LXXII
Inheritance
VINCENT I stood on the fortress parapet, watching the river lap the bank, far below.
Matilda’s message had been delivered, and we waited for Grimald and his army to surface from the water. The trebuchets had ceased firing at mid- afternoon. Since then, the world had gone quiet, creeping toward nightfall.
“Lord.” Hugh’s voice broke the silence, close behind me. “Do you see that, or do I dream?”
I leaned against the battlement. My eyes cut through the darkness.
I did not see it first but felt it. A familiar bone-aching, damp chill, as if winter had eclipsed autumn.
When I exhaled, my breath became smoke, and when I lifted my face to the sky, I saw that clouds had grown over the stars like moss. Snow began to fall. It drifted like feather down, melting in torch fire. It gathered on my gauntlets, spread over the parapet’s crenellation.
“You do not dream,” I said, gazing at Maiden Tower, where Matilda also stood in the darkness. She had once been the daughter of winter. And I knew this magic was hers to command. “Winter has come early.”
It was difficult to tell time without the bells ringing, but I imagined a full hour passed before I saw a disturbance in the water. Ice was beginning to crust the shallow edges of the river, and snow had gathered, knuckle-deep, on the parapet and on the bank below.
But a helm finally broke the dark water. Then another, close behind.
Men began to rise from the river in a trudging pace. They stumbled onto the fortress’s snowy bank. Some of them seemed stunned from the cold, floundering as if they could no longer feel their legs, while others made it to the castle’s foundation, preparing to climb.
The archers beside me went tense, their fingers reaching back to their
quivers.
“Wait,” I said.
I continued to watch as the winter elements either froze Grimald’s men as soon as they emerged, making them cough and collapse on the banks, or propelled them onward urgently, as if they knew they would die if they stopped.
Soon, there was a horde of warriors—knights and infantry alike— scaling the walls just as Matilda had done with those uncanny shoes of hers.
The snow continued to fall, and the night seemed pitch-dark and endless beyond the rings of torchlight. It felt like the winter solstice had unraveled time and order, and the sun would never rise again.
I could feel the snow gathering in my hair like a crown. It was cold, even for me as I stood close to the fire.
That was when I spotted my uncle in his fine armor, leading the climb.
He would be one of the first to reach me on the parapet, if he did not freeze before then.
“Lord?” one of the archers asked, recognizing Grimald as well. “When
shall we fire?”
“Wait,” I ordered again.
I wanted my uncle to be close enough to see my face in the torchlight.
Moments passed. I watched him struggle to climb. Around him, men were freezing to the stones. And yet Grimald pressed onward, as if nothing would stop him, as if he did not care how many warriors he lost.
“Ready your fire,” I said.
The archers moved in unison, nocking arrows on the strings of their bows. As they held their position, flames bloomed along the arrowheads, as if by enchantment. Matilda, I was certain, and I waited six more beats, counting the thrum of my heart as my uncle climbed higher, closer.
Ten long years I had waited for this moment.
Ten long years I had been dreaming of justice. And now that it had arrived, I felt like I could not draw a full breath. I could no longer taste the snow, only blood and ashes from that distant night.
“Steady!” I called.
There was a sudden tumult on the wall. Ice cascaded like a waterfall, cracking like thunder. Men screamed as they plummeted to their death. I lost sight of Grimald. Cursing, I leaned farther over the embrasure only to remove my hands from the battlements when I realized ice was growing in thick sheets just below the parapet’s crenellation. It made its way down the stone and mortar like a shimmering veil, hungry to feast on the baron’s men.
“Fall back!” Grimald shouted, hoarse with fear. “Attack within!”
The men closest to the parapet had no time to retreat. They froze to the wall instantly, their mouths open in silent screams, their eyes wide, their armor glittering beneath the layers of ice.
I looked away.
