As predicted, the Battlefrost fleet had found safe anchorage in the shadow of Redbeard's Shoulder. Alyce woke to an empty cabin and the feel of the Retaliant rocking around her. It was plain, the cabin, quite spacious and windowed from three different sides, furnished by an old weathered desk and a three-legged table they'd once used for eating. The items throughout were in disorder, all the books and the knives and the strungabout pelts, the decks of cards and the empty glasses, replaced by a few dozen piles of splinters and thick stacks of papers who'd seen better days. The aftmost window's wounded smile was canvased and held in place by roping: the worst of Una's hysterics three days prior.
Anouk's old cabin. The bed seemed large for such a small person. Alyce had sprawled herself all about without Peter there to take up space. At the thought of him, she sat up and yawned, sluggish from her hours at rest. She threw on her boots, her coat and wool cap, and then pulled back the sheepskin drape they'd nailed to the door's surviving frame. She stepped out onto the quarterdeck where the cold was alive with a needle-barbed tongue.
Six or so nightmen went by with buckets, guffawing at the crack of a pun, as an arguably louder group spilled from the main. Alyce, well-acclimated, elbowed through the illusion of disarray and merged with the welcome anonymity of the busy naval community.
Peter was up on the afterdeck, illumined by stars and rocking lanterns. The circles under his eyes were unchanged, but she could tell at a glance that his mood had improved. He was looking healthier with each passing day— and maybe even a little bit happier. And it was good that he was keeping busy, managing all the men in his charge. He'd taken a page out of Eadric's book, even if he wasn't aware. Michael and Arngeir were nodding as he spoke, cutting in now and again with a question, or maybe an edgewise word, or the contrary.
Alyce quietly joined them, climbing a spool to hang on the bulwark. She listened to the brackish surf, which rhythmically lapped against the headland. The last of the jollies were rowing to shore, where Battlefrost men were filing uphill to get in position for Wulfstead's invasion.
Turned away, Peter continued, "I'll bet that's how Gladius would've done it."
"Aye," Arngeir agreed. "And I hate to waste a day in talk."
The hour seemed to have taken its toll on Michael, who was rubbing exhaustedly at his eyes. "Una will want to be there," he grumbled. "You know how she is."
Arngeir grunted. "She can defend herself."
If Peter had an opinion on the subject, he chose not to voice it. "You've met Myron," he guessed instead, inviting Arn's eyes. "What's he like?"
"I've only met the father."
"Gregor?"
"Aye. He was proud."
Michael made a small sound of agreement. "Gladius had him hanged after he tried to secede in the forties," he said. "I still remember the drums."
Peter didn't conceal his surprise. "Gladius did that?"
"He did." Michael smirked. "Though somehow I doubt it was his idea."
Someone fired a signal from aboard the Nautilus. Arn glanced over his shoulder when he noticed the others drawn to it. "Ah," he said. "They've got hold of Oldden."
"I thought we cleared the blackhounds out."
Midyawn, Alyce said, "It's Rhysa."
Peter gave a start at her, ludicrously raising an arm as if she were a rat underfoot. "Oi, when did you get here?" he asked. "I was about to head down to wake you."
A second signal fired off— this one, from the headland. She watched its arc. "Good thing you can bounce about from place to place," she mused. "You're needed all across the board."
"Curse of leadership, Eadric called it," Michael said. "Freedom's always the first thing to go."
Alyce smiled to herself. "Places to be, people to pester."
crack!
Michael's cabin was a roomier sort than any Alyce had been in, partitioned into a tidy workspace and a smaller, messier area for resting. There were portholes letting in frosty night air, rustling a wall devoted to records. Rhysa entered just as they arrived, spectacles flooding with candlelight. "Oh," she said, owlish at the sight of the group. "That was fast."
"We saw your signal," Peter greeted. "You've made contact?"
With a single nod, she stopped to hang her bow by the door and indicated a stunning transceiver mounted at the cabin's center. "I ran our system at full output," she explained. "It fried the encoder, so I boarded the Invictus to borrow theirs and saw that the chain had recalibrated to high north frequency."
