Track of the White Wolf - Chapter 8

[kalinara]

Last time, a storm struck our characters on their way to Atvia. Our villains have fled and our heroes have been swept into the ocean. Have any survived?



So we rejoin Niall as he's coming to. He's washed up on sand and rock and is definitely not feeling great at all.

The pain was exquisite. Never had I felt such before, not even when the barber had jerked out a rotten tooth; the intensity astonished me. My hand, searching gently, felt damp cloth on my chest and shredded flesh beneath. My linen shirt was badly torn. The bones within bruised flesh ached with a fitful ferocity.

I added this excerpt solely because of the mention of the barber. One thing I think this book does much better than its predecessors is actually populate the castle and town. There are servants and tradesmen who are at least mentioned. No more Aislinn being alone in a castle without even a fucking body servant to help her with her gowns.

Niall quickly remembers what happened, and this is pretty heartbreaking:

twitched all over, once. The involuntary movement awoke dull fire within every limb and brought full, consciousness rushing in. I remembered it all.

Ian—

I sat up carefully, hugging my sore chest with one arm. The other I braced against the sand, holding myself upright. Dazedly I stared out to sea and saw the ship was gone.

Rujho—?

The crying of a seabird pierced the dullness in my ears and drew my burning eyes. Clusters of fellow gulls swooped and circled in the air, crying shrilly. I saw I was not on land at all, but a craggy fingerbone of stone. Sand clogged some pockets, water pooled in others. My salvation was but thirty paces from the shore; still, I felt too weak to make the attempt.

Ian.

Waves lapped at my feet. One boot was missing, sucked off by the sea-dragon’s spite. I shuddered. The sea was my enemy, as it had been my brother’s.

Oh gods, you have taken my brother from me—

But I was too dry for tears.

I usually bitch about Roberson's style, but I really love the way the italics intersperse the more practical/sensory observations. Niall is trying so hard to focus on the immediate, but he can't escape the knowledge that his brother is dead.

I admire the sadism of finally giving us a healthy sibling relationship only to kill one of them off in chapter eight.

Niall's missing his knife, but he has his signet ring, and he realizes that that's probably going to save him. If nothing else, he can probably sell it for aid.

This is yet another example of Niall actually acknowledging that being a prince and the trappings/luxuries involved are actually pretty swanky sometimes, and it makes me like him so much more than fucking Donal. Being a prince IS pretty swanky sometimes. There's nothing wrong with admitting that.

Niall's in pretty rough shape but he realizes he has to get moving quickly. The tide is coming in. He tries to figure out where he might be:

I thought back on the maps I had seen in my father’s council chambers. I recalled the rugged coast of western Solinde, and even the channel separating Erinn and Atvia. But no matter how hard I thought back, I could not recall if Rondule lay north or south, east or west. For that matter, I could not begin to say where I was in relation to the city.

Ian would say I deserve it, for shirking my geography. Oh, Ian, I would give anything to have you present. Your reprimand would be welcome.

Credit where it's due, Niall's grief for his brother is so raw here. I can't really think of anything comparable in earlier books. Maybe Carillon's reaction when Finn was wounded on the battlefield.

Anyway, riders are coming. We get another reminder that Niall is a big dude, like Carillon was, when he tells us that very few of them would have to look at him when dismounted. He asks them if this is Atvia.

Short answers, it is not. He's actually washed up on Erinn, Atvia's southern neighbor and long time adversary. The leader of the group has a heavy blond beard and green eyes, and I think I can anticipate the surprise here:

A humorless smile carved deep creases at the corners of his eyes. “Not Atvia, lad. ’Tis Erinn, held by Shea himself, and Lord of the Idrian Isles. Erinn, lad, not Atvia. Atvia’s enemy.”

“You have a truce,” I blurted, startled.

The green eyes narrowed consideringly. “What would you be knowing of a truce between your betters?”

“Betters,” I muttered. I ached. I did not need this interrogation. “Take me to your lord, if you will. What I have to say will be for him.”

The lance dug a hole in my neck, but did not cut me, quite. “What would you be saying to Lord Shea, ye bedraggled pup?”

Niall offers his signet ring, though his joints are too swollen to actually remove it. But he shows it to the rider. The rider is skeptical, or may just be trying to get a rise out of him:

“Aye, the storm,” the other interrupted. “’Twas a fierce one, was it not?” He grinned, showing strong white teeth. “We are accustomed to a bit of weather, now and then, here in Erinn. How is it with you in Homana?”

