‘The surrender of all your forces, and the opening of the gates,’ demanded Reva.
‘The gates are already open,’ pointed out the King. ‘And we will fight no more.’
‘No!’ screamed Pasan-Yol. ‘You cannot betray us all.’
‘It is not betrayal, Pasan, it is a new beginning.’
The young man lurched to his feet, a dagger in his hand. Before anyone could stop him he had rammed the blade into his father’s breast. The King groaned and fell against Sigarni. Ironhand, standing behind the King, reached over and grabbed Pasan-Yol by the throat, dragging him away. Ballistar threw himself at the young man, wrenching the knife from his grasp.
Sigarni lowered the dying King to the ground. ‘Reva!’ he called.
The enemy King knelt by his side. ‘I spoke the truth, cousin. This war is killing the land and it must end. Not just for you and I, and our Houses, but for the land itself. You now have my head, and my city. Let the hatred pass away with my death.’
For a moment Reva said nothing, then he sighed. ‘It will be as you say, Nashan. I too have a need to see the sun.’ Pulling off his gauntlet, Reva took Nashan’s hand.
A man cried out and pointed upwards. A full moon had appeared in the night sky, and the glimmering of distant stars could be clearly seen. ‘It begins,’ whispered Nashan.
And he died.
Sigarni closed the King’s eyes and stood. ‘A sad end to a fine man,’ she said, turning and walking away. Ironhand released Pasan-Yol, who stood staring at the moon and stars. Then he ran to his father’s body, hurling himself across it and sobbing.
Sigarni, Ballistar and Ironhand returned to the museum. Ironhand thundered his fist against the crystal case, which exploded into fragments. Reaching inside, he drew out the Crown and passed it to Sigarni.
‘It is time to go,’ she said, opening her pack and stowing the Crown inside.
Vast numbers of people thronged the streets, staring up at the sky as the trio made their slow way down to the river.There were several boats moored there and Sigarni chose a small craft, with two oars. Loosing it from its moorings, they climbed aboard, and set out on the journey downstream.
Sigarni sat staring back at the receding city. Ballistar put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Why so sad, Sigarni? You saved them.’
‘I liked him,’ she said. ‘He was a good man.’
‘But there is something else, I think?’ he probed.
She nodded. ‘We stopped one war, and now we have the means to pursue another. Is our land any different from this one? How does High Druin feel about the slaughter that is coming?’
‘Our fight is not about honour, or a stolen wife,’ said Ballistar. ‘We fight for survival against a pitiless enemy. There is a difference.’
‘Is there? My hatred is all used up, Balli. When they raped me, I wanted to see every Outlander slain. That is not what I desire any more.’
Later the following day, in bright sunlight, the three stood at the circle of stones. Sigarni unwound the bandage on her forearm and used it to press her blood against each of the six stones. Then the three of them stood at the centre, holding hands and waiting.
‘I’m anticipating that steak with great pleasure,’ said Ironhand.
‘And I can’t wait to see their faces when they see what I have become,’ said Ballistar happily.
Light grew around them and Sigarni felt dizziness swamp her. Then Taliesen appeared before her, and a cold winter breeze touched her face.
‘Did you get it?’ the wizard asked.
Sigarni did not answer. In her right hand lay the tiny bone fragment of Ironhand, while clinging to her left was Ballistar the Dwarf, tears flowing from his eyes as he stood, dressed in her outsize leggings.
Like all Highlanders, Gwalchmai loved the spring. Life in the mountains was always harsh, and people lived with the constant knowledge that death waited like a monster beyond the firelight. Winter fell upon the mountains like a mythical beast, robbing the land of crops, of food, sucking the heat from the soil and from the bones of Man.