Prince of Dogs
Page 103

Now he had said it baldly. Alain was stunned. When he spoke, all his hard loud words had vanished and he could only whisper. “You don’t think I’m Lavastine’s son.”
“Nay,” said Henri as calmly as if he had been asked to predict the next day’s weather. But for the first time he stopped from his work and straightened, scraper dangling from one hand, to inspect Alain. His quiet gaze was devastating. “And why should I?”
Rage and Sorrow barked and whined where they stood tugging at their leashes, which were staked to the ground. Furious, Alain spun and ran, too angry to think, too angry to do anything but jerk the stake out of the ground and pull the leashes free.
“Go!” he shouted, and they leaped forward, growling, toward the man who had made their master so angry.
Lavastine appeared, crossing the threshold of the house. “Alain!” he shouted.
Rage and Sorrow ran flat out and bounded over grass and shavings while Henri stood and stared them down, although Alain saw him shaking, scraper raised as if to protect himself. Nothing would protect him from the hounds. Nothing except the voice of an heir of Lavas.
“Halt!” Alain cried, and the hounds, an arm’s length from Henri, stopped dead. “Heel.” He whistled. They growled once, longingly, at the other man, then, obedient, they slewed their great heads round and trotted back to Alain. Shaking, his hands trembling so hard he could scarcely hold the leashes, he staked them back down.
By that time Lavastine had reached him. “What means this?” The count glanced toward Henri, who had not gone back to his work but stood slackly by the mast and who, as a tree leans under the wind, moved now to rest a hand and then his weight on the log, bent over like an old, old man.
“N-nothing,” whispered Alain. He wanted to weep. He dared not.
“Indeed,” said Lavastine. “If it is nothing, you must come inside. You should not have run out in that way. It is a great honor to this family that we eat at their table and allow them to serve us.” He signed to one of his servingmen. “Get my cup.”
Alain followed him inside. He could not look to his right or left. He could not look at all, not to meet anyone’s eyes. Lavastine took from the hand of his servingman his fine walnut cup which he used when he traveled. Four golden rivers had been carved into the wood, and the fine grain was polished until it gleamed. This cup he graciously gave to Aunt Bel, who had Stancy fill it with wine and returned it to him to drink first. Only after the count had drunk from it did she agree to sit at his right and take food herself, though the rest of her family served.
“This cup I hope you will accept,” said Lavastine, “in memory of your hospitality toward myself and my son this day.”
“You do us honor, my lord,” said Aunt Bel, and she drank.
The meal was not as fancy as that served by Mistress Garia, who had, after all, had several day’s notice of Lavastine’s arrival. But there was veal and good bread and wine and apples, and several chickens had been freshly killed and cooked, spiced with coriander and mustard. Most importantly, the meal was served with dignity and pride, and there was more than enough for all.
Henri did not come inside.
To Alain, silent in the midst of his old family’s newfound plenty, it all tasted like ashes and dust.
2
THEY sail at dawn into the fjord. Cliffs surround them, glittering with ice and snow and cold gray-black stone, the stone of the Mothers. Waves beat on the prow, spraying the rowers with bitter cold water, so cold that a human drenched in it will die. Not his kind, of course. His kind are RockChildren, the children of earth and fire, and the only thing they fear is the venom of the ice-wyrms. All other fates lead merely to death, and against death they are strongest of all. Iron can kill them, if wielded with sufficient strength. They can drown. But heat and cold alike melt off their beautiful skin, for are they not marked with the rich colors of the hidden earth, melded as if in the forge from the very metals with which they adorn themselves?
He hefts his spear in his right hand as the ship slides in past islands of ice and prepares to jump as it grinds up onto the rocky beach. This valley, this tribe, is unprepared for his coming. They will rue that. But they will bare their throats before him.
The hull scrapes on stone. He leaps out of the ship, hitting ground hard, then splashes forward through the surf while his dogs jump out after him, followed by his war band. His feet grip ice, slick on pebbles, while the dogs flounder behind him and regain their footing. He races up the shore and runs on snow. Behind, he hears the ragged panting of the dogs and the intent breathing of his warband. They believe in him, now. This is their fourth tribe this season. Winter is a good time for killing.