Chapter 37
Matteno of Myr
They left the Tarth lady's room with Lenora throwing a fit with each step, stomping the stone like every step had a different face underfoot, first Addison Tarth's, then the Lord Selwyn's, then the boy's, over and over again.
Behind her, Matteno followed her along with the three guards, though he tried not to imitate the nervous shuffling they all seemed to favor. He figured the castle's inhabitants feared Lenora just as they feared him, which he thought was greatly amusing. She was not an easy woman to love.
Lenora did not slow until they reached the first turn of the corridor, and then she stopped so abruptly that one of the guards nearly walked into her back.
She turned on her heel, her face tight with fury. "Do not follow me," she snapped. "Any of you."
The guards froze. One opened his mouth, thought better of it, and bowed his head. They backed away at once, grateful for the excuse to leave. None of them looked at Matteno.
Matteno, for his part, did not stop. He walked on at her shoulder, unbothered, unhurried. His eyes flicked down the long line of her back, the way her bodice pulled tight as she breathed. Anger did so suit her, he had always thought so.
He felt the familiar stir low in his belly and did not bother to hide his grin. His Westerosi bitch was furious. And the Tarth boy had come. A wondrous night to be had.
Lenora sensed him before she saw him. She shot him a glare over her shoulder, eyes blazing. "I told you not to follow me."
"You tell me many things, love," Matteno said with a lazy shrug. And I choose to listen to so very few, he thought, though he left it unsaid.
She huffed, clearly debating whether it was worth the effort to argue. Then she turned away and continued down the corridor at a brisk pace.
"On your head it be," she said.
He liked it when she pretended she was not pleased he was there.
They passed through a lesser stair and into a narrower section of the keep, far from the lord's wing. Matteno took note of it absently. He had always found it curious where Lord Elmar chose to sleep.
A small room tucked away by the servant's quarters, like a man who did not care much for comfort or display. Or perhaps like a man who had grown tired of sleeping beside his wife.
Inside, the room was cramped, barely large enough for the bed, the small table, and the chest at its foot. Lord Elmar Whitehead sat on the edge of the mattress, bent slightly forward as a page worked at the straps of his armor. The old man was already half-dressed for war, mail shirt settled heavy on his shoulders, breastplate resting nearby.
Matteno took him in with a practiced eye. Elmar was old, yes, white hair thick and uncut, beard streaked with grey, but age had not softened him the way it did many of these Westerosi lords.
His chest was broad, his belly rounded but solid, his arms thick with muscle that had not gone to fat. His legs were tree-trunks beneath the greaves. An ox of a man, Matteno thought. Slow in the marital bed, perhaps, but not weak.
Lenora did not bother with greeting. "You have heard, then."
"Aye, my lady," Elmar said without looking up, his voice calm as the page tightened a strap. "I have heard."
"And?" Lenora demanded. "What are we to do?"
Elmar tested the fit of his armor with a small roll of his shoulders. "A man's sins catch up to him, no matter how fast he runs," he said. "As do a woman's."
His eyes lifted then, sliding over Lenora's face before moving to Matteno. There was no fury in them. No jealousy. No heat at all. Just a flat, assessing calm that Matteno found more unsettling than anger would have been.
"We have made our bed of thorns," Elmar continued, "but I will not lay down to be strangled by it. I will meet what comes with my sword in hand and let the gods decide my fate."
Lenora's mouth tightened. "And the men?" she pressed. "What is to be their disposition? They could have an army in the woods, for all we know."
Elmar snorted softly. "Yet we do not know. For we lack even bannermen to warn us." His gaze flicked back to her. "You have notably seen to that."
Lenora bristled, color rising in her cheeks. Matteno could almost taste her fury, sharp and intoxicating. His pants tightened.
"An army needs to eat," Matteno said, stepping forward just enough to remind them both that he was there. "If they had one in the countryside, villages would be raided. Farms stripped bare. The peasants would be at your gates by now, screaming for protection."
