Cecily raised her chin. “I’d rather tup out there than die in here.” She met their eyes and tossed her hair back in a gesture she was quite sure was the last one a widow was expected to make, and winked. She turned back to the women, and met the eyes of each in turn. “Say what you will.”
“We’ve no wish to be laughed at.”
“No one will laugh,” said Cecily. She held up her hand. “And if anyone thinks he might,” she paused and looked over the druids. “Think on this first. In five hundred years, since these walls were built, no enemy’s stood where we’re standing now. The walls have never been breached. But the goblins tore these walls apart like they were made of sticks.” She looked Kestrel square in the eyes. “I’ll tup in the fields myself if that’s what it takes.” And expect you there alongside me, she nearly said, but that thought was nearly as horrifying as another goblin attack.
The hint of a smile lifted Mag’s mouth, but she still sounded hesitant. “We must…we’ll begin at sunset, isn’t that right, Granny Lyss? When the sun slips below the trees, below the tor, beside the river, the oldest granny, Granny Lyss, here—” she stepped back and indicated a tiny, wizened, birdlike woman, who was working on such an enormous piece of cud-wort, it slipped in and out between her lips with the motion of her jaw “—will work the rite. We need a volunteer, of course. A man. In his prime, or near approaching it.”
“Nah, the younger the better—fourteen, fifteen.” The old woman spoke in a quavering voice and tapped Mag’s arm with a curved finger that ended in a thick yellowed nail.
“That’s disgusting,” muttered Kestrel. “Completely and totally disgusting.”
“Can you think of anything else?” asked Cecily. The greasy smoke made her eyes burn. Fire, she thought. Perhaps a ring of fire would deter them. She made a mental note to suggest that to Kian.
“Would be better magic if one of them would do it,” said the old woman, and Cecily saw she had no teeth and her lips were drawn into her mouth, like those of the corpses who’d gone with Herne. What lad would volunteer? she wondered. And she wondered if even Kian could be induced to lie with such a woman.
“I’ll do it.” The voice resonated like a born bard’s, but the tall boy who pushed through the druids was slight of build, his skin pimpled patchy red.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Kestrel. “I thought you were gathering up the dead—”
“I was,” he answered. “I overheard.” He gestured to his stained white robes. “What do you need me to do?”
“What’s your name, young druid?” asked Cecily, bemused.
“He’s not a druid.” Kestrel rolled his eyes. “He’s naught but a third-degree bard and he’s always where he’s not needed and never where he is.”
“Well, then, young third-degree bard, what’s your name?” Cecily motioned to Granny Lyss to stop cackling.
“I’m Jammor, Your Grace. Jammor of the Rill, they call me.” He bowed and handed Kestrel his shovel with such a flourish, she nearly laughed aloud despite the situation.
“Oh, indeed, he’ll do right fine,” cackled Granny Lyss. “Come over here, boy, and let me feel your arm.”
“Tell him, first, what he’s in for, and see if he’s still interested.” Kestrel stepped forward and pushed the shovel back into Jammor’s hands. “Get back to work.”
“Now, just you wait, young man,” cried Granny Lyss. “I want a look at you—”
The boy hesitated, even as Kestrel opened his mouth to protest, and the impasse was broken by Kian, who came striding over the rubble, picking his way with the grace of a mountain cat, despite his size. But his expression was grim. At once Cecily asked, “What word, Sir Kian?”
“A sad word, that we expected,” answered Kian. He paused on the periphery of the group and sought her eyes with his. “It’s just as we feared, my lady. Great Gar is dead.” He glanced at Kestrel, then at Mag. “If you’d be so kind as to step aside a moment with me, my lord druid? Still-wife? Your Grace?”
“Shall we talk about the funeral?” Kestrel asked as Kian shepherded the three of them behind a pile of rubble. Blood stained the stones, and goblin gore clung here and there to the ruined wall, but at least the worst had been removed, thought Cecily as she carefully stepped over a suspicious pile of cloth.
“Funeral?” said Kian. He had removed his mask, and his face was furrowed with worry and exhaustion, and grime and sweat streaked his skin. “There’s no time to talk of funerals, my lord. Donnor’s death isn’t the only news the scout brought. Cadwyr of Allovale has raised his colors over Ardagh, and ten thousand mercenaries from Lacquilea are marching up from the south, led by one of Cadwyr’s foster brothers.”
They all gasped. Kestrel glanced around, white robes bluish in the shadows, so that his garments seemed to blend in with the stone. “Surely the messenger’s mistaken? What about the King? What about the Court?”
Kian shook his head, grim-faced. “He never got that close. He was sent back ahead of the rest. He did flank Cadwyr’s army. There’s at least two thousand horse, four thousand foot. Between them and the mercenaries, Cadwyr’s got nearly three times what we could muster ourselves.”
“Where did he get all those men?”
Kian shook his head slowly. “The lad didn’t get close enough to see if they were men, my lady. And if they are—” He broke off and put his hands on his hips. “Who knows what promises Cadwyr has made to others?”
“Do you really think Cadwyr is leading an army of the sidhe?” Cecily asked.
“You can’t seriously believe—” began Kestrel.
“How can you have seen those monsters last night, and Great Herne, too, and not believe what we tell you?” interrupted Cecily. “None of us want to believe it, my lord. None of us wanted to believe it before.” Kestrel had refused from the first to believe Kian’s tale of the blacksmith’s daughter and the sidhe.
“But this was what Donnor meant when he told me an opportunity had arisen suddenly, one that wouldn’t wait. Donnor knew about Cadwyr’s plan to use the sidhe.”
“And now he’s marching on Gar,” said Kian.
“Well, did this scout see any sign of any—any Other?” asked Kestrel. “What other evidence is there, really?”
“Other than Cadwyr’s colors over a castle that’s built on a rock over a whirlpool? What other evidence do you need, you old goat?” asked Mag with such derision that Cecily raised her brow. Mag was, after all, but the still-wife.
“They came upon a squadron or so of archers, who looked to be butchered where they stood,” answered Kian. “Most of them didn’t even have time to draw their sidearms.”
“So no one’s actually seen any—” said Kestrel.
“We’ve a witness,” said Kian. “The blacksmith’s daughter from Killcairn. Don’t you recall?”
“Have you any better explanation, Lord Druid?” asked Mag.
“I don’t want to believe it, either, my lord,” Cecily repeated. “But for all we know, Cadwyr may have a bargain with the goblins as well. I don’t think we can discount any possibility.”
“Cadwyr would not dare—” exploded Kestrel.
“He’s already dared to make himself master of Ardagh. I think we may well believe Cadwyr’s capable of anything,” said Cecily. “How soon will he be here?”
“We must call for an Assembly at once, obviously,” said Kestrel. “Donnor’s funeral will give us our perfect—”
“Oh, will you stop blathering about funerals?”