The Liar's Key (The Red Queen's War #2)(71)

For the duration of our penultimate night of escort Kara walked at the head of the column with Lord Hakon who came off his high horse to stroll beside her. The night proved warm, the going easy, nightingales serenaded us, and before long the pair of them were arm in arm, laughing and joking. I did my best to break up their little head to head of course, but there’s a kind of cold shoulder that a couple can offer a fellow that’s hard to get around, particularly with twenty mounted Danes staring at the back of your head.

On our final day we rose in the late afternoon, our camp a meadow beside a stream, the day warm and sunny, new blossom on the trees. Less than ten miles lay before us to the Gelleth border where Lord Hakon and his Danes would take their leave, and I was going to be heartily glad to see the back of them. Snorri and Tuttugu no doubt would happily have walked to Florence with the heathens, having spent the whole journey so far swapping battle tales. The Danes had a great love of sea stories and the old sagas. Snorri provided the former from personal experience and Kara the latter from her vast store of such trivia. I half thought some of the duke’s men would volunteer to join the Undoreth and travel with the Vikings, such was the level of worship on display . . . Even Tuttugu got made out to be some kind of hero, beaching on the shores of the Drowned Isles one season, battling dead men on the Bitter Ice the next, making his last stand against the Hardassa by the Wheel of Osheim . . .

I yawned, stretched, yawned again. The Danes lay around the ashes of the morning’s fire, horses tethered to stakes a little higher up the gentle slope, the trolls mostly hidden, sprawled in the long grass closer to the water. The day had been almost hot compared to those before it—a first touch of summer, albeit a pallid northern excuse for one.

An evening “breakfast” was prepared at leisurely pace, with nobody seeming in a hurry to depart. Tuttugu brought me over a bowl of porridge from the communal cauldron and a fellow named Argurh led his horse across from the herd for me to look at. That was the one thing the men of Maladon conceded I might know something about—horseflesh.

“Favouring his left he is, Jalan.” The man manoeuvred his grey around me, bending to tap the suspect fetlock. I suppressed the urge to say “Prince Jalan.” The further south we got the more the tolerance for such failings fell away from me. In the Three Axes I’d suffered the Norsemen’s “Jal”s just as I’d suffered the winter, a natural phenomenon that nothing could be done about. But now . . . now we were closing on Red March and the summer had found us. Things would change.

“See? There, did it again,” Argurh said. The horse took a half step.

From the corner of my eye I spotted Kara on the move, the bedroll she’d been given tucked under one arm, walking off into the long grass down toward the stream, wildflowers all about her, butterflies rising—

“And he’s somewhat windy in his bowels.” Argurh, in my face again, wittering on about his nag and closing off my view.

“Well.” With a sigh I turned my attention to the horse—better to get a look before the light failed. “Walk him around over there. Let’s see him move.”

Argurh led him off. It looked as though the gelding might have a thorn just above the hoof or taken some knock that had left it tender. I motioned him back. I could sense the sun lowering behind me and needed to get the horse sorted before it set. Although Aslaug had not returned, and even the knocking had ceased, I always felt a hint of her presence as the sun fell and any animals around me became skittish.

“Hold him.” I kneeled down to check the foot. From under the beast’s belly I spied Hakon brushing himself down. He’d tied back his hair and washed his face. Highly suspicious in my view. When a man out in the wilds bothers to wash his face he’s clearly up to something. I manipulated the joint, muttering the sort of nothings that calm a horse, fingers gentle. A moment later I found the end of the spine just below the skin. A scrape of my nail, a quick pinch and I had the thing out. A vicious thing, over an inch long and slick with blood.

“Let it bleed,” I said, passing the thorn to Argurh. “Easy to miss. The problem’s above the hoof often as not.”

I stood quickly, ignoring his thanks, and moved away from the camp, crouching to shred a poppy through my fingers.

“Aslaug!” The sun hadn’t touched the horizon yet but the sky lay crimson above the Gelleth hills rising to the west. “Aslaug!” I needed her then and there. “It’s an emergency.”

Kara hadn’t just wandered off into the meadow with her bedding. Hakon wasn’t just prettying himself up in case we met some Gelleth border guards, and the Danes weren’t being painfully slow to get ready just out of laziness. If there’s one thing I can’t stand about licentious behaviour, it’s when I’m not involved.

I glanced toward the west. The sun’s torturous descent continued, with it now standing a fraction above the hills.

“What?” Not the word, not even a whisper of it, but faint unmistakable sound of inquiry, deep inside my ear.

“I need to stop Hakon . . .” I hesitated, not wanting to have to spell it out. The devil’s supposed to know your mind, I always thought.

“Lies.” So faint I might have imagined it.

“Yes, yes, you’re the daughter of lies . . . what about them?”

“Lies.” Aslaug’s voice came on the very edge of hearing, the shadows reaching all around me. I wondered what had left her so mute and distant . . . It wasn’t temper that kept her from me—she had been shut out somehow . . . “Lies.” They have a saying in Trond—“lie as the light fails”—those lies were supposed to be the ones most likely to be believed.