She stared at him, seeking into his heart. At last, she kissed him on the lips. She tasted salty, and a whiff of something like brimstone trailed off her body. He shut his eyes, savoring her touch, needing only to let all the flavors of triumph and horror and joy mix within him.

In time he found himself, his words, his strength.

“With you,” he murmured, “anything.”

He rose, holding her close although it was clear she was not going to fall.

“Is it true you are regnant now?” she asked.

“I am. How could you know?”

“I met Zuangua.”

‘Ah. What of your companions, the ones who departed with you through the crown?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I lost them months ago.” She shuddered. “It was a terrible thing, Sanglant. Terrible. Anne is dead.”

Said in such a voice, raw with grief. He had no need to question. Anne was dead. Liath had done what needed doing, although the cost had been high. He felt a wild laugh rise, and swallowed his fear and sorrow and anger, because they had not yet come close to knowing the full weight of the storm or how far it had spread its wings.

“You’ll tell me what I need to know,” he said. “Come. I can get you a bit of food at least. You’re too thin, my love.”

“What of those we left behind?” she demanded, clinging to him so he couldn’t take a step. “What of Blessing? Heribert? Where is Hanna? What about Ivar? And Sorgatani and Bertha? Are they all lost?”

“I don’t know.”

She let go of him to cover her face with her hands. He waited while she trembled, lost in a battle for which he carried no weapons, but at length as the night darkened and the griffins settled down with coughs, scratching in the dirt, and distantly a voice called for folk to lie back down and get some sleep by God … at length she sighed and lowered her hands.

“There,” she said. “There. All done. Where are we going?”

“Home to Wendar.” He took her hand as they walked up toward the army, who stared in astonishment. How could they not? He was their regnant now, and Liath would be their queen.

2

AT night, high in the Alfar Mountains, Liath stood beside a fire and told the story to several hundred listeners, who would in their turn pass the tale back to the rest of the army. Many more crowded up in the darkness, waiting in utter silence, but because she told the tale as a poet declaims into a shuttered hall, not as a captain shouts, her voice did not reach as far as his might have, pitched to pierce the clamor of battle.

Still, he could not tell the tale as she could. He left her to it while he sat in his father’s chair, which, because it was the regnant’s chair, was now his. The small chest containing Henry’s ashes, bones, and heart sat on the ground to his left, pressed up against the legs of the chair. He did not like it to rest too far from him, day or night.