"FERRIS RENFROW. I HEARD YOU WERE DEAD. FALLEN valiantly protecting the crown prince."

"Wishful thinking, I'm afraid. On your part as well as others."

"That being the case, is there any reason not to make my wish come true now?"

"You do have the advantage of me. I confess. Nonetheless, I think you'll find it in your interest to assist me."

"Should I send for a physician?" It was plain that Renfrow had not fared well in the events surrounding the capture of Crown Prince Lothar and had not recovered.

"Call it bravado if you like, but, no. I've actually suffered worse."

Else shrugged. "I'll honor your choice. Of course."

"I suppose I should congratulate you. You've accomplished wonders."

"I've done my job. Which is what a soldier does."

"Yes. Well. Let's not play games. I don't have that much time. I'm at your mercy."

"I'm eager to hear about that."

"Naturally."

"Well?"

“The boy. Lothar. He's here, still."

"In the infirmary. Guarded by men who'd refuse if I tried to let him go. He's worth too much."

Renfrow confessed, "Our camp is in chaos. No one wants to bend the knee to a pair of teenage girls."

"Sounds like knives in the dark time."

"Some of that may be necessary. But murder alienates people. Persuasion, arm-twisting, creation of mutual objectives work better."

Else raised an eyebrow.

Renfrew said, "That's what I want to work out here."

"I can but listen. I'm without power." Renfrew sneered. "You're the damn warlord of the Patriarchy. And, God knows why, the fair-haired, shining adopted son of the number-three man in the Brotherhood of War, who was the secret pride and indulgence of his illegitimate father. Who, with Osa Stile whispering in his ear, will probably become your great patron in Brothen politics."

Else said, "You seem flustered. Who's Osa Stile?"

Renfrew glared. After a moment, he said, "You're so damned stubborn, you're beginning to wear me down. Osa Stile would be Principatй Delari's catamite. The one who used to sleep with Bishop Serifs."

"Ah. The boy Armand. You've lost me again."

"You're gaming. I don't want to play. Listen. If Lothar Ege should somehow slip through Sublime's fingers, the Grail Empire would be forever grateful."

"Gratitude has a short shelf life. Did it keep well I’d never have left home. And would be dead now. Fighting in the Grand Marsh will be extremely cruel. Rumor has the ice moving in fast." He could not resist retelling his imaginary history to the one man who was sure it was false.

"Enough. You know what Johannes's word was worth. You're a professional, methodical sort. You pay attention."

Else grunted a positive.

"Johannes is gone but I'm not"

"The people who interest you are in the smallest infirmary hut. There's also several there who wouldn't interest you but whose disappearance would confuse somebody trying to work out what happened."

Renfrew steepled his hands, fingertips to his lips briefly. "So if a band of Praman commandos snatches everybody some night, the gaggle of Principatйs you've got here might be mystified for a while."

"And the Grail Emperor would owe me in a big way."

Renfrew nodded. "The balance would tilt in your favor."

"You'd want to time your move. Some powerful men here have almost unrestricted access to the Night. While Imperial forces don't seem to have anything going there."

Renfrew muttered, "Go teach your grandmother to suck eggs."

"You might also work on people who're making trouble for Hansel's girls."

That startled Renfrow. He eyed Else narrowly, trying to get a handle on what lay behind that remark.

Else suggested, "A diversion might be useful, too."

"Don't get overly enthusiastic about responding."

"I won't. Given a choice."

ELSE WAS CAUGHT NAPPING WHEN THE RAID DID COME. HE had given up anticipating it. Renfrow struck only after the camp was completely chaotic with preparations to head north. At first it seemed to be a desperate Praman attempt to steal food.

Renfrew's agents had done a good job of reconnoitering. Else tucked that knowledge away for future reflection.

Three of the men captured with Lothar Ege could not handle the stress of flight. They died before the raiders cleared the camp. Likewise, two of the Praman nobles. Neither Special Office Brother from Runch survived. The raiders made no effort to see that anyone but Lothar came through still breathing.

Else was pleased with himself. He had managed that quite smoothly.

He began to look ahead, counting me days till the army reached Brothe. He had the regular courier carry a message to Anna Mozilla.

41. Back to the Dark Womb

Svavar ran in an endless blur of mantis legs, only vaguely aware of terrified animals and gaping peasants. Night fell, day came and went, night fell. Rivers and mountains appeared ahead and fell behind. A week passed before hunger and exhaustion overcame him. Only then did reason return.

He returned to his native form: Asgrimmur Grimmsson. Naked. Shivering in the cold that gripped modern Freisland year round. In his Svavar form he was not much more than the Svavar that always was – though his senses were heightened and his mind was clearer and a little faster. And he understood that he was now vastly more than Asgrimmur Grimmsson, pirate and plunderer. He was a new form of terror entirely.

Freisland had changed. The new religion had turned the people into whimpering old women. Naked and unarmed, he still had little trouble taking food and claiming warmth and less trouble dismaying those who tried to fight him.

He flowed back into the insect shape. Terror spread like ripples in a pond. He enjoyed the fear. Grim would be in heaven in this situation. Grim had been a bully born. Svavar had had to learn to take pleasure in the fear and misery of others.

He moved more slowly as the cold deepened. The insect form was vulnerable to low temperature.

The land grew bleaker and more sparsely inhabited. Farms and whole villages had been abandoned. There was no growing season anymore.

Svavar discovered that the insect form was not the only one he could take. That distracted him for weeks, till he learned to assume a dozen more shapes, mostly useful, some just horrible. The limits of his imagination were his only constraint. Someday, he would learn to become a dragon. A huge black dragon, all fangs and fire and claws.

When he became less amused by shape-shifting play he resumed the mission he had assigned himself.

At Grodnir's Point, now uninhabited, he took the shape of a bull walrus, crossed the ice and slipped into the sea south of Orfland. The channel between the mainland and the island was narrower, now, and was frozen over. Sea level seemed to have dropped a few yards. Svavar wondered how much the Shallow Sea had dwindled.

Waters that once teemed with sea people were now almost barren. Svavar needed three days to find a colony sheltering in a cove on the western coast of a small, rocky island thirty miles out in the south Andorayan Sea. A minuscule leak of power kept the cove more habitable than its surroundings.

The power seepage felt like warm sunshine on a spring morning. Svavar had not known about the gentle pleasure the power could give. Nor how much stronger he might grow, given a chance to bask.

The people of the sea were frightened. He was the greatest power they had known. The Instrumentalities of the Night were seldom seen these days. The lesser entities were gone, fled or buried beneath the ice if they were the sort attached to a particular place.

Svavar tried to be diplomatic. He insisted that he meant no harm. He summoned a school of cod, learning that fish were scarce now, too. Then he explained, "Somewhere out on the water there's an opening into the realm of the gods. To the world of the Old Ones."