Elmar chuckled. "Your pet pirate speaks true."
Despite Lenora's glance, as if watching to see how he would react to that, Matteno only shrugged. He had fucked the man's wife under his roof more times than he cared to count; he could afford the insult.
If anything, he found a grim sort of respect in Elmar's composure.
"Do with the men as you wish," Elmar went on. "My knights and I will make our stand here. Perhaps this Galladon Tarth will grant me a fitting end, if he is half as formidable as you have painted him. If not, I will make do with Selwyn. A good boy, if not half the warrior his own father was."
Lenora's hands curled into fists. She looked ready to strike him.
"Useless," she snapped. "Useless, feckless old man. I am done with you, do you hear me? Done. I have tried to elevate our house, to raise our station, so that the name of Whitehead would not be relegated to distant tables at high feasts. So that we might be seen with a measure of respect." Her voice rose, sharp and bitter. "But you have no ambition. None. A craven, you are. A craven!"
Elmar did not interrupt her. He did not even look at her as the page finished tying the last strap and stepped back. He simply reached for his helm.
"The only thing you have done," he said calmly, "is doom our house. And I have let you." He stood, towering in the small room, armor creaking softly. "We both deserve what is to come. Leave me now, woman."
She stared at him for a long moment, chest heaving. For once, Lenora Whitehead obeyed her husband and turned to leave.
Matteno followed, already smiling. She stormed down the corridor, skirts snarling around her legs. The castle seemed to recoil from her passage, servants flattening themselves to walls, a pair of guards stiffening as she passed like men bracing for a blow.
At the corner, she seized the nearest guard by the front of his surcoat and dragged him half a step off his feet.
"Send the men out," she screeched. "I want Galladon Tarth captured, do you hear me? I want him strung up in front of me. I will have him cut piece by piece before his mother, and I will send every single one of them as gifts to his fool father."
The guard stared at her, eyes wide, clearly struggling to understand the torrent of words crashing over him. He nodded anyway, as if afraid that any delay might see his head torn from his shoulders, and turned to flee down the corridor.
"Stop," Matteno said calmly.
The guard froze mid-step, looking between them like a trapped animal.
Lenora rounded on Matteno at once. "Do not interfere," she hissed. "You heard what I said."
Matteno stepped closer, his expression easy, almost indulgent. "Do not be foolish," he said. "The boy may not have an army, but he has men nearby. And his father may have fooled your spies on that pretty little island of his. For all you know, ships could be over the horizon even now with enough men to storm the town, if not the castle."
Her eyes flashed. "Is that not all the more reason to capture the boy now," she shot back, "before his father's army arrives?"
Matteno smiled then. "And leave the town unprotected? Send your men scurrying into the woods while the gates stand thinly held?" He spoke to her the way one did at a child reaching for a knife by the blade. "No. Put your men on the walls. Fortify the gatehouses leading out of town. Arm whatever townsfolk you can trust not to turn those weapons on you the moment the fighting starts."
He paused, then added lightly, "Leave the docks to my men."
Lenora narrowed her eyes, suspicion sharpening her features. "Do you think me a fool, Matteno?" she demanded. She always smelled treachery when he offered wisdom. "That you will not run at the first chance like the mercenary bastard that you are?"
Matteno laughed under his breath. Gods, she was beautiful like this, her plump lips curved in a snarl, cheeks brightened by fury. He reached for her before she could pull away, one hand fisting in her hair, the other hard at her waist, and kissed her fiercely.
It was rough and unpretty, teeth clashing, breath stolen, a kiss meant to bruise more than comfort. Lenora stiffened in surprise and then melted into it, fingers digging into his shoulders like she wanted to tear out his limbs.
In his mind, even as he tasted her, Matteno knew it would be the last. The grave his Westerosi bitch had dug for herself was too deep. He had no intention of standing beside her when the dirt began to fall.
