Hearts in Zenith (Four Husbands and a Lover)

32. The Lake of Bones

I stared at the blue color bordering Yadwiga's thumb. I respected her magic. I was grateful for her timely intervention with Ondrey. Yes, yes. But this was a terrible idea! How was I going to put it politely?

"You want us to fight her on the lake?" I said and licked my lips. "The Princess Granda magicked the longboats to move on ice instead of water. Those will be like battle towers on the frozen lake."

As I described it, I realized the danger more acutely. Longboats was such an archaic word. It conjured images of round shields on red-painted sideboards, terror-inspiring sails billowing in the wind and roaring figureheads. And the kind of wanton cruelty that we hadn't seen out of Nortlungen for centuries.

However, I got a taste of the fabled Princesses of the yestereve just now, in my vision of Ondrey's wife's torture. The longboats fit the pattern. My opponent was unhinged. And she had magic longboats. A shiver passed through me as I imagined those things advancing over ice onto my slipping and sliding heavy horse formation.

"No, absolutely not!"

Yadwiga's smile reminded me of Ondrey's. The same buildup, the same slow burn, the same commitment at the end. And, a flicker of malice in the watery depth of her eyes to add to it. Were this hatred burning for me, I would have taken notice.

"Snehora using the longboats is a great boon to us," the old witch said patiently. "I didn't hope for such luck. She shouldn't have done it. This means she doesn't see herself as a mortal Princess anymore, but as the Eternal Sovereign, the Northern Empress to rival the one in the South."

"Mythra's fangs! Is she half-Divine?"

"The blood of her ancestors flows in her veins," Yadwiga said cryptically. She leaned onto the table, padded chest rustling against the sides of the map, the figurines caught under flesh and thick wool. Her wrinkly cheek came to rest on a wrinkly palm. This tale is worth your time, her pose promised.

Phedoxia made a sign to ward off evil. She clearly saw Bhutas at work here.

I paced. We could march before the first light tomorrow. And I needed to understand how things worked in this cursed land. I whirled, stopped and stared at Yadwiga.

Now certain that she has our undivided attention, Yadwiga continued. "They are relics of the ancient times, those longboats. The last heirloom of her conquering forbearers. They left them as a gift to guard against the threat to their bloodline. Their magic is only just holding them together for one last sailing. Once they drop anchor, they shall wither."

"So... no moving castles?"

Yadwiga nodded. "She'll be lucky to have kindling for her campfires. Most likely it would fall into sawdust."

"Most likely?" I glanced at Phedoxia.

My Scribe gave a begrudging nod. "Living things can renew the enchantments with their heart-blood's flow. Or they can be enchanted anew. The wood the boats had been built from had been cut centuries ago. It's long dead. It will be as the witch had said."

Look at that! My two magic consults agreed!

It had to be true. Plus, I once had in my possession two minor magic items. They both had lost their potency, so I had seen first-hand how magic vanishes with use.

Yet there was one item that didn't lose its deadly magic. My dagger.

"What of the black steel?" I asked and extended it as evidence. The black blade shone dully.

Phedoxia took the dagger from me by the offered hilt and swung it through the air. It was the clumsiest strike I saw in my life.

"Black steel acquires a living soul when a poet forges it. And so, it doesn't tarnish," she said once she was done playing a warrior. "The magic renews itself, even strengthens as the victims' blood washes it. Some owners quench black steel weapons regularly in the blood of sacrifices."

My dagger tasted my blood and Ondrey's along with the wounded foes I had finished off as mercy kills. I could remember the blade hum whenever it tasted blood. I could sense a hunger in it. Or maybe I was making it up after hearing Phedoxia's explanation.

"Fine, so black steel is different." I took the dagger from my High Scribe and sheathed it. "Let's say the longboats are no use to our Princess. She still has three times our numbers. The lake is a flat, open terrain. Fighting on it would be handing her an advantage."

"The horses wouldn't be sure-footed either," the Haida elder muttered, the first words I heard from her all night. "They'll tire fast. Cut their legs, if ice chips."

Miccola nodded to her every word. I probably did too.

Yadwiga looked through us, observing something we couldn't see. I sensed another tale of yore coming before she started it.

"This lake is called the Lake of Bones, because when Snehora brought Ratne under her heel, she drowned many families in its frigid water."

"That still doesn't mean they won't mount a sortie from Ratne to hit us in the flank or rear—" Miccola put in. "You can never know with whom popular love lies. Or fear."

"That's why I want you to keep the Deadheads fresh and ready to intercept them," I said immediately. "I'll ride with the Haida."

"You want me in reserve?!" Miccola's eyes rounded in outrage.

"Yes. Haida's sisters and mothers must defeat Snehora. It's existential for them. Such resolve is the only thing we can leverage against her superiority in numbers."

I glanced at Ondrey's lifeless face. "Not that the Tverizh lacks it," I added delicately, though I doubted he could hear me, "but they aren't in their heartlands here. We need this on our side when we look at the larger host. And I need your cool head guarding the horizon for us."

Miccola chewed her lip—she'd end up lipless if she kept doing it. "Fine. Back to why we are fighting on this lake. It has a grim fame, I give you that."

"Right. It has to steal some of their nerve."

"But! It's still a big flat silver platter if you take the rest of our troops on it, Ismar. With all the righteousness in the world on your side, one against three is a bad plan."

Miccola wasn't wrong.

Yadwiga waited out our argument with the patience of a crone. I envied her that quality.

"It's not just the fresh bones that sleep beneath the water," she said in a sing-song voice. "There are old places in the South, but the North isn't newer. Long ago, the people here put guardians in the swamps—and that's where my Ondryusha comes in..."

She was looking lovingly at Ondrey, so I decided that she changed his name the way she had already changed mine. It had the same rustling sound to it now. Ishmara-Ondrysha... our names went together well in that pronunciation.

Word by word, Yadwiga revealed the full extent of what she could do for us with the old magic of the North.

Phedoxia's mouth moved, forming silent accusations, but she didn't interrupt or tossed the Scripture at the Forest Witch crying Begone, begone, evil spirit! That saved us some time, yet the night was nearly spent anyway when I had asked the four women at the table, "Are we agreed?"

"Aye," said Miccola and the Haida elder in one voice. They locked glances momentarily, then dropped it. I nearly pumped my fist. That's esprit de corps, if I'd ever seen one!

Phedoxia took longer to think it over. Finally, she also said, "Aye."

"Then we're bound." A yawn I was stifling during Yadwiga's flowery turns of phrase, burst out of my mouth. I wanted to curl up on the furs next to Ondrey, hug him and drift off.

Alas, Yadwiga plopped down to keep vigil over her adopted grandson, grumbling how young people should sleep while sleep comes easy to them.

On that particular night, I wished the crone was right about the young people. Once I left Ondrey's tent, my yawns went away as if by magic. I tossed and turned, closed my eyes, only to open them again, trading the darkness for Ondrey's memories Ashanti burned into my mind.

I imagined Kozima in my embrace. I imagined Ondrey. Finally, I imagined them embracing one another and Parneres for a good measure. This did the trick. My mind found a happy place and I let go of consciousness for a short while.