Chapter 436: Around the Fight

Wenhild had made enough food for forty people.

There were twenty-three at the table.

She did not seem to think this was a problem. She stood at the end of the long table in the small hall off the kitchen with her sleeves rolled up and her hands folded in front of her apron, and she watched us sit down with the expression of someone who had been feeding hungry people for a thousand years and had learned that the number of people who arrived was rarely the number of people who needed feeding.

“More will come,” she said, when Helena raised an eyebrow at the platters.

“How do you know?”

Wenhild looked at her.

“Because the food smells good,” she said. “And the door's open.”

She was right.

By the time the bread had been passed around once, there were thirty-one.

Brannoc sat at the head of the table.

He had not chosen to. Kaedra had steered him there, with one hand on his elbow, and Mireth had sat down on his left before he could object, and Nyxa had taken the chair on his right without a word.

He looked very uncomfortable.

“Corra always sat here,” he said quietly. “At Carrow Tor. Wherever we ate. She took the head of the table so nobody else could, and then she made everyone talk about something that wasn't the war.”

“Then you do it,” Kaedra said.

Brannoc looked at her.

“I don't know how.”

“Neither did she, the first time.” Kaedra tore a piece of bread in half and put one half on his plate. “She asked Ishkar about his horse.”

Across the table, Ishkar looked up from his soup.

“She did,” he said. “I'd been raiding supply wagons for three days. I hadn't slept. She sat down across from me and asked whether my horse preferred oats or barley.”

“What did you say?” I asked.

Ishkar was quiet for a moment.

“I said I didn't know,” he said. “I'd never asked.” He looked down at his bowl. “She told me to go and find out. So I went out to the stable and stood there for an hour watching him eat. And I realized I'd forgotten he was a horse. I'd only been thinking of him as something that carried me to the next fight.”

The table had gone quiet.

“Barley,” Ishkar said finally. “He prefers barley. Corra was very pleased when I told her.”

Brannoc looked around the table.

At all of us. At the Unbound, sitting together on one side. At Thor and Avarn and Elyan. At Evelyn and Adriana, with Roderic asleep in a basket on the bench between them. At Mary and Melody, with Corvin sitting beside Mary and looking, for once, like he had not been mistaken for a clerk. At Vaust and Halemar, side by side, leaning on each other slightly. At Anwen, with Lirien in her lap. At Ysolde, who had come in quietly and sat at the very end of the table and was not, I noticed, counting anything.

He took a breath.

He looked at Oruun.

“Your hammer,” he said. “The one you lost at the bridge.”

Oruun looked up, startled.

“What about it?”

“Corra said you'd made it yourself. Before the war. She said you'd never tell anyone how.” Brannoc paused. “Tell us.”

Oruun stared at him.

Then he put down his spoon.

“It took me eleven years,” he said slowly.

And he told us.

It was a long story.

It involved a forge on a mountainside, a seam of iron so pure it rang when you struck it, and a dispute with a mountain spirit over who owned the iron that lasted four of the eleven years and ended, Oruun said, with both of them agreeing to share the seam and neither of them ever admitting the other had been right.

Bruni laughed so hard at the part about the spirit's sulking that he had to put his metal fingers over his face.

Perrin asked three technical questions about the quenching.

Aldren asked a fourth.

Oruun answered all of them with increasing enthusiasm, until he and Perrin and Aldren were leaning across the table toward each other drawing diagrams in spilled water, and Wenhild came by and quietly set down a fresh pitcher so they would not run out.

Brannoc watched.

He did not say anything.

But his shoulders had come down from around his ears for the first time since the garden.

It went on like that.

Brannoc asked Kaedra about the first deer she had ever brought down, and she told us about a stag in a winter forest that she had tracked for six days and then decided not to shoot, because by the sixth day she had come to respect it too much.

“Did you go hungry?” Melody asked.

“For two more days,” Kaedra said. “Then I found a rabbit.” She paused. “I didn't respect the rabbit nearly as much.”

