This is a woman who would hum cheerfully to herself while she burned you alive, she thought. She remembered the utter ruthlessness Shranree had displayed back at Frosthold. The senior sister had handled the task of massacring women and children as calmly as if she had been preparing dinner.
‘You have much to learn from your betters,’ Shranree continued. ‘It breaks my heart that Old Agatha was so cruelly taken from us before fully imparting her wisdom to you. I hope you will one day prove worthy of her tutelage.’
Thurva smiled in a manner that was possibly intended to be smug but merely looked ridiculous. Even so, Yllandris wanted to slap her irritating face. She was seething inside. You’re all a bunch of tools. Puppets of the Shaman, doing his bidding like a herd of sheep. Old Agatha got what she deserved.
She forced herself to look abashed and lowered her head slightly so that Shranree wouldn’t see the lie in her eyes. ‘My humble apologies, sister. I am still young and have much to learn.’
That seemed to satisfy the rotund sorceress. She brushed at some imaginary dirt on her robes. ‘Indeed you do,’ she huffed. ‘The road is going to be a long one, but we will get there eventually, I am sure.’
Yllandris gritted her teeth and nodded. She stared across to where King Magnar sat upon his mighty throne. His steely eyes met her for a moment and the ghost of a smile passed across his lips. Then it was gone as he turned his attention back to the chieftains either side of him.
Orgrim Foehammer and Krazka One-Eye would return with their men to their respective Reachings once Mehmon had been brought to justice, but for now they awaited the arrival of the Shaman. Orgrim appeared troubled, while the Butcher of Beregund’s lone eye positively glittered with anticipation.
Yllandris had been present the last time the Shaman ordered a public trial. She had been with the circle only a short time, and she still remembered the screams of the accused. The woman’s wails had been unearthly, like those of the banshees that were said to haunt the highest peaks. She recalled the poor old bastard in the wicker cage and the indescribable torment on his face as he watched his wife burn.
There was a sudden commotion behind her. Shranree jabbed a thick finger in the direction of the Great Lodge. ‘There he is,’ she whispered reverentially. ‘The Shaman comes.’
Yllandris looked up see a large black raven perched on the edge of the roof high above. It regarded them all with its beady eyes for a second and then leaped off, plummeting down towards the ground. Crash and die, she wished fervently, but the bird checked its fall at the last possible moment and hopped down to land unharmed on the snow. It shimmered and then began to stretch, first one way and then the other, unfolding like a sheet of parchment in an expansion of mass that made her brain hurt to watch. When the coruscation finally faded, the Shaman stood before them.
The assembled Highlanders went silent. As always, the Magelord was naked except for a tattered pair of breeches. His olive skin glistened with sweat despite the frigid conditions; he seemed not to feel the cold. That blunt, angry face stared across the open circle with blue eyes as harsh as a glacier. Yllandris felt herself wilting when his gaze passed over her, as if his stare was enough to bare her soul for the world to see.
The Shaman turned to the sagging figure that was Mehmon. Yllandris realized she had forgotten to breathe. Had she really considered plotting to kill this immortal? This Godkiller? The thought now seemed as absurd as reaching out and plucking the moon from the sky.
‘Mehmon,’ growled the Shaman. ‘I find you guilty of disobeying the will of your king and rejecting the terms of the Treaty under which all Highlanders abide. The penalty for rebellion is death by fire. Speak your last words.’
The old Highlander raised his head and coughed once. ‘Rebellion?’ he managed. ‘That’s a joke. I’m guilty of nothing but looking after my people.’
The Shaman crossed his massive arms over his chest. His muscles were like knotted steel. ‘You refused tribute. The fish that swim the Blackwater? The deer that roam the forests? This is my domain,’ he growled, revealing his teeth. ‘You rejected the Treaty and you stole from me. I care not for your excuses.