smiled and bowed low again. “I assure you, sir, I was not personally consulted, seeing that I was not to be born for many centuries, then. But I find the arrangement quite suits my taste. It’s a dangerous world and I am most grateful for the protection the laws offer me.”
Cythera smiled knowingly at the barbarian. “They make it sound so very courtly and noble, don’t they? Don’t let them fool you. There’s a reason the king of Skrae keeps his dwarves so close to his bosom. They’re the only ones who know how to make good steel. If he wants proper weapons and armor, he has no choice but to appease them.”
“That’s interesting,” Mörget said. “Quite interesting. Very well, then.” The barbarian stepped up to the mounted crossbow and squeezed the trigger.
With a resonant thwock, the quarrel slammed into the brigantine just to the left of center, high up on the chest. For a moment it stuck out straight from the armored doublet but then it drooped and fell away.
“Oh, well made, well made,” Croy said, jumping up and applauding vigorously. He rushed over to the brigantine and stuck a finger through the hole the quarrel made in the canvas. “The plate beneath is barely dented!” he called back.
“I’ll hammer it out anyway,” Snurrin insisted. “Now, for the shield and yon basta—yon warrior’s helm,” the dwarf said, nearly slipping into vulgarity, if not an outright obscenity.
The shield and the barbute were mounted on the wooden form and Snurrin began to crank his bow back to tension.
“Croy,” Cythera said, grasping the knight’s hands.
He squeezed her hands in return but his eyes were fixed on the shield. He barely heard her, for he was working out in his head what device he would put on it. As a knight errant he was not permitted a proper heraldic coat of arms but he could paint it with some element of his family crest. Some way for anyone who saw him holding it to know who he was.
“There’s something I want to tell you,” Cythera went on.
“Hmm?” he asked. “Oh, yes, of course. That’s what your message said. I’m sure we have much to talk about concerning the wedding and such. What is it in particular you wished to discuss, my pet?”
Mörget stepped in to fire once more. The crossbow’s string thrummed with pent-up energy waiting to be unleashed. “It’s not about the banns.” Cythera took a deep breath, then said, “I’ve decided I’m going with you.”
The quarrel leapt from the bow and smacked into the shield, this time sticking in place with its deadly point fully penetrating.
“I—I beg your pardon?” Croy asked, turning in his seat.
She had his full attention now. “I’m going with you to the—” she glanced over at the dwarf to make sure he wasn’t listening, “—to the Vincularium. I will accompany you and Mörget.”
“I can’t permit that.”
Cythera frowned. She must have known he would say as much. He was sworn to protect helpless women, the aged, and the infirm. There was no way he could take her into a place of danger.
“As your husband—” he began, but she shook her head.
“You are not my master yet,” Cythera said. “Once I sign the banns, you will own me like chattel. That is the law. But until that moment, I make my own decisions.”
“That’s … true,” Croy admitted. He liked this not at all. “Yet I am also leading this expedition, and I will choose who accompanies me.”
“I thought this was Mörget’s quest,” Cythera pointed out.
“Aye,” the barbarian grumbled, making Croy jump. He must have forgotten Mörget was in earshot.
“Then tell her she cannot come,” Croy insisted. “Questing’s not for women. It just isn’t done!”
Mörget shrugged. “In my land, our women accompany us whenever we travel.”
“But you’re nomads! And from what I’ve heard, your women are nearly as big and strong as you.”
“Aye,” the barbarian said, with a wistful look in his eye. “They’re huge.”
“This is completely different,” Croy demanded. “Cythera, this won’t be like a coach ride to the next village over. This is going to be a demanding trek through wild lands full of danger. And then there are the perils of the Vincularium itself.”
“Aye, a place full of ancient curses.” She held up her left arm and showed him the writhing painted vine that wrapped around her wrist. It was longer than when he’d seen it last.
He understood her meaning, of course. Coruth, her mother, had gifted Cythera with the perfect charm against both curse and enchantment. When magic was directed toward her, she absorbed it into her skin in the form of what appeared to be tattoos. Later on she could discharge it as well, once sufficient malefic energy had been stored.
“Cythera, I beg you, forget this folly,” he said. “The place we go to is one of the most dangerous in all of Skrae—in all the world. If something happened to you there how could I go on living? How could I ever forgive myself? I love you more than my own life.”
“I know you do,” she said, “but—”
“Do you not love me?” he asked.
Her face went pale.
Croy was not a man given to manipulation, and preying this way on her feelings made him feel soiled. Yet how could he give in to her mad demand? He could understand why she was angry, but he could only hope she would get over it before he returned.
She took her time framing her reply, yet when it came, it was devastating. “Let me make this plain, Croy. I will not sign the banns until you have safely returned from this venture. I have no desire to be a widow even before my wedding ceremony. To ensure that you return safely, I will go with you, and protect you from threats that Snurrin’s armor cannot. I’m afraid you cannot gainsay me now.”
“I—but—you can’t—” Croy sputtered.
“Mörget,” Cythera said, “I am asking you directly. May I join your expedition?”
Mörget frowned. “I see one problem with it.”
“Thank you,” Croy gasped.
“We don’t have enough horses,” Mörget said. “I suppose we’ll need to buy some more.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
If Malden wasn’t going on Croy’s grand adventure, he needed to get back to work. He wasted little time finding his next assignment, though of course he had to tarry until nightfall before he could begin to work. Cutbill had a lead that took him into the Royal Ditch, the valley just north of Castle Hill that was formed by the course of the River Skrait. The narrow streets atop the ditch were lined with gambling houses and brothels, with drug dens and pawn shops that asked few questions. Old, familiar territory for Malden, though little that went on there was truly lucrative enough to interest him any more.