He asked Mireth about the first wound she had ever healed.

Mireth was quiet for a long time.

“A boy,” she said finally. “He'd cut his hand on a scythe. I was very young. I didn't know what I was. I only knew I wanted it to stop bleeding.” She looked down at her hands. “It stopped. And he looked at me like I'd hung the moon. And I thought: oh. This is what I'm for.”

Nyxa, beside Brannoc, did not want to answer when he asked her.

She looked at him for a long moment.

“I'll tell you later,” she said.

Brannoc nodded.

“Later,” he agreed.

Then Brannoc looked at Anwen.

She had been listening all evening with Lirien asleep against her chest. She looked up when he turned toward her.

“You healed Othellos,” Brannoc said quietly.

The table went very still.

Anwen held his gaze.

“Yes.”

“Uriah told us. The wound. The light. Something old in it that wasn't his.”

“Yes.”

Brannoc was silent for a moment.

“Corra used to say,” he said slowly, “that every harvest leaves something in the field. Something that wasn't gathered. Something that falls through the cracks.” He looked at Anwen. “She said that's where the next year's seeds come from.”

Anwen did not say anything.

“What did you leave in his wound?” Brannoc asked.

Anwen looked down at her sleeping daughter.

“I don't know,” she said. “I've wondered for three years.” She was quiet for a moment. “But I know it hurt him. Whatever I couldn't reach. It hurt him the whole time I was working. And he let me keep working anyway.” She looked up. “He was more afraid of someone finding out he was wounded than he was of the pain.”

After supper, we stayed at the table.

Wenhild cleared the plates and brought fresh bread and a pot of tea that never seemed to empty, and nobody got up.

Brannoc looked at me.

“Now,” he said.

I nodded.

“Three messages,” I said. “Three houses. North, south, and across the river.”

The Unbound had gone very quiet.

“North first,” I said. “Saelis?”

Saelis was sitting near the end of the table, his black coat draped over his shoulders.

“Eleven hundred and six,” he said. “That's the number. Every night. It's eleven hundred and seven tonight.” He paused. “It'll be eleven hundred and eight tomorrow.”

“Days,” Halemar said quietly. “Counting.”

At the end of the table, Ysolde set down her teacup.

Everyone turned to look at her.

She had not spoken all evening. She had sat at the very end of the table with her hands in her lap and listened, and I had noticed, without quite noticing that I noticed, that she had not counted anything. Not the plates. Not the people. Not the candles on the table.

“I'll go,” she said.

Mary turned in her chair.

“Ysolde—”

“I counted for three years,” Ysolde said. “Every day. The doors. The steps. The lanterns. If I stopped counting, I thought I'd forget what I was keeping the numbers for.” She looked at Saelis. “Whoever's in that house is doing the same thing. Eleven hundred and seven days. They're counting so they won't forget.”

“Forget what?” Saelis asked.

Ysolde looked at him.

“That the days are real,” she said. “That they're passing. That somewhere outside the house, the world is still turning and they're still part of it.” Her voice was very quiet. “When you're alone long enough, you start to think time has stopped. Counting is how you prove it hasn't.”

Nobody spoke.

“I know what to say to someone who's counting,” Ysolde said. “Let me say it.”

Mary looked at me.

Then at Ysolde.

Then she turned to Tobin Reed, who was sitting beside Adeline further down the table, writing in a small notebook with his sevens backward.

“Tobin,” Mary said.

He looked up.

“How far is the north coast road?”

“Three hundred and four miles,” Tobin said immediately. “From Greykeep. Halemar said.”

“And the shelters along it?”

Tobin frowned.

“I don't know.”

“Find out,” Mary said. “Every shelter. Every fishing village that used to keep one. Every stone the Keeper might still be able to stand on.” She looked at Ysolde. “If she's going to walk three hundred miles to talk to someone who's counting, she ought to be properly supplied.”

Ysolde looked at her.

Something in her face eased.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Don't thank me,” Mary said briskly. “Thank Tobin. He's going to be up all night.”