He broke the kiss himself and rested his forehead briefly against hers, smiling. "I have accounts to settle with the young Tarth boy," he said soothingly. "Give me a handful of men. Your best trackers. Hounds. I will go into the woods and bring him to you by morning, to do with as you wish."
Lenora searched his face, hungry for reassurance, for control. At last, she nodded. "Very well," she said. "Do it."
Smiling, he turned and walked away. Inside, the decision had been made long before he spoke. He would kill the boy, of course. A clean death in battle, fitting for a warrior, and far kinder than what Lenora had planned.
Then he would take his ship and leave these shores behind. There was nothing else for him here now. No profit worth the risk. Adarys would have to find another attack dog, even if it meant Matteno would have no place to return to in Tyrosh.
In the yard below, as six men gathered and a tracker brought forward his hounds, Matteno pulled his first mate aside. "Ready the ship," he murmured in bastard Valyrian. "Quietly. Keep the illusion that the docks are ours for as long as you can."
The first mate's eyes flicked toward the castle, then back to Matteno. He nodded once.
"And if it comes to battle," Matteno added, "put the Magisters' men in the front. Let them bleed first. When the line breaks, you turn away and set sail, even if I have not returned. You know where to find me should it come to it."
xxx
Galladon
They had dragged his body out of the tent already, but I kept staring at the place where the guard had died.
I had heard the scrape of boots, the muted grunt as they lifted him, the wet sound when his head lolled too far to one side. I knew all of that had happened. And yet my eyes stay fixed on the empty space where he had been sitting, as though if I looked long enough he might still be there.
The chair stood crooked, one leg not quite straight. Dark blood had soaked into the wood and the dirt beneath it, pooling unevenly where it had dripped from his mouth. I could smell it. Iron and something sour beneath it, thick enough to coat the back of my throat. I breathed in through my nose and regretted it immediately.
Jace and Grey stood to the side of the tent. Neither of them spoke. I was grateful for that. I wasn't sure what would have happened if one of them had tried.
My jaw was clenched so tight it ached. I realized distantly that my teeth were grinding against one another, a small, constant sound that seemed impossibly loud in the quiet that followed death. I forced myself to stop. Forced my shoulders down. Forced air into my lungs.
It didn't help. The guard had bitten down on his tongue. Instead of screaming or begging or praying, he had killed himself. Just like that.
I had killed men before. I felt like I had to remind myself that. Aboard the Fair Winds and the Western Will, I had cut through the pirates like nothing, like they weren't even there. A dozen at least.
And at the quarry, I had gone through with it despite my doubts, despite knowing those weren't the sea scum I had killed before. And in the end, their deaths had not bothered me
This should not have been different. And yet it was.
My hands curled slowly into fists at my sides. I became aware, with a strange sense of distance, that they were shaking. Just a small tremble, nothing that anyone would notice. But it was enough that I noticed.
Unfortunately, I had yet to learn how to lie to myself.
I swallowed. The taste of blood lingered in my mouth, like I was the one to bite down on my tongue. I pushed it down, the taste and the revulsion and the fear along with everything else. Doubt. I couldn't doubt myself now.
I bundled it all together and forced myself to open my mouth.
"Bring in the other one," someone said.
I did, and my voice sounded wrong to my own ears. I wondered if that was how I truly sounded, or if my head was playing tricks on me. Either way, no one commented on it.
I shook my head slightly, more at myself than at anyone else. Moralistic idiocy, I thought bitterly. That was what this was. I had known what I was walking into when I came here. I had known there would be blood. Pain. Things that could not be undone..
And yet my mind would not accept it.
It churned and spun, thoughts tripping over one another. There was a tightness in my chest that felt wrong, unfamiliar. A pressure that made it hard to breathe properly.
I wondered, with a detached kind of curiosity, if this was what people meant when they spoke of panic attacks. I had never had one before. Not in this life, nor in the one before it. Now did not seem like the ideal moment to start.
I barely had time to collect myself before footsteps sounded outside the tent.