Peter sent her a look. "Which means what exactly?"
"Means I figured Calaster might've done the same to establish a connection with Wulfstead." She paused again to remove her hat, and her poufy beetroot hair spilled about. "So I replaced the encoder, realigned the module, and ran it at full output again," she said. "And we finally got an answer."
The skyglass jumped in the apparatus. Calaster's voice was like gravel. "Reliable transmissions are next to impossible this close to bog country," he muttered. "I was sure I'd die without ever knowing where our missing blackhounds had gone to."
Peter exchanged a quick glance with Arngeir and Michael. Seeing their faces, he made a hard line of his mouth and responded, "You've got eight thousand howlings headed your way."
Silence, from the acoustic horn. "Eight thousand what now?"
"You have until midday. Ethos is controlling them."
"He's intentionally leading them here?"
"I can't stop him," Peter said. "And I wasn't crazy about it, either, but there's actually some merit to drawing them away from Flint. It's been so infested these past few years that Anouk didn't think it'd be able to defend itself without its entire forces at hand."
"There was a rumor you'd made an agreement with her."
"Una and I mustered half of her army to occupy Wulfstead," Peter explained. "And we'll be done here before you're overrun. If we all work together we can completely eliminate the howling problem before it becomes unmanageable."
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
Peter bristled. "You need to work out a ceasefire to deal with the greater threat," he said. "Nothing we do will stop this from happening."
"You can't defend an irresponsible plan just because you're afraid of the source."
"I'm not afraid. I'm making the best of a bad situation. If you knew half of what I knew— "
A stop, abruptly, and Cal took inevitable notice. He spoke after another long pause. "You need to control what your people say on the chain, Peter," he said, quietly. "It's complete aural anarchy, and the more who think that Redbeard's alive, the more he really will be. Whatever they are now, Ethos or Eadric, they'll never be safe if it doesn't die down."
"Ethos made his own bed. I couldn't care less what it costs him."
"You should." Calaster fell silent again for a time. But then he sighed, and the fury just seemed to bleed right out of him. "Alright, then," he said. "If Eadric's with him, I'll trust his judgement."
Peter almost scoffed. "It's scary how much faith you have in bad people."
"Sometimes we need bad people," he replied. "They do what the rest of us can't. Whether or not you can accept that quality in an individual is something you have to determine yourself." He chuckled a little, as if at himself. "Is Alyce with you?"
Everyone glanced. She scowled. "You've said that before."
"As often as I need to." Cal's amusement gradually faded. "I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for Eadric," he said. "He saw something in me worth saving, raised me and gave me a fresh start. I'll always feel the need to do right by him."
Peter returned to the transceiver. "He raised you?"
"I was caught stealing from one of his midtown gambling establishments."
Michael made a small sound of surprise. "You stole from the Midtown Blowout?"
Calaster laughed, "Is that you, Michael?"
"Oubi and I could never get close to it. Too much security."
"Oldden was a different place when I was young. It was the turn of the century."
Reformed bandits, the both of them. Peter raised his voice in an attempt to contain the spiraling discussion. "If everything goes according to plan, Wulfstead will be ours by dawn," he backtracked. "An awareness of that might convince Myron to concede."
Another sigh, from Calaster. "Assuming he hasn't abandoned the city altogether."
"He hasn't," Peter replied. "Alyce would know if it was unoccupied. And once it's ours we'll join you in the Rift, consolidate our forces with yours."
"You'll never make it in time."
"I will. I have the means."
Calaster pressed, "And if Myron refuses?"
"He can't refuse. It'd be chaos with the howlings involved."
"Suicide, aye," Arngeir harrumphed. "He'd be damning himself."
Calaster hushed them. "If he refuses," he repeated. "What's the plan, exactly?"
Peter's ambiguous gesture was an exhausted admission of hopelessness. "If he refuses, I'll try to talk Ethos down," he said. "It's the most I can promise under the circumstances."
Arngeir suggested, "He might listen to Anouk."
"Anouk doesn't like me."
"Not really, no."
"It's too risky." This, from Rhysa. She'd been patiently listening, biting a nail. "The intentions are good, but plenty of foul decisions are made by those with hearts in well-meant places."