Tobin was already writing.

Adeline leaned over and corrected one of his sevens.

He let her.

“The south,” I said.

Halemar did not wait for anyone to ask.

“I'll go,” he said.

Vaust turned to look at him sharply.

“You can't. You can barely walk to the garden.”

“I walked to the eastern gate,” Halemar said. “Two weeks ago. To see them off.” He looked at Vaust. “I've walked further every day since. I walked here tonight without your stick.”

Vaust stared at him.

“You did,” he said slowly. “I didn't notice.”

“You were busy arguing with Perrin about hinges.”

“I was not arguing. I was correcting.”

Halemar almost smiled.

Then he turned to me.

“The causeway road is folded,” he said. “Worse than the eastern road. Every mile feels like five. You can't walk it. Not without someone who knows what was done to it.” He paused. “I did it.”

The table went very quiet.

“Not that road,” Halemar said. “But roads like it. For him. For years. I know how they were folded. I know where the creases are.” He looked down at his hands. “I don't know if I can unfold them. I've never tried. I've only ever been forced to make them worse.”

“Then why go?” I asked.

Halemar was silent for a long time.

“Because someone's holding up a lamp,” he said finally. “Every night. Not saying anything. Just holding it up.” His voice dropped. “As though they've forgotten what they were going to say.” He looked at me. “I know what that's like too. I spent years forgetting which room I was in. Forgetting what I'd meant to do when I woke up. Forgetting my own name, some days.”

He looked at Vaust.

“You told me which room I was in,” he said. “Every time I asked. For weeks. Until I remembered.”

Vaust did not answer.

“Someone should tell them,” Halemar said quietly. “Whoever's in that house. Someone should tell them which room they're in.”

Vaust looked at him for a long time.

Then he picked up his walking stick from where it leaned against the table.

“Fine,” he said. “But I'm coming.”

“You can barely—”

“I walk the infirmary corridor six times a night,” Vaust said. “Everyone knows. The Keeper told them.” He looked at me with deep betrayal. “And if you're going to try to unfold a road, you'll need someone who understands thresholds. Every crease in a folded road is a threshold. A place where it turns back on itself.”

Halemar stared at him.

“You'd come?”

“I held doors for him for years,” Vaust said. “You held distances. We were in the same courtyard for three of those years. I never once spoke to you.” His jaw tightened. “I'd like to make up for that.”

Halemar looked down at the table.

When he looked up, his eyes were wet.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Don't thank me,” Vaust said gruffly. “Thank Perrin. He's going to have to build me a better stick.”

Perrin, across the table, looked up from his diagram.

“I heard that,” he said.

“You were meant to.”

And then there was Corra.

Nobody spoke for a long time.

Brannoc sat at the head of the table with his hands flat on the wood. Kaedra's hand rested on his arm. Mireth sat very still on his other side.

“Across the river,” Brannoc said finally. “In Surtr's country. Two hundred and forty miles of burned forest. No shelters. No stones. No road the Keeper can stand on.”

“And an army,” Thor said.

“And an army.”

Thor looked at the table.

At the platters and the bread and the teapot that never emptied.

“Corra would make us sit down,” she said slowly. “And eat. And talk about something that wasn't the war.” She looked at Brannoc. “Then she'd find a way. Not through the fight. Around it.”

“There's no way around an army,” Ishkar said.

“There's always a way around an army,” Nyxa said quietly.

Everyone turned to look at her.

She had not spoken since telling Brannoc she would answer his question later. She sat beside him with her hands folded on the table and her eyes on the candles.

“I've been through Surtr's lines eleven times,” she said. “At night. Alone. They don't see me.” She looked up. “I could reach the house.”

“And then what?” Kaedra asked. “Carry her out on your back? Through an army?”

Nyxa did not answer.

“I could reach the house,” she said again. “I could tell her someone was coming. That's all I can do. But I could do that.”

Bruni had been silent all evening.

He sat at the far end of the table, his metal fingers wrapped around a mug of tea, listening.

