‘I returned to the gully and found Chloe and Rafa debating around the burning fire. Chloe was finger-combing her hair, head circled with a halo of impossible curls. Saoirse was still out somewhere in the woods, Bellamy strumming his lute – quickly stowed as he heard me stomping back towards camp. Dior was sulking in his furs, dragging on a cigarelle and looking at me with the exact measure of fury you’d expect a fourteen-year-old boy to have for the man who’d just scuppered his chances of getting his taddies tickled.
‘“San Michon is our path, Rafa,” Chloe was saying. “Our answers are there.”
‘“Of that I’ve no doubt,” the priest replied, stirring a steaming pot. “But San Michon is over a thousand miles away. San Guillaume is far closer.”
‘“San Guillaume is a distillery, Rafa,” Chloe sighed. “San Michon is a fortress. When the Forever King swept through the Nordlund, he took one look at those spires and decided it was easier simply to go around them. It’s there the end to daysdeath awaits us.”
‘“If we’re to trek a thousand miles, we’ll need to resupply. We cannot eat snow, Chloe.”
‘“The good father raises an excellent point, Sister,” Bellamy said.
‘“But we’ll need to trek weeks out of our way just to get there,” Chloe said.
‘“The good sister raises an excellent point, Father,” Bellamy nodded.
‘“Is that fucking potato?” I scowled, peering at Rafa’s soup.
‘“Oui, Chevalier,” Rafa nodded. “My speciality.”
‘“Of course it is.”
‘“What do you think, Gabe?” Chloe asked.
‘I looked between the pair as I served myself a steaming bowlful. In truth, I didn’t care where they headed – the boy would serve as bait for Danton just as well on either path. “I think the best way to steer your ship onto the rocks is to have two capitaines at the wheel. So one of you should take the helm. And the other should shut their noisemaker.”
‘Chloe squared her jaw, stared Rafa down. “San Michon, then.”
‘The old man pushed his spectacles up his nose, scratched the grey stubble on his scalp. “As you like it, good Sister.”
‘“Accord!” Bellamy cried. “Huzzah!”
‘“Shut the fuck up, Bouchette,” I growled.
‘We took to our horses, Saoirse leading us through the gloom. Snow began falling again, and we trekked through the wood for two days before spilling onto a muddy northbound road winding into the Ossway. I could see what would’ve been rolling green hills, now run to muck and mushrooms. Another deadwood awaited like a stain on the horizon. We passed a crow-pecked gibbet at a crossroads, creaking in the bitter wind. The word WITCH was carved into the rusting metal. Rafa and Chloe made the sign of the wheel as we passed, Dior staring with his jaw clenched tight.
‘The remains inside the cage belonged to an old woman.
‘It’s a better storyteller than me who can make miles of silent drudgery sound interesting, coldblood. Saoirse and Phoebe scouted ahead. The rest of us rode hunched in our saddles. Rafa squinted at his battered copy of the Testaments, rubbing his silver wheel between forefinger and thumb. I pored over my beaten map, Bellamy played with his wooden cock while Dior chattered away to the soothsinger about any and all. The weather was purest misery. But I’d crushed up that fledgling’s blood before we’d left the hunter’s hovel, and my bandolier was loaded with a dozen doses of high-grade sanctus, which made me as happy as a pig in shite.
‘We met the refugees five days in.
‘A thin handful at first – a farmer and his famille, shuffling towards us. But through the falling snow, I spied a multitude behind. Hundreds of them. They dragged hand-drawn carts, the burdens of abandoned lives, small children on their backs. I even spied a world-weary donkey among them, sad and starved. They passed us without a word – even when Père Rafa called out, they simply trudged on like ghosts. Feet scraping through dirty snow.
‘“Great fucking Redeemer …” Dior whispered.
‘“Blasphemy, Dior,” Chloe murmured.
‘“Where are they all coming from?”
‘“Ossway folk,” I replied, nodding to the kilts among them. “There’s a hamlet long west of here named Valestunn. A bigger village northeast called Winfael—”
‘“Gabriel de León?”
‘I blinked to hear my name, looking for the voice that spoke it. There among the line of refugees, I saw a mud-spattered man, thirty and some, with a young fair-haired lass on his shoulders. He was tall, grizzled, bright blue eyes shining in a mask of dirt.
‘“Martyrs and Mothermaid, it is ye!”
‘I frowned, trying to recall the man’s face as he limped across the road, hand outstretched. Tipping my tricorn back from my brow, I slipped down into the snow, grasped his forearm. There was barely any meat on it, but his grip was iron.
‘“Ye’d nae remember me,” he said. “But we fought together at Triúrbaile. I was a hammerman in Lady á Cuinn’s company the day ye liberated th—”
‘“Lachlunn,” I said, snapping my fingers. “Lachlunn á Cuinn.”
‘“… Tha’s right!” He blinked in surprise, looked up to the girl on his shoulders. “D’ye see that, poppet? The Black Lion hisself remembered your old da!”
‘“Good to see you again, mon ami,” I smiled. “How fare?”
‘“Ah.” The man sighed. “Tried to make an honest living after the troubles, with my drumstick fucked, like.” Here he tapped his leg with a walking stick. “Mushroom farmer, aye? But the Dyvoks took Dún Cuinn last winter, and once the castle fell, just got too dangerous. We’re headed over the ?mdir into Sūdhaem before wintersdeep hits.”
‘I nodded grim, but spared a smile for the little girl. “And who’s this wee slayer?”
‘“Aisling.” He tickled the girl’s cheek. “Say hello, flower.”
‘The girl ducked her chin so her hair tumbled about her face.
‘“Ah, apologies, Lion. She’s shy, like.”
‘“Fairdawn, Mlle Aisling.” I took her hand, kissing her dimpled knuckles. “This ugly old troll steal you from the fae? Or do you just take after your pretty mama?”
‘The girl looked to the ground, and the man’s smile fell away like a broken mask. And I knew the tale in a heartbeat then, without their needing to speak it. I’d heard it a thousand times across a thousand miles and a thousand lives already.
‘“Condolences, á Cuinn,” I murmured. “For your loss.”
‘The man sniffed and spat, rubbing at grubby lashes. He peered about the company, Rafa and Chloe making the sign of the wheel, Dior watching with cold blue eyes.
‘“I heard tell ye were dead, Lion.”
‘“They tried.”
‘“Where ye headed?”
‘“The River Volta.”
‘“North?” The man raised an eyebrow. “There’s nae much north o’ here but ruins and wretched, Silversaint. An’ west is worse. We’re come from Valestunn, and there’s nae hope there. The wretched are thick as flies on shite since the dún fell.”