"He doesn't mean well," Peter retorted. "He's like Eadric. He's got the same mindless instinct to protect Karna regardless of who gets hurt in the process. Everyone in the world is noise."
Cal interjected, "Are you saying he's not on our side?"
"He's not on anyone's side."
"You're being harsh," Alyce said, and she didn't shy from Peter's glare. "You are."
"Let's talk about what happens in the event that we all survive this," Calaster said. "The men out there aren't just going to lay down their arms and break bread with us."
Peter shrugged. "I should hope you'd work that out in your negotiations for a ceasefire."
"Myron has a reputation, Peter," Michael said. "We can't just let him walk."
Alyce felt a familiar presence, but she didn't need to see who it was. She knew the eyes looking over her shoulder. She knew why everything smelled of forest. It was a reverse of the first time they'd met in the snow, bred of panic. Her hands were his hands. Her strength was his strength. Ethos tilted the fragile balance, took the reins without needing to ask.
"Cut the head off the snake." The attention shifted to Alyce, who'd interrupted. It was a strange, involuntary feeling, to speak without knowing what she might say. "Those who've grayed in the service will remember what happened to Gregor," Ethos continued. "And Myron has no wife, no children. With Wulfstead seized, their leader dead, and their numbers thinned by the howling attack…" Her shoulders gave a small, simple shrug. "Low-hanging fruit."
Arngeir examined the side of her face. "A snake, you say."
"That's right. Feign armistice and get rid of him while he's weak." Alyce's eyes slid to Peter. She could sense that it wasn't a friendly look. "You've got the nebule," Ethos reminded him. "It's up to you how to do it, but you're the best candidate. In and out."
Peter challenged, "And if I don't?"
"Then you don't. It's advice. Take it or leave it." She turned back to Arngeir. "You were a sweeper in Namir," Ethos knew. "So you'll do, too." And lastly, at Michael, he said, "Oubi's dead."
Michael's stare was one of confusion. Faintly: "What?"
"He's dead." All was quiet while it sank in. "It was my fault. I'm sorry."
It ended with that. The fragile balance tilted back, the wordless connection, the sharing of hands, and Ethos left like a mist in the wind. Alyce felt heavy in his absence. She hugged herself tightly and breathed, returning from what felt a great distance.
Silence followed. But then Arngeir's gaze began to fall, and at its lowest he produced a pipe from his pocket. "I'll do it," he said, with a glance at Peter. "If you won't, that is."
But Peter was too busy glaring at Alyce. "How long as he been able to do that?"
On the spot, she admitted, "For a while."
"Did he mark you or something?"
"Stupid," she sneered. "We don't need that."
"But your eyes," Peter insisted. "They were his."
The door slammed, hard. Michael had fled— to get air, most like. Reminded, a hush fell. "Just like a typhoon," Calaster murmured, voice so quiet he could barely be heard. "Coming and going. Breaking things. He's unchanged even after being devoured by his own accursed hellspawn."
Peter stared at the door. "I should go talk to Michael."
"Let me," Rhysa said, ducking out. "I won't tell him you knew. It's what's best."
Silence again, thicker this time. Arngeir sighed, fingers in his pouch of tobacco. "There's a dread to even the calms these days," he said. "I suspect I'm one of the lucky ones, as no one's looked your boy in the eye and lived to see a good day after."
Peter muttered at him to shut up, but Alyce just crinkled her nose in thought. "I didn't know you were a sweeper," she said. "Makes sense, I guess. You've got that look to you."
Arn smiled over at her— a rarity. "You don't sound afraid."
She would've retorted, but the acoustic horn beat her to it, a sound so shrill as to rattle the brass and give all three of them a start. Calaster took a mild oath at the tail end of it. "That's the alert," he said. "I have to go. Get here as quickly as you can."
The skyglass settled back to the baseline point of the apparatus. Peter immediately switched it off, harder than he needed to. He, too, swore, but it wasn't in the least bit mild.
But he'd learned to control himself. He turned first to Arngeir, who'd lit his pipe. "If you see an opening, take it," he said. "I don't like it, but he's not wrong."
