them know what was coming?

Over his evening campfire — the ghosts didn’t travel at night, although he didn’t understand why not — Leof considered his
own position. His short hair meant he no longer looked like an officer. His sword — if he had any sense, he’d throw his sword
away and figure out how else he could earn his living. It was the pressing box for anyone but a warlord’s man to carry a sword.
But he couldn’t throw it away. He’d trained with the sword from the time he was old enough to walk — toy swords, wooden practice-swords,
blunt half-size blades, and finally the real thing. He couldn’t just discard it.

Besides, he might need it.

The decision settled him, made him feel less like a dandelion clock floating willy-nilly on the breeze. If they all made it
through, there would be time enough to worry about the rest of his life.

The people running ahead of the ghosts had left a lot behind them. He’d had no trouble finding a ham and some cheese in the
last farmhouse. He’d hesitated about whether to leave silver for them, but figured that if he did, the farmer would probably
never get it. So he had ignored the guilt of theft and packed his spare horse with a light load of food that would last —
plus a good supply of oats. If worse came to worst, the horses could make do with grass, and he could live on porridge. He’d
done it once before, when he’d been snowed in to a cave for two weeks on a scouting trip.

That time Thegan had come to find him. When the blizzard had stopped, Thegan had led a rescue party and dug him out. So many
qualities: loyalty, courage, intelligence, foresight. Tears pricked Leof’s eyes; it felt like his commander, the commander
he’d fought behind for so long, believed in for so long, was dead. But he had never existed.

Leof watched the ghost army as it approached the bridge over the chasm of the Fallen River. He was near Wooding, on a small
rise, obscured from view. A scout from the town, an older man with grey hair, was cut down by one of the ghosts as he tried
to make it back to the small force holding the bridge. Men with axes stood ready to hack through the bridge supports and send
the bridge crashing into the chasm. The ghosts would then have to go the long way, down to the ford near Three Rivers Domain.
If they didn’t break the bridge Leof knew the people wouldn’t live long.

Then someone moved forward, towards the ghosts, and stopped, the people behind pushing, trying to see what was happening.

Leof expected the ghosts to surge forward, killing as they went, but nothing happened. The enchanter came to the front, flanked
by the two ghosts who had seemed to control the fighting in Sendat. They talked — talked! — to the man on the bridge and then,
astonishingly, the entire ghost army turned and began to walk down the river towards the ford. It seemed impossible.

Leof found himself shaking. What had happened here? Had the South Domain warlord found a way of defeating the ghosts? He rode
a little closer for a better look at the men still ranged across the bridge. They weren’t warlord’s men, most of them, although
their leader seemed to be an officer. Were they… Travellers?

By the time the ghosts and their human allies had walked down river, the men on the bridge were relaxing, sitting down and
pulling out flasks and bread, celebrating. Leof rode up and dismounted, tying the horses to a nearby tree.

The officer stood up, ready to be welcoming, and then hesitated as he saw Leof’s short hair.

Brazen it out, Leof thought. “Greetings,” he said with an officer’s authority. “I’m Lord Leof, from Sendat. Congratulations.
You’re the first group to have been successful against the ghosts. How did you do it?”

The man smiled with thin pride. “Beck, second-in-command to Coeuf, Warlord of South. We heard about Sendat, so we knew the
hostage plan wouldn’t work.” He hesitated. “Do you know about Acton, Lord Leof?”

That was a strange question, Leof thought. Beck read his expression and went on quickly. “He’s back. His ghost, that is. And
he can talk. He told us to make the Travellers our shield and our sword.”

Leof stared at him. The man seemed to believe what he was saying. And why not? If all the other ghosts had risen, why not
Acton? He felt a flicker of hope. If Acton were fighting with them… perhaps they had a chance at last.

“So our Travellers told the ghosts, ‘This is our home. Go elsewhere’,” Beck continued. “The old ghost, the big one, didn’t
like it, but the enchanter said we had the right to make the decision for ourselves. He said, ‘They have weapons. They don’t
need us to fight for them.’ I think he was pleased about that.”

Leof raised his voice so they could all hear.

“You’ve done very well indeed. You are the only people to save their homes so far. We need to send messengers to other districts
to let them know of your success.” He spoke more quietly, to Beck, “Your warlord can organise it.”

Beck shook his head. “Coeuf’s gone to Turvite for the warlords’ council. His son, too. I’ll do it.”

“I’ll take the news to Turvite,” Leof said. “They will be glad of it there.”

Beck grinned. “If they can get their Travellers to do it. Without the stonecaster journeying with Acton I’d’ve had trouble
convincing them.”

T
HEY ENTERED
Turvite Harbour on an evening tide, riding the swell through the narrow channel with the captain shouting instructions as
fast as she could speak and the sailors up and down the rigging like wrens in a berry bush.

Their party met on deck, Safred and Cael both looking pale, but Safred more cheerful at the thought of land ahead.