I glared up at him, too weary to care about impressions. “In Homana I am treated better, being heir to the Mujhar.”

The man exchanged grins with his fellow riders. “Heir, are ye, to the Mujhar? Is it Donal ye mean? And ye say you are his son?”

“Aye.” The word was all I could manage.

“Legitimate, too, or is that too much to expect?”

“Ku’reshtin,” I swore feebly, “I said I was his heir—” There was more I wanted to say and could not, being overtaken by a painful racking cough. I bent over at once; some of the sea I had swallowed came up to scour my teeth and throat.

I saw the sun glint off the lance tip as the man at last lowered the weapon. “Have ye had a hard time of it, puppy?” he inquired in mock solicitude. “Well, I’ll be seeing to it you are treated befitting your rank—” as he paused I glanced up and saw his green eyes narrow “—once the rank is proven.”

Niall calls him a ku'reshtin again, which gets the rider's attention this time. He wants to know what it means. Niall doesn't translate, but tells him it's Cheysuli, and reminds him that the House of Homana is Cheysuli. And that...gets a response:

I had expected further questions, or at least a mocking comment. Instead the soldier turned and gave a quiet order to one of his companions. In weary surprise, I watched as the man dismounted and brought his horse to me. The reins were held out in invitation.

“Take the horse,” the leader said. “I’ll be escorting you to Kilore.”

“Kilore.” I frowned. “Shea’s castle?”

“’Tis my father’s home.”

Reaching for the reins, I froze. I looked sharply up at the blond-bearded man.

“Aye,” he said, when I did not bother to ask it. “Had ye not heard, even in Homana? Shea has himself a son. ’Tis not that far away!” He grinned. “I am Liam. Prince of Erinn. Shea himself’s own heir.”

Called it. He got a description, of course he's important. And I suspect that it was the Cheysuli comment that proved his identity. Anyway, Liam is dressed down because it makes him less of a target to Atvians who try to land on Erinnish soil. He calls Niall "puppy" and Niall wearily threatens to beat him up. He IS rather in need of a new big brother figure, I suppose.

Liam, Niall is noticing, isn't as old as he originally looked. He's probably only about ten years older than Niall. (So twenty-nine-ish). And he's not quite as much of a dick either:

I wavered, and Liam’s laughter died. “The sea has treated you poorly, lad, and I no better, have I? Mount your horse, Homana’s heir, and I will see to it you’re given the honor a prince deserves.”

I turned to the horse in silence and clutched at pommel and cantle, hoisting myself from the ground. But if the Erinnish prince had not reached out and caught my arm, I would have fallen again.

Drooping in the saddle, I hunched forward over the pommel. “Ian,” I mumbled, “where are you?”


“Here, lad,” Liam told me, thinking I said his name.

“No—” I meant to explain, of course, but the light spilled out of the day.

Aww. I really do like the way Niall's grief permeates this chapter. He isn't wallowing in it. It's just there, ever present. We saw how close they were, how deeply and profoundly they loved each other. We saw Ian's unwavering, constant support. And now he's gone.

Niall wakes a bit later, tied to a horse. It's so he doesn't fall off. I think I love Liam. Liam is unapologetic and Niall acknowledges he probably would have fallen off. He also has the belated realization that the other men with them must be the prince's guard. They've made it to Kilore, "the Aerie of Erinn".

Liam admits that he's looked at the ring and asks if Niall is really Cheysuli, since he lacks the yellow eyes. Niall isn't too tired or grief-stricken to angst a bit, noting that even in Erinn they can see the difference. Niall ends up info dumping his granddad issues and desire for a lir.

Liam notes that it probably wasn't wise for Niall to confess his lack of magic, but a new arrival chooses this moment to arrive.

“’Twould be better you let him get off that horse,” said a resonant, growling voice, “before he falls on his head.”

I looked toward the castle and saw a tall, big-shouldered man in fine woolen dress descending the steps of the cavernous entrance. He was considerably older than Liam, but his manner and movements were those of a younger man. His blond hair and beard had silvered heavily, but still showed signs of the richness of youth. Green eyes were bright beneath an overgrown hedge of brows.

Shea of Erinn. Or Irish McIrish. Because of course.