Arngeir gave a single nod. "You're sure?"
"Aye, I'm sure. Could you give us the room, please?"
Another nod, and a quick glance at Alyce. Arngeir closed the cabin door behind him without being told, smoke trailing after him like a specter. She was sure he'd be standing right outside to ensure their privacy, should the others return before Peter was done with her.
Alyce met his glare head-on. "I don't need to explain myself to you," she said. "You've always known what he is to me."
"You said he was shutting you out."
"He is. But that doesn't mean I'm doing the same."
"Then start," Peter barked. "You can't just let him do whatever he wants with you."
"I like it." Alyce stopped in surprise at herself, having said it and meant it so very strongly, and she watched the fury in Peter's eyes settle into a sad sort of look. "And it's not like I'll ever have a real or lasting relationship with anyone," she barreled on, mutinous throat constricting. "I'm all alone and I can't help it, Peter. I love him. I always have. You know that."
Peter looked like he wanted to push it. He studied her for a few moments longer, but then sat in a nearby chair, drained. He rubbed the weariness out of his eyes and said, "Sorry."
"It's okay. You're just tired. We all are."
"I'm not just tired, Alyce."
"I know. But there's no going back."
Silence returned to the rustling cabin. Peter was quiet until she approached, and he gently took her hands in his, gaze low, thumbs tracing knuckles. "I've asked you this once before," he said, blue eyes rising and meeting hers. "How old are you, really? I'm curious."
She tried to smile. "Afraid I'm older than you?"
He smiled with her. "Maybe."
Alyce felt like an old empty well. "I looked about six or seven when Eadric found me and took me from Wayward," she said. "But I was sixteen. It's been just as many years since then."
Peter did the math, blankly. "You're thirty-four?"
"Thirty-two. Stupid."
"I was close."
"I look good for my age, don't I?"
"I'll say." Peter's expression changed for the worse. "So that means…"
"I age less than half the natural rate." Sensing he'd feel bad for her, she grinned and gave his beard a rubdown. "Hell, I could live a few centuries," she sang. "I'll be the wisest biddy alive by the time I go to the great hereafter. And Ethos has us both beat already. Ten years in Wyndemere, fifteen in the forest, fourteen at rest. He's about forty, or close to it."
"I can't imagine him being that old."
She raised an eyebrow. "No?"
"Aye, in my head he's always between hay and grass."
"Why are you so angry at him?" Alyce searched his face, eye-to-eye with him for a change. "Is it the Eadric thing?" she asked. "That only happened because of me. So be mad at me."
Peter removed her hands from his face. "Stop. It's not like that."
"Okay, fine, so what's it like?"
He looked annoyed, but not at her. He traced her knuckles again. "I used to be smarter than him, you know," he said, glancing up and quickly looking away. "Or maybe I just knew more of the world. I don't know. But I liked being depended upon for a change. Being needed."
"You're angry because he doesn't need you anymore?"
"I don't know."
"How could you not know?"
"I don't know. I get angry just looking at him now."
Teasingly: "Then maybe you're angry because you need him."
Peter frowned at her. "I don't need him," he said, curtly. "He's a pest."
"But your success is thanks to him. You'll be king soon."
"Unless he goes Redbeard on me."
"Stupid. He won't."
"Then he'll go Eadric on me."
"You don't really believe that, do you?"
"He will. He can't help it. Eadric knows best and it's who he's become."
"You can't resent him for that, Peter. You can't. He didn't get to decide what to be."
Peter shrugged and hung his head forward. "I don't know what to do," he said. "It'd be one thing if there were a fix out there, something to put him back how he was. But I don't think there is. I think he's broken, and I think I'll have to stop him someday."
"Stop him from what?"
"Oh, I dunno. Launching eight thousand howlings at his own people." Just saying it caused him to laugh a little. "It's like he really doesn't care who gets hurt."
The familiar presence returned; the one she didn't need to see. She knew the eyes looking over her shoulder. She knew why everything smelled of forest. Ethos stared down at Peter with her. A wordless connection, both honest and gruesome.
"How would you do it?"