There were others who were far more fortunate, scattering across the wall like spiders, escaping the ice’s fury by slipping through one of the holes in the castle walls, torn open from the earlier bombardment, or reaching the portion of the parapet that had suffered the brunt of the trebuchets’ fire. A swath of wall had crumbled away as if a giant scythe had met it, and multiple floors and entry points were now exposed to the night.
The baron’s men, abandoning the order to take the battlement where my archers and I stood watch, now slipped into the lower levels of the castle like water swilling into a drain.
“Swords!” I shouted, striding to the stairwell.
Hugh was on my heels. I had asked him to stay close to me; I could not trust him, and I did not want him out of my sight. Together we descended, emerging onto one of the floors that had been struck by the trebuchets. My knights and swordsmen were stationed at every weak point in the wall, and it did not take long for me to find a skirmish in the corridor.
Sword drawn, I followed the cacophony of clashing steel, cries, and the thud of heavy boots, arriving at the first broken segment. Snow swirled in from the hole in the wall, and Grimald’s men were still clambering through
it, shattering the ice that was beginning to grow, weblike, over the opening.
The haggardness on their faces was arresting, something I had never seen before, as if the world had turned inside out.
I held my breath, disturbed, as I watched the baron’s men fight ice and cold to tumble into the corridor, desperate to find relief and the warmth of firelight, only to meet the sting of a knight’s sword.
I did not want this, I thought grimly, and yet I only gave myself a moment to feel that anguish before I stepped into the fray, parrying and cutting with my sword, Hugh close at my side.
Blood splattered over my breastplate as I made my first kill. A cut to the throat. My second kill. My third. I let the bodies fall, pushing my way deeper, like a needle threading through linen, but there was no sign of my uncle.
“I need to descend,” I said to Hugh, pulling back. “Grimald had not climbed so high yet on the wall. He’ll enter on a lower floor.”
Hugh, teeth bared and blood smeared on his face, nodded.
We retreated to the stairwell, leaving one clash behind only to find more the farther down we went. I would wade into the waters of each skirmish, but I found no sign of Grimald. There was only Sir Kenneth, suffering a mortal blow to the throat, and Lady Hyacinthe, the bravest of my knights, defending the corridor, beating back a wave of Grimald’s men.
I returned to the stairwell, flying down the steps to the next level. Hugh struggled to keep pace with my speed. His breaths were labored; blood and sweat dripped from his beard. He had taken a hit on his thigh and was limping. I almost left him behind but slowed when I saw snow blowing in through a large crack in the ice. Dead bodies were heaped on the floor. The conflict here had come and gone, most of the fallen bearing the heraldry of Englewood, but I felt compelled to move forward, following a trail of blood.
Soon, the castle went quiet around me, save for the torches that burned from their iron sconces. I finally lost Hugh—he was too weary to keep pace with me, his thigh bleeding so heavily he needed to rest—and the silence, after so much din, was unnerving.
Gooseflesh crept across my arms. I knew where this inner passage led, and I imagined the person who had been bleeding earlier did as well. When I passed a sconce that was empty, its torch stolen, I swallowed and pressed on, walking as quietly as I could.
I reached the door to the hall’s antechamber.
It was cracked open, the blood trail marking the threshold.
I paused, listening.
There was only the roar of spectral quiet, as if I stood in a nightmare, and I corrected my grip on the sword’s hilt. One deep breath, and then I pushed the door open, entering the antechamber prepared to parry a strike.
No blow met me.
In fact, there was no one in the small chamber. The missing torch was pegged in a new sconce; it did not burn but smoked. Even the hearth embers hissed, as if newly extinguished with the nearby sand pail. But through the shadows, I could see armor that had been shed like serpent skin. A breastplate, trimmed in gold. Gauntlets studded with tiny gemstone chips.
Leg greaves and a belt, a sword still embedded in its filigreed scabbard. A pair of slippers reminiscent of the ones Matilda had constantly worn, made
of moss and reeds and metal and mud.
I stepped deeper into the room.
