Beneath her cloak and steel, Ridha shivered. The wind blew again, and the enclave disappeared into the snows.
The great bear was the sigil of Kovalinn, set into her gates, woven into tapestries, carved from towering pines to loom down the length of the great hall. It was also a living guardian. One slept soundly by the seat of the Monarch, its massive paws curled over its face, the ridge of its back like a mountain. It snored softly, nuzzling its snout against the feet of the boy who ruled this enclave of the Vedera. The redheaded child bent down from his chair, scratching the animal behind the ears. Its head was nearly the size of his body.
Dyrian of Kovalinn, his eyes pearl gray, smiled at his pet fondly. He was only a century old, the youngest Veder to rule upon the Ward. His white face was spattered with freckles; his clothing was plain: a brown cloak trimmed in black sable, the bear on his tunic picked out in amber, jet, and swirling jasper. There was a twisted circle of gold around his throat to match one on his wrist, but he wore no crown. In his lap there was a living pine bough, its needles a lush hunter green.
Ridha knelt, her fur cloak over one shoulder, the steel of her armor still cold from the ride up the fjord. She watched him keenly, weighing his youth.
The boy was not alone: advisors fanned around him, either seated or standing. Kesar stood at his right hand, unbothered by the sleeping bear. On his left was clearly his mother, her hair as red as his own, gathered into two long braids beneath a circlet of hammered iron. She was broad, similar in build to Ridha, a cloud of white fox fur around her shoulders, a chain-mail gown pouring over her crossed legs. Her eyes were flint, unblinking.
The princess of Iona weighed the Monarch against his diplomats. Who commands the enclave? Who speaks for Kovalinn? Who do I have to convince?
“He’s larger than usual,” Dyrian said, straightening in his chair. It was too big for him; his fur boots dangled over the flagstones of the raised dais. He looked younger than his decades, his face still clinging to fat. There was a sword at his side and a dagger in his boot, suited to his small size.
“Putting on fat for the winter sleep,” he added, smiling a toothy grin, showing a gap between his teeth.
The smile did not reach his eyes.
Ridha raised her chin. Her focus narrowed to the Monarch, and not the others, who lived thousands of years between them.
“And what of you, my lord?” she said. “Do you intend to sleep as well?”
Behind him, his mother’s mouth twitched but did not open. As Ridha had guessed, no one spoke for Dyrian but Dyrian.
The boy rested his hands on the arms of his chair, the wood carved in the likeness of his pet.
“I was told Ionians dance around the point,” he said, amused. His gray-white eyes belonged to a wolf, not a child. “Not you, Princess.”
“Not me,” she answered.
Her skin crawled with a shiver. The great hall of Kovalinn was a long room beneath a thatched roof, the walls made of cut lumber. Today it served as the Monarch’s throne room, emptied of onlookers but for his council. Two open pits ran the length of the chamber behind her, shimmering with hot coals and lit flames, but the great doors were swung wide, letting in the echoes of winter. Snow danced along the flagstones, swirling around her boots.
Ridha tried to ignore the cold. “What did my mother tell you in her sending?”
He tapped a finger against his lips, thinking. “Enough,” he finally answered. “A Spindle torn, the rest in danger. Blood and blade in the wrong hands, serving What Waits and his devouring hunger.”
Her insides twisted. It was a song she knew well, but she winced every time it was sung.
Dyrian leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees. His wolf eyes flashed. “A calamity already beyond our control.”
Ridha stood gracefully, her jaw set. “I disagree.”
The boy grinned again, looking sidelong at his mother. Her eyes sparked to his, conveying a message Ridha could not read.
“Oh, I thought you were here for a social visit,” he said, shrugging. “So, then, Ridha of Iona, what do you want of us?”
No, those with endless years tend not to worry about time lost. Even when they should, Ridha thought, biting her tongue. Again she looked over the advisors, weighing their influence as she weighed Dyrian’s. I’m not a diplomat, she thought. I’m no good at this.
Dom would be far worse.
“I want you to fight,” she bit out, laying a hand on her sword. Her eyes dropped to the pine bough in his lap. “Lay down the branch, take up the ax.” She felt desperate. She sounded desperate. Ridha hated it but would not stop. If I have to beg, so be it. “The Ward is not yet lost. And I don’t think it’s worth losing.”