Peter looked up. "I have a few ideas."
All she felt was dark neutrality. She saw recognition in Peter's eyes.
Peter said his name. "You think I can't?"
"We're not kids, Peter."
"You don't need to tell me that."
"I think I do. You're behaving like we are." Ethos calmly held Peter's gaze, flooded by bored disappointment and failure. "Grown-up misdecisions beget grown-up consequences," he went on. "Quit acting like I shit on your toast when all I did was butter it up."
"If it looks like shit and it smells like shit— "
"It's not shit, Peter."
"Then why— "
"It's butter, Peter. On toast."
"I'm not afraid of you." Peter went red, like he'd spoken too quickly. It had sounded rough and out to prove something. Damage done, he insisted, "I'm not."
Ethos almost laughed. "You obviously felt a need to announce it."
Peter's hands tightened on hers. He was trying to restrain himself. "You can't hurt me."
"I've heard you say that before. I'm not quite sure where you got the idea from."
"There's enough of him in there. I'm still protected."
"Him?" Ethos echoed, blandly. "Him who?"
"Him. The one who loved Kacha." Peter smiled a little. Her expression must have changed. "You may be Eadric and countless others, but you're also him, and that means we're friends," he said. "You'd never hurt me or let me die. It's why you're here."
"I'm here to keep you in check, Peter. You're unreliable."
"You're here because you care. As much as you might not want to."
"I came to make sure you were ready," he said, and he said it softly, without any bite. "It seems like you mostly are. We'll talk later."
"Don't go."
Ethos freed her hands from his. "We're not kids," he repeated. "It's not a rock fight. You can say whatever you like about me, but if you get in my way, or if you raise another hand against me, I'll really kill you. Please don't assume that I won't."
The silence breathed. Softly, Peter asked, "You'd kill me?"
Ethos met his eyes. Unmoved. Indifferent. "I do plenty of things that I'd prefer not to."
"Aye, but it's me," Peter pressed. "Aren't I different from everyone else?"
"No," he replied. "You're just the farmer, the one who found me. Inconvenience personified and cleverly disguised as convenience."
Peter seized her arms, eyes wild. "Why are you doing this to me?"
But it was already over. The fragile balance tilted back, the wordless connection, the sharing of hands— all of it gone, like a mist in the wind. Peter's grip was painful. And without Ethos there to keep her from it, tears fell hard and hot and humiliating. She tucked her chin to hide her face, mutinous shoulders shaking, childish.
Peter quickly released her. "Oh, shit," he said, in horror. "Alyce?"
"Sorry." Alyce rubbed at her eyes. "I'm sorry, Peter."
Peter gathered her into his arms, clearly exhausted from changing gears. "You're older than me, remember? Don't cry." But she couldn't stop, so Peter lightly thumped her back, calming her down like he always did. "Okay," he said. "It's okay."
A quiet knock came at the door, but Peter didn't answer, so neither did she. She spoke only when she could swallow again. "He doesn't mean it," she said, a small act of treason. "Not all of it. You know how he is, what he'll do under pressure."
"Aye, thinking a bird can fly on one wing." Peter sighed and thumped her back again. "I shouldn't have grabbed you like that," he muttered. "It wasn't right."
"It's okay. He knows how to make you angry."
Another knock. Peter grudgingly held her at arm's length, head tilted to see her face. "Be honest with me," he said. "How often does he communicate with you?"
His eyes were hurt and full of confusion, and she wondered briefly if she should lie. "Every couple of days," she answered. "Just to check in. Never for long."
"And you can't initiate it?"
She shook her head. "No," she replied. "Not anymore. You'll need to reach out the old-fashioned way if you want to have a word with him."
Peter glanced at the transceiver. "I shouldn't."
"Sometimes he comes when I'm in danger," she said. "He did it once before Gladius died. I'm not sure if he even remembers it."
"I'm not going to put you in danger, Alyce."
"I know. That's why I said it."
Peter glanced back at her. He looked like he wanted to object to something, but he pressed his lips together and nodded. "It's time," he said. "Are you ready?"
Alyce nodded back, heart sinking. "Ready."