Only someone who had lived here would know how to find this antechamber in the dark, as well as the door that blended seamlessly into the wall, which opened into the hall. It, too, was cracked open, and I decided to sheath my sword.
I made no attempt to enter the hall quietly, knowing who awaited me on the other side.
The door creaked, announcing my arrival.
Grimald stood on the dais, gazing across the empty hall as if imagining it was full of his warriors, his knights, his attendants. Warmed by firelight and brimming with food and music. A revel hosted in his honor. An event that could only live in his mind.
He had removed his armor in the antechamber and was now wearing nothing more than his chainmail and trousers. A simple helm was tucked into the crook of his arm, and I could see he had bandaged a wound on his
thigh with a strip of crudely torn linen. He was barefoot, and his hair was still damp from the river.
“We meet again, nephew,” Grimald said. “The last time I saw you here, I thought you were dead.”
I came to a stop, four paces behind him. “It would have saved you so much trouble, wouldn’t it? If I had died that night.”
“I made a poor calculation ten winters ago.” Grimald sighed. Still, he refused to turn and look at me. And it would have been so easy for me to draw my sword and slice my uncle’s throat. To give him a mortal blow, to watch him stagger and gasp and bleed onto the flagstones, in the very place
where my father and brothers had died.
But I stayed my hand.
“I thought that if I took back my inheritance, the people of Wyndrift would respect me. Follow me. Bend their knee with tears in their eyes, relieved to see that the rightful lord had returned to guide them.” Grimald chuckled, as if the only way he knew how to face this memory was to laugh at it. “Yet how wrong I was. Although sometimes I think … maybe they would have yielded quickly to me, out of fear of bloodshed. Out of a desperate need to survive. But then the knights caught wind that you lived.
You were wounded but you still breathed. You and Nathaniel both. And you gave Wyndrift hope. Hope that I could not conquer.”
I had never thought of the Dark Winter in this way. I had only known my grief, my pain. A melting of physical and emotional agony that I would not wish upon my worst enemy. Not even my uncle, the betrayer, who had
authored my wounds.
Grimald, at last, turned to regard me.
“Again, I have miscalculated, even with the god of rivers as an ally. I thought, surely, I can claim my inheritance, but I did not factor in the goddess. She has covered your fortress with ice, and mended the holes I tore through your walls, and snuffed out any fire that my men sought for warmth or protection. The torch even refused to burn in my hands, to lend me comfort, and I have never felt so cold as I do tonight.”
I was quiet, but my heart was a hammer in my chest.
“I lost a thousand men in the river,” Grimald stated. “They could not withstand the cold once winter struck early. And the ones who made the crossing? They either slipped on the ice or froze to the wall. They were met at once by your swordsmen when they entered the fortress.”
“Surrender,” I said. “You know that you have lost this battle. Surrender now and I will call a ceasefire. You, as well as whatever remaining forces
you have, will be taken prisoner.”
Grimald smiled.
“I am afraid I cannot surrender to you, Vincent. My pride will not let
me.”
“You would rather die here?”
“I would rather give myself to the river.”
This was not a poetic turn of phrase. I knew exactly what it meant, and I lunged forward, eager to catch my uncle before he bolted for the bridge.
Grimald was expecting it.
His fist, which had been hiding beneath his helm, flung a handful of sand into my eyes.
“Gods,” I swore, stumbling back as I clawed at my face. “Damn you!”
I could hear the patter of Grimald’s bare feet slapping the floor as he ran, and I blinked the grit from my eyes, my surroundings blurred. But fear and anger tangled deep in my lungs when I breathed, tunneling what little clear vision I had.
I now understood why Grimald had removed his armor. He could run, swiftly, to the bridge. He could swim in the currents without fear of drowning. He would slip through my defenses; there was nothing to identify him by—no sword, no armor, no heraldry. Not even the simple helm he had most likely plucked from one of Wyndrift’s dead could reveal him.