Now he set the mug down.

“Giants,” he said.

Everyone looked at him.

“At Carrow Tor,” Bruni said slowly. “Surtr's giants. Twenty of them.” He looked at his metal hand. “One of them talked to me. When I came down from Aelune's claws and stood between them and the gate.”

“What did he say?” Thor asked.

Bruni was quiet for a moment.

“He asked if I was Bruni of the bridge,” he said. “The one who held up the bridge at the kiln, so the wagon could cross.” He frowned. “I didn't know anyone knew about that.”

“And you said?”

“I said yes,” Bruni said. “And I said I held bridges, not gates. But I would learn.” He turned his mug slowly on the table. “He looked at me for a long time. Then he lowered his club. Before Thor even said anything.”

Thor was staring at him.

“I thought that was me,” she said.

“It was you,” Bruni said. “And it was me.” He looked down. “Giants talk. In the camps. At night. About who's strong and who's weak and who's worth following.” He paused. “Some of them don't want to follow Surtr. Some of them are there because he burned their villages too. Like the werewolves. Like Merek.”

The table had gone very still.

“The werewolves had bindings,” Caldris said quietly. “On their throats. Compelling them.”

“Some did,” Bruni said. “Some didn't need them.” He looked at Thor. “Some of the giants are there because they're afraid. Because Surtr is the biggest thing they've ever seen, and they don't know anyone bigger.” He paused. “And then they saw you. At Carrow Tor. And me.”

Thor did not say anything.

“They talk,” Bruni said again. “At night. Around the fires. I know their language. I could go to the ford. I could talk to them across the water.” He looked at Brannoc. “Not to fight. To ask.”

“Ask what?” Brannoc said.

Bruni looked at him.

“Whether any of them know a road,” he said. “Through the burned forest. To a stone house. Where someone is saying a name every night.”

Nobody spoke for a long time.

Then Thor laughed.

Not loudly. Quietly. With something that sounded almost like wonder.

“Around the fight,” she said.

“Around the fight,” Bruni agreed.

Thor looked at Brannoc.

He was staring at Bruni with an expression I had not seen on his face before. Not hope. Not yet. Something more cautious than that.

“Would they tell you?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Bruni said honestly. “Some might. Some might tell Surtr I asked.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “But I won't know until I try.”

It was decided before midnight.

Ysolde would go north, with Tobin and Adeline and Saelis to guide them, and Eliza's scouts for escort. They would leave in three days, once Tobin had found every shelter on the coast road.

Halemar and Vaust would go south, with Caldris and Thesra, who understood bindings, and Melody, who said she was coming and did not ask. They would leave in five days, once Perrin had built Vaust a better stick.

And Bruni would go to the ford.

Alone.

“Not alone,” Thor said firmly.

“Alone,” Bruni said. “If I bring you, they'll think I've come to fight. If I bring an army, they'll think I've come to attack.” He looked at his metal hand. “If I come alone, they'll know I've come to talk.”

Thor stared at him for a long time.

Then she looked at me.

I thought about Selda Varne, stepping out into the road to meet Marta Quill.

If I hide, I'm asking her to do something I won't.

“He's right,” I said.

Thor closed her eyes.

“I know he's right,” she said. “I hate that he's right.”

“I'll be careful,” Bruni said.

“You'll be standing in a river shouting at an army.”

“I'll be careful while I do it,” Bruni said.

Wenhild caught me in the corridor afterward.

I was on my way to the nursery. Everyone else had gone to bed. The castle was quiet.

She stepped out of the kitchen doorway with a dish towel over her shoulder and her sleeves still rolled up.

“Your wife,” she said.

I stopped.

“Which one?”

Wenhild smiled faintly.

“The saint,” she said. “Evelyn.”

“What about her?”

Wenhild looked at me for a long moment with her mild, patient eyes.

“She didn't eat the fish,” she said.

I did not understand.