They brought in Arrec. He looked worse than the last time I had seen him. Bruised, dirty, his clothes torn, an arrow still sticking through his arm. Guess when I ordered for the wounded to be seen, that did not mean to care for the enemy.
His wrists were bound tightly. Two men half-carried him, half-dragged him inside and dropped him into the chair opposite me, further binding him with more ropes to his seat.
For a heartbeat, I almost looked away. Ashamed, somehow. I crushed it immediately, forcing my gaze to stay on him. If I looked away, if I hesitated, this would only take longer. And if Arrec did not speak, then I would have to do to him what had driven the other man to kill himself.
I did not think Arrec had that kind of resolve. I would have to see it through to the end.
The men who had brought him in left quickly, as though eager to be anywhere else. The tent felt smaller than before. Too close. Too warm. The air thick with blood and sweat and fear.
Arrec glared at me from the chair, defiance burning in his eyes despite the way his body trembled. His gaze flicked briefly to Jace, then back to me.
"The fuckin' two of you," he started.
I lifted a hand. Likely used to following orders, he stopped.
"I don't want to hear it, Arrec," I said. "My name is Galladon Tarth."
That did it. His eyes widened, the bravado cracking just enough for me to see the fear beneath it. It was a small thing. It should not have satisfied me as much as it did.
"Your lord has taken my mother prisoner," I continued, my voice steadier now that I had something concrete to cling to. "I am here to retrieve her. You will tell me how."
I stepped closer without quite meaning to. I could see his throat bob, could see the vein in his neck pulse.
"You will tell me where she is being kept," I said. "You will tell me how many guards are in the castle. How many watch over her."
With every word, something inside me twisted tighter. Whatever guilt I felt turned hot, sharp, unbearable. Rage flooded up from my chest, choking me, blurring the edges of my vision.
My hands were on him before I realized I had moved. They closed around his neck. He made a sound, half-gasp, half-choke, and his hands flew up to claw at my wrists.
"You will tell me how to get inside the castle," I heard myself saying. "How to take her without being caught."
His eyes were wide now, whites showing. His feet scrabbled uselessly against the ground.
"Or I will kill you, Arrec," I went on, my voice low and terrible and unlike anything I had heard from myself before. "I will kill you, and every man, woman, and child in that castle. In your whole town. I will not spare a single soul. I will burn Weeping Town to the ground until there is nothing left but ash and bones for the dogs to pick through."
Someone wrenched me backward. The sudden loss of resistance nearly sent me stumbling. An arm locked around my neck, not choking me but firm enough to drag me away. Hands clamped onto my arms, pulling them down.
"M'lord!" someone shouted.
I blinked, my mind snapping back into place all at once. Jace had my right arm. Grey my left. Their grips were iron-hard. I looked down.
Arrec was slumped in the chair, coughing violently, gasping for air as he clawed at his own throat. His face had gone an alarming shade of purple, his neck mottled red beneath my fingerprints, as though burned.
I stared at him, horrified. I had been choking him. Almost killed him.
Jack—who had come up behind me without my noticing—released his hold, stepping back carefully as if I were something dangerous and unpredictable.
I dragged in a breath. Then another. My chest heaved, my lungs burning as though I had been running.
"My lord," Jace said cautiously, watching my face, "he hasn't answered any of the questions yet."
I swallowed. It took effort to make my throat work.
"Yes," I said hoarsely. "Yes. Of course." I forced myself to nod, though my head felt light. "Keep at it without me for a moment."
I did not wait for an answer. Walking out of the tent into the dusk, my steps felt unsteady like I was dizzy. Lightheaded. Like I was the one that had been choked.
My hands were still shaking, I noticed, looking down. I flexed my fingers, staring at them as though they belonged to someone else. I had almost killed him. Not intentionally—not consciously, at least, but that distinction felt meaningless now.
I moved away from the camp, needing space, needing air. My thoughts spiraled uselessly. Images overlapped. My mother's face, the guard biting down on his tongue, Arrec's bulging eyes.