My memory guided me as I sprinted in Grimald’s wake, dodging the trestle tables, into the foyer. I dashed the sand from my eyes, tripping when I reached the courtyard. Even here, it had snowed, and the air was crisp. At last I could see.
Grimald was running to Rye Tower, passing through the open gateway.
“Stop him!” I ordered. “That runner is Grimald!”
My voice went unheard, stolen by a sudden gust of wind.
Clenching my jaw, I ran across the flagstones and through Rye Tower’s breezeway, catching sight of Grimald as he continued to sprint down the bridge, a glimmer of chainmail and blood-soaked feet. He slipped on a sheet of ice, which gave me enough time to catch up to him.
I ripped off his helm and cast it aside.
“You coward,” I snarled, punching his face. Once, twice, a third time.
Blood flowed from his nose and his mouth. “You lost this river the night you murdered my father and brothers. It will never be yours.”
Grimald spat out a loose tooth, blood dribbling into his beard. He headbutted me, square on the brow. Pain exploded across my skull; stars danced in my eyes as I collapsed on the ground.
“That’s right, little bastard,” Grimald taunted. “Writhe on the ground,
where you belong.”
“Vince!”
It was Nathaniel’s voice that brought my attention back into focus. The haziness, the stars, melted and I was up on my knees, dodging the fist that Grimald swung at me. That was when I noticed an audience had gathered around us. It was Nathaniel and the knights, as well as a few archers. They watched, lips pressed into thin lines, breath like clouds, hands white- knuckled on hilts and bows.
When it began to snow again, I knew Matilda was also watching from Maiden Tower, and I rolled, evading another swing of Grimald’s fist. I found my feet, ankles popping. My armor acted like a vise, making it difficult to move quickly, but my uncle was suffering more from the cold, his movements losing their edge of surprise. He was panting, and frost was gathering on his damp clothes and chainmail.
I drew back, faking Grimald with a punch. Instead, I delivered a kick to the wound on his leg.
He let out a screech, hobbling away to put distance between us.
I followed, my fingers going numb beneath my gauntlets. I clubbed Grimald on the temple, then jabbed him in the jaw, knocking another tooth loose. And I wondered how long this would last. The two of us circling each other in the snow, drawing blood and snapping bones.
I still had my sword, sheathed at my side, weighing me down. For a moment, I thought about unsheathing it, but to what end? I had often dreamt of taking my revenge on Grimald, carving him into ribbons, and yet now that the opportunity was upon me … I realized it was nothing like my mind or my heart had imagined it would be.
My emotions were no longer aligned with my past.
I was looking at an old man who had lost everything, even if his destruction had been sparked by his own greed and foolishness. A man who was panting, barefoot and bleeding, in the snow.
“I taught you how to swim in this river,” Grimald said, as if sensing the interlude between us. “Do you remember? Your mother stood on this very bridge and watched us. She shouted critiques at me the entire time, as if swimming in the sea is the same as swimming in a river.”
“I remember,” I said, the memory an ache in my throat.
Grimald stepped closer, brow arched as if testing whether I would strike him again. When my fists remained at my sides, he took another step, until our ragged breaths mingled.
“Why don’t you kill me?” he asked. “Why don’t you take up your sword and drive it through my rotten heart?”
I held his stare. Behind me, the river sang a downstream melody. Before me, Nathaniel watched with a concerned expression, just over the slope of
Grimald’s shoulder.
“Surrender,” I said.
My uncle heaved a sigh, bowing his head as he stared at our feet—my boots, and his bloodied toes. When he struck, it was unexpectedly swift.
He took me by the neck, his nails scoring my skin. He pushed with the might of a mountain, moving us as if we were trapped in a dance. When my backside hit the balustrade, my armor lost the round for me, making it easy for Grimald to throw off my center of gravity. To knock my feet out from
beneath me.
We went over the edge together.
Down through the roar of cold night air, into the river’s embrace.