“If Icefyre is all the legends say he is, then he will recognize that you have championed his cause, and he will not hold you or your mothershouses responsible for what we did here. Does that satisfy you?”
When his words were finished, Peottre abruptly drew Elliania close to his side and embraced her, muttering words into her hair as he bent over her, words I could not catch. A terrible gravity had seized every Outislander face at Peottre Blackwater's words. Again, I was left groping after the full meaning of some foreign gesture. I felt that somehow he had once again bound them as well as himself. Was there some shameful attachment to what he had offered them? I did not know, but could only guess.
Dutiful was a white-faced witness. Chade stood motionless and silent, and I longed to once more have the Skill in me. It seemed to me that there were suddenly too many ways the dice could fall now. If the dragon was dead when we unearthed him, if he was alive, if he fought, if he didn't, if we slew the dragon and took his head, but Peottre died keeping his word . . . I suddenly found myself sizing up the Hetgurd witnesses as warriors, estimating who I could kill by fair means and who must fall to foul. A glance at Longwick showed him issuing soft-spoken commands to his men, and I suspected that the Prince would now have a shadow at every moment of the day and night.
But strangest of all, perhaps, were the actions of Web, Cockle, Swift, and Civil. Ignoring all else, they walked a random, searching pattern over the snow and ice, looking intently down as if each had lost a diamond and must find it amongst the sparkling crystals of snow. Web was the first to find a stopping place. He was silent and motionless, waiting. Swift came to a halt perhaps a dozen paces away from him. A ship's length from him, Civil scrambled down a steeper piece of ice and then stood still. Cockle was the last to choose his place. He had an uncertain look on his face. He moved slowly, hands outstretched and seeking, as if feeling for rising warmth where none could exist. Slowly he walked away from all of them until he came to a halt about fifteen paces away from Web. The minstrel appeared uncertain as he looked up for Web's approval. Web nodded slowly. “Yes. I believe you are right. He is immense, larger than any creature I have ever seen. Here beneath my feet, I feel him strongest. But if that is where his slow heart beats or where his head rests, I cannot say. Perhaps it is only where his tail tip is closest to the surface. Each of you others, drop a token to mark where you stand. Then walk toward me and tell me if you judge it as I have.”
Cockle pulled off his mitten and let it drop into the snow where he stood, while Civil plunged his staff in and let it stand. Then each made his careful way back to Web. Dutiful and I exchanged a glance, and then, as if simply curious, walked toward the Witmaster. I watched Dutiful's face, but I do not think he was as aware of the sensation as I was. It came and went, flickering like a guttering candle. Even when I stood at my prince's shoulder near Web, my Wit-sense of the dragon was not consistent. But I agreed with Web. When I did sense him, I sensed him more strongly here.
Web and the others of the Wit coterie had kept their eyes down, as if they could see through the snow. Now, one by one, they lifted their gazes. Dutiful waited until Web's eyes met his. I do not know what passed between them in that stare; perhaps they measured one another. But when Web nodded slowly, the Prince dipped his head once in agreement. He turned to Chade.
“This is where we will begin the digging,” he said.
Chapter 18
ICE
My lady Queen,
You know I remain your most loyal servant. I do not question the wisdom of your judgment, but ask that you temper that wisdom with the reflection that perhaps what we have endured has pushed us past the bounds of justice into retribution. I assure you that the report of a “massacre of Piebalds” is a gross overstatement. If we of the Old Blood have erred, it is in that we have held back our hands so long from taking the actions that will convince the renegades amongst us that we will no longer tolerate their incursions against their own folk. This is, in a sense, a cleaning of our own house, and the filth that we must scrub out of our blood shames us. Look aside, we beg you, whilst we scour from our bloodlines those who degrade us.
— UNSIGNED LETTER, FOLLOWING THE GRIMSTON BLOODBATH
And so we dug in the ice.
Longwick sent Riddle and Hest down to our camp to bring up the shovels, picks, and pry bars. While they were gone, Longwick asked the Prince solemnly, “How big a hole do you wish, my lord?” Dutiful and Chade drew it out on the snow, an area large enough for four men to work in without getting in one another's way. Riddle, Hest, and I were the diggers. Longwick worked alongside us, to my surprise. I suppose he felt that his reduced company of guardsmen made it essential that he take a hand, as well. The guardsmen worked with a will, but awkwardly. They were fighters, not farmers, and though they knew the essentials of throwing up emergency earthworks, they had never had to work on a glacier before. Neither had I. It was an enlightening experience.