I was losing control, and that realization terrified me more than anything else that had happened so far.
Movement in the trees ahead snapped me back to the present. I tensed instantly, my hand drifting toward my sword by instinct alone.
Then I saw who it was.
"Pate?" I said.
The boy came running out of the woods, eyes wild, huffing like he'd been running a marathon. He was holding a smaller figure above him, slung awkwardly over his shoulders.
My heart stopped. "Arianne," I breathed.
I ran to meet them, barely registering as my sword banged against a tree and almost pulled it out of my belt. When I got to him, Pate looked as though he might burst into tears at any second.
"I dunno what happened, m'lord," he babbled as he lowered her to the ground. He was so nervous his lowborn accent came out again. "I dunno. She said she was goin' to do the womanly things and she was takin' so long and she told me she'd geld me myself if I followed and I didn't know what to do and—"
Dropping to my knees, I gathered her into my arms, barely hearing him. She felt frighteningly light as I settled her across my lap. I brushed her hair back from her face. She was not seizing. Not foaming like before. That was something, at least. But a thin line of blood trickled from her nose, stark against her pale skin.
Her left hand was clenched tight around the glass candle, while the right one, hanging by her side, was red and raw as if it had been burned.
"Arianne," I said, my voice breaking despite myself. And for a terrible moment, nothing happened.
Then her eyes fluttered open as if she'd hear me.
"Brother," she said faintly.
Relief hit me so hard I nearly laughed. Or cried. I wasn't sure which. My hands tightened around her as if I could anchor her there by sheer force of will.
"I know how," she whispered.
I blinked down at her. "What?"
She smiled at me. "I know how to save Mother."
xxx
Arianne of Tarth
Standing a little apart from the others, Arianne watched as Galladon rode away with his men and the prisoner. Even in the fading light as night fell, she kept her eyes on him until he disappeared amidst the trees.
He did not look back, and she told herself it was better that he didn't. She might have run to him for a last hug, even if it would be mortifying to do so in front of all the guards.
Hopefully, along with his own plan, the path she had found would make things easier for her brother. She could do nothing about the men inside, however, well-armed and armored and, she was almost sure, waiting for him. She would have to trust him despite the odds.
Despite her trust in him, she had not told him about what she had seen in the vision world, what she had learned, of Lady Specter and everything else. Galladon would only worry for her, and she did not wish to be the reason her brother might be distracted in the middle of a fight.
Once Galladon was gone, only a handful remained behind with her: Pate, hovering close like a particularly big flea she couldn't get rid of; Jace, Galladon's man; and two of her father's guards, Hugh and Derek.
The camp was already broken apart around them. Tents folded down, poles bundled, fires smothered beneath earth and damp leaves. They would leave it all behind. The camp was almost surely to be found, she had been told, given they had come from the quarry in such a hurry with horses and mules. The important thing now was not letting them be followed any further.
Arianne sank down onto a fallen log, suddenly dizzy. The world tilted for a moment. She pressed her right hand into her lap, biting back a hiss. It throbbed dully, the burn mark there still angry and tender, shaped unmistakably like a door handle.
Lady Specter's words came back to her unbidden. The dangers of the vision world were real. The world itself was real. If she had died there, she would never have opened her eyes again.
The thought made her stomach clench, though not with fear for herself. She had done what she had to do, even if Galladon had promised the talking to of the century next they met.
For once, she did not mind the idea of being scolded by her brother, even if his new aura scared her a bit. At least it would mean he was alive to reprimand her.
No, what frightened her more was how natural it had been to move around the vision world after Lady Specter's quick lessons, to let go of her body and reach out with her mind instead. And how eager she was to do it again despite the risks.
Not half an hour later they were deep in the forest. Galladon expected the Whiteheads to turtle up inside their town, but thought it was still best if they went as far from camp as possible. Someone could find their campsite from the tracks her brother and his men left coming from the quarry.