“The fish,” Wenhild said. “She loves the fish. Helena told me. Every time I make it, she has two helpings.” She paused. “Tonight she pushed it to the side of her plate. And she held her teacup like it was the only thing keeping her upright. And she went to bed before the bread was finished.”

I stared at her.

Wenhild's smile deepened very slightly.

“I'm the goddess of hearths,” she said. “Kitchens. Food. Who eats what, and when, and why.” She folded the dish towel over her arm. “I've watched a great many women push fish to the side of their plates.”

My heart had stopped.

Or started. I could not tell which.

“You think—”

“I don't think anything,” Wenhild said gently. “I make supper. I notice who eats it.” She turned back toward the kitchen. “But if I were you, I'd go upstairs and ask her how she's feeling. And I wouldn't mention the fish.”

Evelyn was awake.

She was sitting up in bed in the dark, with the curtains open so the lamplight from the city came through the window. Adriana was asleep beside her. Roderic was asleep in his cradle.

Evelyn did not look at me when I came in.

She was looking out the window.

I sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Wenhild,” Evelyn said quietly, before I could speak.

I stared at her.

“She noticed,” Evelyn said. “The fish. I saw her watching me.” She smiled very slightly, still looking at the window. “I was going to wait. Until I was certain. Until Aurelia could tell me.”

“Are you—”

“I don't know,” Evelyn said. “I think so. Maybe. It's very early.” She turned at last to look at me. “The last time, with the twins, I knew within a week. I felt them. Both of them. Like two little sparks.”

“And now?”

Evelyn was quiet for a long moment.

Then she took my hand and placed it, very lightly, against her stomach.

I felt nothing.

Of course I felt nothing. It was far too early. There would be nothing to feel for months.

But Evelyn closed her eyes.

“One,” she said softly. “I think there's one. Very small. Very quiet.” Her voice wavered. “Not a spark this time. Something else.”

“What?”

She opened her eyes and looked at me.

The gold and blue around them were faintly glowing in the dark.

“Like a lamp,” Evelyn said. “Just lit. In a window.”

I did not say anything.

I could not.

I sat on the edge of the bed with my hand on my wife's stomach and the lamplight from the city coming through the window, and I did not say anything for a very long time.

Beside us, Adriana stirred.

She opened her eyes.

She looked at Evelyn. At me. At my hand.

“Oh,” Adriana said.

Evelyn laughed. It came out wet.

“I'm not certain,” she said.

“You're certain,” Adriana said. “I can see it on your face.” She sat up. “When were you going to tell us?”

“When Aurelia confirmed it.”

“Aurelia's asleep. It's past midnight.” Adriana reached over and took Evelyn's other hand. “And besides. Wenhild already knows.”

Evelyn stared at her.

“How do you—”

“She told me at supper,” Adriana said. “When you pushed the fish away. She leaned over and asked me whether you'd been tired lately.” Adriana smiled. “I said yes. She said, ah. And went back to the kitchen.”

Evelyn put her face in her hands.

“The goddess of hearths,” she said through her fingers.

“The goddess of hearths,” Adriana agreed. “She notices who eats what.”

We did not sleep much that night.

We sat together in the big bed, the three of us, with Roderic asleep in his cradle and the city lit beyond the window, and we talked.

About nothing. About everything.

About whether it would be a boy or a girl. About whether Carol and Garrick would be pleased or furious. About whether Roderic would ever learn to ask permission before rolling over.

About the north coast road and the counting woman.

About the southern causeway and the silent lamp.

About Bruni, who would stand in a river in two days and shout across the water to an army.

About Corra, saying a name every night in a stone house across the river.

Somewhere around dawn, Evelyn fell asleep with her head on my shoulder.

Adriana fell asleep with her head on Evelyn's.

I stayed awake.

I sat looking out the window at the city, at the lamps beginning to fade in the gray light, and I thought about all the people out there holding up lamps in windows. In stone houses. On roads nobody walked.

And about the one Evelyn had felt tonight.

Very small. Very quiet.

Just lit.

In a window.