Night Birds' Reign(137)

The second woman cried out then and pointed and Angharad followed her movement, although she could not hear what the woman said. She was pointing at a third woman who had stepped to the front of the opposing battle line. This woman also had auburn hair, but it was braided tightly and wound around her head. She had eyes of silvery gray and her expression was determined as she faced the warrior who had stepped up in front of her in challenge.

The two fought for only a few moments, and then the silver-eyed woman stepped forward, going under the warriors’ guard and thrusting her sword into his chest. The man’s back arched in agony and he fell, blood spurting from his wound.

Then, on either side of the woman, two men appeared. One had golden hair and a fierce expression. The other had long, auburn hair and cold, gray eyes. Around his neck he wore an ornate torque of opals and gold. He raised his hand and shouted something, pointing to the woman who wore the silver torque.

The warriors guarding the two women and the young man rose from their battle-crouch at the man’s words. They were surrounded by the warriors led by the silver-eyed woman and surrendered their weapons.

The man with the opal necklace stepped forward past the warriors and stood in front of the three. The woman with the silver torque looked at the man with contempt, while the second woman sank to her knees. The young man stood frozen in fear.

The silver-eyed woman stepped up then and went straight to the woman with the torque. She pulled the torque from the woman’s neck, her face implacable. The man with the golden torque spoke again, and the brown-haired woman collapsed in a huddle at his feet. The young man dropped to his knees, clearing pleading. But the man with the golden torque shook his head.

The woman whose neck was now bare simply looked at the man, her face twisted with hatred and pride. She spat at the man and the woman who now wore the torque gestured to one of her warriors. Swiftly the man stepped forward and plunged his blade into the woman’s chest. She sank to her knees, both hands gripping the blade, never taking her eyes off the man with the golden torque. And the man watched implacably, unmoving as she died.

The man with the golden torque watched, did not move, did not speak, did not look away: even as tears gushed from the young man’s eyes, even as the young man sank to his knees in supplication, even as a warrior stepped forward and speared the young man, even as the young man fell forward and died.

Then, at the silver-torqued woman’s gesture another warrior plunged his blade into the brown-haired woman, and the three were dead. All the while the golden-torqued man stood, unmoving, his eyes glittering, his head held high.

Then the scene changed abruptly. The field was lush and green, cleansed of the taint of battle. The gravesite was back, but the aspens were small, clearly newly planted. Alyssum had begun to grow between the stones, but the growth was sparse.

The man who had watched the deaths so stoically crossed the field on a golden horse. He halted the horse before the grave and dismounted, looking at the stones, his head bowed. Around his neck glittered a torque of gold and opals.

He turned and took something from the saddlebag that was wrapped in black cloth. He knelt down at the foot of the grave and stretched forth his hand. The earth parted slightly, forming a hole. In this cavity he placed whatever object he was carrying, then stepped back. At his gesture the earth mended itself, covering the hole.

He stood for a moment, looking down at the grave, his face still hidden from her. At last he raised his head and stared right at her as she stood at the foot of the grave. She saw that tears were streaming from his silvery eyes and down his grieving face. Yet he gave her a brief smile before the darkness took her again.


SHE OPENED HER eyes to see Amatheon bending anxiously over her.

“Relax, Amatheon,” Gwydion was saying. “You know she’ll be fine.”

“Eventually,” Angharad croaked.

Rhiannon handed her a small cup. “For the headache,” she said.

Gratefully, Angharad drank. She looked up and caught Cai’s sympathetic gaze. “Now I know what it was like for you,” she whispered.

“Tell us,” Gwydion said as Achren and Trystan helped Angharad to her feet.

“I saw the battle, of course,” she said carefully. If she didn’t do everything carefully just now her head would split in two. “Bran just looked at the three of them as they were executed. He never even turned his face away.”

Achren raised her brow. “A cold bastard.”

“I don’t think so,” Angharad replied. “The scene shifted, then, and Bran came back to stand before the grave. And he grieved. Who knew that a man could come to such grief as the grief I saw in his face and still live?”