They rode the mules carefully through the brush at first, but after a while Jace had them dismount and flee on foot as he sent the animals in another direction.
After that, they moved at a painfully slow pace. The moon was full and bright in the sky which helped in making their way around, but Arianne knew she was being a burden.
Her limbs felt heavy and unreliable, as if they did not quite belong to her anymore. Each step took effort. Even with Derek's wounded leg, she knew she was the one holding them back. She hated it.
She tried to push herself harder, to ignore the way her calves trembled, but it was no use. Her legs felt like curdled milk. Once, she stumbled outright in the half-darkness, and Pate was there in an instant, hands on her arms to steady her.
"I'm fine," she snapped. Pate flushed and nodded in that stupid way of his, which only made her feel bad about yelling at him.
Couldn't he be a little less eager? Being mean to him felt like kicking a puppy.
As they walked, Jace ranged ahead and behind them. He brushed away broken twigs, scuffed footprints with the heel of his boot, doubled back to check their trail. Each time he returned, Arianne watched his face, searching for some sign of what might be coming.
They had been walking for another hour when Jace came back with his jaw set hard and his eyes dark. "They found us," he said simply.
Derek swore under his breath. Hugh straightened at once, hand going to the hilt of his sword. "How many?"
Jace shook his head. "Can't tell for certain. Less than a dozen, I believe. They have hounds. They followed the false trail I set up, but they caught it quickly." He paused, measuring something in his mind. "They will be upon us soon. Perhaps half an hour."
Silence followed. Hugh and Derek exchanged a look before the older man nodded. "The little lady must keep going, then," Hugh said. "We'll make our stand here."
"Aye," Derek said. "By that thick grove there. Narrow ground. Their numbers will count for less."
Arianne's stomach dropped. "No," she said quickly. "No, I won't allow it."
Jace turned to her, expression grave but not unkind. "You must go on, my lady," he said. "We will stall them for as long as we can. Pate will see you to safety. Lord Galladon has full confidence in him."
He said the last looking directly at Pate. The squire straightened as if struck by lightning. He swallowed, yet his chest was puffed out, fear momentarily forgotten.
"I will not let him down, sers," he said earnestly.
Arianne hated all of it. She hated the calm certainty with which they spoke of staying behind. Hated the way they were already placing themselves between her and danger. She shook her head, helpless frustration burning behind her eyes.
"No," she repeated, more to herself than to them.
Despite her apprehension, despite the warning Lady Specter had given her about overusing the candle, Arianne felt her resolve settle. If she let them do this without trying, she knew she would never forgive herself.
"If you knew their numbers," she asked slowly, "and from where they are coming… could you fight them? Ambush them as you did in the quarry?"
Jace looked at her as if she had suggested flying. "We do not have that luxury, my lady."
"Yes, you do," she said. "You have me."
She reached for the glass candle and drew it out where they could see it, its dark surface catching the moonlight filtering through the canopy.
"I will need no more than five minutes," she went on. "Carry me, if you must."
Hugh frowned. Jace opened his mouth to protest. Before any of them could speak, Arianne closed her eyes and lit the candle with a thought.
The world blinked.
She was suddenly to the side, though her body remained where it had fallen, cradled as the blurry-faced form of Hugh caught her. The forest around her had shifted, dulled, as if seen through old glass.
She felt light again, unmoored from flesh and weight. No weakness in her legs, no wobbly knees. It was great. Giddy, almost.
Drawing a steadying breath, though she suddenly realized she might not even need to do that here, she focused.
Men, she thought. Men following. Hounds, noses to the ground.
The world answered.
She moved through the forest as if borne on a sea current, gliding between trees, over roots and under branches without effort. Ahead of her, shapes emerged: men moving cautiously, weapons ready, hounds straining at their leads, ghosts in the candle-world just as she was.
Arianne felt a flicker of grim satisfaction.
"Found you," she murmured, a small, fierce smile touching her lips as she took in their number and their path.