“I must go to the Moot Hall,” Arvid said, turning to Martine. “You will come with me?”

“Not immediately,” Martine answered. “I have business here. I have to see Ranny of Highmark.”

“She’ll be at the Moot Hall. She’s in the council. With so many warlords arriving, the council will be there.”

Martine felt her back crawl, as it had when she had last walked through Turvite, expecting a knife between her shoulder blades
from Ranny. She had no idea if the woman still wanted to kill her, but it seemed likely.

“All right, then, I’ll go with you. But the others must go straight to Sanctuary.”

Arvid looked at them with surprise. “It’s too late for that,” he said. “Too late for secrecy. If the warlords are out in force,
whatever must be done should be done before them, with their support. We will send to Ash and Bramble, bring them to Turvite.”

Cael looked at him kindly. “Lad, do you really think they’ll believe us?”

“The Well of Secrets? Of course they’ll believe her!”

Zel refused to go, and none of them pressed her. She wanted to take Trine off to the inn Arvid always used, The Red Dawn.

Trine had recovered all her old snappiness, seeming to object to everything about Turvite — the noise, the smell of fish,
the lumbering handcarts, the hawkers.

“She’ll look after me,” Zel said, smiling, and they smiled back, but as she walked off down the road in front of them, leading
Trine because the horse’s legs were a little unsteady after the long voyage, she looked very small.

“Perhaps you should go to the inn too, and rest,” Safred said to Cael. He looked pallid and shaky, but he shook his head.

“I’ll see it through. If they’ve all come, you know —”

“Yes. My uncle will be there,” Safred said. “Perhaps my father.”

She was staring off at the sea, but her hands were clasped tight. Martine couldn’t tell if she was frightened, or hopeful,
or simply confused. Perhaps all three. It was the most she had spoken since the fog had been fed. That should be encouraged.

“Your uncle?” Martine asked briskly. “Which one’s that?”

“Thegan,” Safred said. “My father was Masry, his older brother, the heir to Cliff Domain, but after… When I ran away
from him, he followed me into the caves and we met delvers. They say it warped his mind. Changed him. He became very religious,
went into seclusion. So Thegan took over the Domain when my grandfather died. Then, of course, he married that poor little
Sorn and now he has from cliff to cove, except for the Lake.”

“Poor little Sorn?”

“Married off to cement alliances, like all the warlords’ daughters. That’s what my mother saved me from. What a prize I would
have been!” Her voice was bitter. She had paid a high price for her freedom, and she hadn’t been the only one who had made
sacrifices.

Martine glanced at Cael, but he was concentrating on his balance. Holly, Arvid’s guard, stepped forward and gave him her arm.
The fact that he took it told Martine that he was very bad. But how he used the last of his energy was his choice.

“Do the gods tell you what we must do next?” Arvid asked her.

Safred shook her head. “I am hollowed out,” she said. “I think they will not speak to me again.”

There was nothing they could say to that without sounding falsely hearty.

They walked down the dock guarded by Arvid’s soldiers, Holly still supporting Cael, and made their way through the streets
to the Moot Hall past some locals, staring and speculating at the new arrivals. Martine could hear them:

“That’s the young warlord from up north!”

“No, no, it’s Coeuf’s son from South. Has to be — look at that nose. Just like Coeuf’s. You could hide a horse up there!”

Martine felt happiness sliding over her, as it did so unexpectedly these days. She managed not to giggle, but she couldn’t
resist peeking at Arvid’s nose. It was a definite nose, admittedly, but surely not so prominent as all that?

Immune to public attention in a way she would never become, Arvid ignored it all and chatted with Safred and his guard. Finally,
as they approached the hall, he turned to Martine. “Do you have yourself under control now?” he asked, his own mouth twitching
just a little.

It almost undid her. What was it about this man that brought out the giggling youngling in her? Then the fear at the heart
of love overtook her and her eyes stung with tears. “Be careful,” she said. “In there, all the rules are already overturned.”

She could hear it as she said it, the Sight coming through without her intention. His gaze sharpened on her as he heard it
too, and he nodded, once, the warlord’s nod acknowledging information from an officer.

One of his guards called out to the safeguarders on the doors, two big men Martine recognised as working for Doronit: “My
Lord Arvid of the Last Domain requires entrance.”

The men swung back the big doors and they entered in strict precedence: Arvid, then Safred, Cael, then Martine, the soldiers
flanking them all.

At the door to the great hall the Turvite councillors, Ranny among them, stood to greet the arrivals. Arvid went through the
formalities, but when he looked around in preparation for introducing his party, Martine shook her head very slightly.

Ranny had seen Martine already, and didn’t look pleased. There was no need to antagonise her by making her formally acknowledge
someone she thought of as an enemy. Martine wished that she had never withheld the full casting she had done for Ranny. But
then — perhaps she would never have left Turvite, never seen Elva or been sent to the Well of Secrets. Never met Arvid. Too
many connections, tumbling like stones in a landslide.