Liam fills his dad in, pointing out that the lion in Niall's ring is the same as in his grandmother's tapestry. Niall is given the royal welcome. He's probably a hostage, but at least it's a friendly captivity.

Niall is given good food and drink. He observes that Liam is pacing uneasily and wonders why he's not at home at his father's hall. Family issues, perhaps. Once Niall's gotten comfortable and eaten his full, he's interrogated by his new hosts.

It's pretty clear that the supposed ceasefire between Erinn and Atvia isn't one. They want to know why Niall's going to "the enemy". And this is either an interesting beat or terrible world building:

“I am to wed Alaric’s daughter.”

Shea’s eyebrows shot up again. “The Cheysuli lass?”

Guardedly, I watched him. “She is my cousin, my lord. Her mother was my aunt.”

Shea shifted in his chair. “I saw Bronwyn, once, before she died. The lass, I am told, resembles her mother, not her father. Yet you resemble neither.”

Liam was pacing again. “No,” I agreed. “The heritage is mixed. If Gisella resembles her mother, she shows her Cheysuli blood. I—do not.”

“Why do you wed the lass?”

The liquor was making me sleepy on top of all the food. “Alliance,” I said succinctly, because it was all I could manage.

They know that Gisela is Cheysuli. They've met Bronwyn, Donal's sister. But they don't know about Niall's betrothal? Wouldn't that be common knowledge? In a previous book, I'd just assume that Roberson did a shit job. But this book has been good enough that I actually wonder if there's a reason that the betrothal isn't common knowledge.

Liam confronts Niall: why does Homana want an alliance with the "jackal of Atvia", and I'm suddenly very interested in what animals actually exist on this continent. Because most of the time, it sounds like the British Isles. The lion is hypothetical, long extinct. So when the fuck would they have seen a jackal?

Anyway, Niall reads between these very obvious lines and notes that there isn't a truce at all. His hosts clarify: Alaric THINKS there is. But no, there really isn't.

Niall bluntly states Homana's position here:

My fingers and toes were numb. I rubbed distractedly at salt residue in my hair. Weariness made me dangerously frank. “Truce or no, it does not matter. It makes no difference to Homana who claims this island title. We have our own concerns.”

Shea seems pretty offended by that, thinking that their war is being dismissed as petty, calling him a pup. (Niall notes that Liam gets it from his dad. Hah.) Niall explains that as far as Homana is concerned, Atvia is a conquered vassal state. Aside from the accepting tribute, Homana doesn't give a shit what Atvia does.

Shea admits that he's seen the tribute ships. He suggests that as vassal, Alaric could request Homanan aid.

Niall notes the fat chance of that, given that Osric killed Carillon. (And well, Lillith did antagonize the whole royal family.) And that's a fair point, Shea notes, but why is this marriage happening?

The alliance, as mentioned. They have enough trouble with Solinde and Strahan. Liam notes that the Ihlini are "kin to Alaric's witch" and it's very interesting that Erinn knows about Alaric's Ihlini connections when Homana didn't. Maybe, just maybe, Homana should have been paying more attention to its vassal state.

Niall doesn't read the room well, because this exchange:

Shea rubbed his beard. “Alaric desires this marriage?”

“I think he does, my lord. I am proxy-wed to—” I stopped. I could not bear to say her name: my brother’s murderer.

“Alaric desires the marriage.” Shea nodded. “Good.”

I drew in an unsteady breath and tried to clear my head. “What will you do with me, my lord? Will you send me to Atvia?”

Erinn’s gruff lord rose and walked to me. He stopped. Smiled down on me warmly, kindly; in infinite empathy. “You are weary, lad, and injured. You are requiring rest. I will ask my son to help you to your room.”

Really shouldn't shock him.

(Though it's interesting that Niall believes Lillith murdered Ian. I hadn't gotten that impression from the chapter, but it's possible.)

Basically, Erinn's going to ransom Niall to Alaric. The chapter ends with this declaration.

“Aye,” Shea said in satisfaction. “One way or the other, I’ll be getting the concessions I want from him. In exchange for his daughter’s betrothed.”

The weariness washed out of me on a wave of comprehension. “And if he is unwilling to grant those concessions?”

Shea gestured eloquently. “You are heir to the throne of Homana, lad. We’ll be treating you accordingly. You need not fear for your life.” He smiled. “You will be honored as our guest…for as long as Alaric insists.”

At least the food is good in fantasy Ireland?