Chapter Eight

Eight

His hand does not exert enough pressure to hurt, not really—not unless she strains against him, and then it is more panic than pain, the feeling of breath slowly leaving her. Roscille makes a wordless noise of protest as Lisander's other hand reaches beneath her bodice and retrieves the knife. He examines it for a moment, with a low exhale that is almost amused, and then tosses it aside. It clatters against the stone, far out of reach.

"Macbeth must be an impoverished warrior, if he sends his wife to do such ugly work for him."

"Please," she says. "Let me go."

"So you may try and ensorcell me again?"

"I was not— I am not—"

"You are, " says Lisander. "You are what they say, Roscille of Breizh. Witch. "

He uses the Brezhoneg word, not the Scots. Roscille grasps at his wrist with both of her hands, trying to pry herself loose, but her efforts are fruitless; he is too strong. Tears come to the corners of her vision. She squeezes her eyes shut and says, "I am nothing but the dagger in my husband's hand."

The words are empty; they have no echo. Lisander lets out another half-amused breath.

"You may succeed in convincing others of this, others who luxuriate in the idea that women have no power except that which men grant them." With his free hand, he reaches down and smooths her skirts back over her thighs: an absurd gesture, almost chivalrous, as if to help her regain her lost modesty. "You may not have driven the blade yourself, but I know those men died at your orchestration."

Roscille is now aware she will not win by playing at innocence, so she tries anger, which only ends up sounding petulant. "And how do you know that? The chancellor performed the cruentation himself."

"The chancellor has no wisdom, only dry ritual."

"It is bold of you to dishonor your father's favorite adviser."

"Not so bold as murdering my father in his bed."

Roscille has no response to this. She presses her lips shut.

Unexpectedly, Lisander loosens his grip, just enough for Roscille to shove his hands away and push herself to a sitting position. Her eyes are hot. She tries to spy, over his shoulder, the knife glinting on the floor, but she cannot find it. And Lisander and his lithe, strong body are between her and the door.

"Do not try to run," he says.

"I was not planning to."

A series of incredulous events unfold: Lisander reties the laces of his jacket, where Roscille wrested them open. He fishes for the ruby necklace among the sheets and holds it out to her. It is coiled in his palm like a cold snake. She snatches it back, face burning.

"Thank you," she bites out.

Lisander nods.

Roscille is suddenly overcome by a novel humiliation. The last moments play over in her mind: her falling wantonly into his arms, him pressing her into the bed and kissing her breathless, all while she believed he was under her lustful spell. He had not truly been ensorcelled, and those passionate words that had so enflamed her were spoken under false pretense. He had been concerned only with the knife in her bodice and how to take it from her.

"Did you mean none of it, then?" The words come out before she can stop them. The question of a vain, frivolous little girl.

"Should I not ask you the same?" Lisander's sharp gaze meets hers. "All your desire feigned, the means to an end—a way to maneuver the dagger to my throat?"

She feels almost numb with embarrassment. "Witch, you name me. Such creatures have no sentiments."

"I do not believe that."

He says it without hesitation, and with such conviction that it surprises her. She regards him, skin still prickling with heat. His hair is mussed from their exertions, but still it shines, like the ocean under moonlight. His narrow nose, carved as if by a sculptor's chisel; his cheekbones high ledges below the dark, sleepless shadows. A purple bruise blooms on his throat. Roscille feels an odd, debauched sense of satisfaction, knowing she has marked him, too.

"What will you do with me?" she asks at last. "Slit my throat in your bed?"

Lisander's gaze darts to the corner, where finally Roscille spots the knife, its blade glinting in the hearth's soft firelight. It will take him two strides to reach it. Another two strides, the thrust of his sword-arm, to pare away her flesh with it. She can do nothing to beat back her death. Her eyes do not ensorcell him; she has no more protection than the flimsy necklace. She feels even more humiliated now, to have called this stupid bauble armor.

"No," he says.

Here, though, he does hesitate. Can she truly blame him? She came to his chamber with a knife; she orchestrated his father's death. And she gave him a witch's death, at that, the swords only reaching King Duncane's heart thanks to herpowers of compulsion. There could not be any greater disgrace upon his father's name.

Further still, she has thrown all of Alba into chaos. Made him reach for a crown he does not even want. As much as she tries, she cannot think of a reason why he would spare her, now.

Roscille tilts up her chin. "Why not?"

"You are of no use to me dead," Lisander says. "If I am to bargain with your husband, it would not do to start negotiations by presenting his wife's corpse." He pauses. "But I suppose it is perhaps too hopeful of me, to believe he may allow words to pass between us before he reaches for his sword."

Roscille thinks of Macbeth, his horrifying largeness. It has become ordinary to her, and therefore less horrifying, but whenever Roscille is outside of herself, mind untethered from her body, he is a mountain again, a great rock creature, fed and formed by the soil of Glammis. Lisander is strong, and sleek like a water spirit, but she cannot imagine he could match her husband, Bellona's bridegroom.

She should not grieve this. It should relieve her. Moments ago, she thought she would die with Lisander's fingers around her neck. Suddenly her own hand leaps up to her throat, where the bruises made by his mouth are pulsing. Fear pools in her stomach.

As if he can read this fear, Lisander says, "The necklace will cover them."

A fast, red flush again. "You will not reveal me?"

"Revealing you would damn us both, Lady Roscille. Does Macbeth really need another cause for killing me?" He shakes his head and is silent a moment. Then, lowly, he says, "I promised you protection from him. I will not relinquish that vow."

"I did not think you the sort of man who holds to vows merely because he made them, even when they no longer serve him."

Lisander does not reply; he merely looks down at her, gaze strangely soft. His stillness and silence force Roscille to contemplate her position, which even now is quite compromising. Though he has allowed her to sit, he keeps one arm braced around her thigh, holding her in the bed.

Then, abruptly, the corner of his mouth lifts. "A clever way to say you think me dishonorable."

Roscille tries to keep her expression serene, remote. "What other reason would you have for refusing the crown? Spurning your dead father's wish?"

Finally Lisander's face shutters. He stands up, withdrawing his arm from around her leg, and Roscille cannot help but feel bereft at the loss of his touch.

"I do not relish this," he says. "But you have given me no choice. Stand."

She does. Her legs feel limp; between her thighs, she is still slick.

Lisander reaches for the sheet. He tears a strip free easily, muscles scarcely flexing; she is surprised by this subtle, graceful strength, which seems almost inhuman. He guides her arms around her back and binds her wrists together. The fabric is not coarse, but it is still tight enough to chafe.

Then he leaves her standing there and walks across the room to retrieve her fallen veil. When he bends over, Roscille sees the way his spine presses through the leather of his jacket; she can count every notch of bone, protruding sharply like fins.

As he approaches her, he keeps his gaze on the ground, but when he reaches her, and they are standing close again, he looks up, directly into her eyes, pinning her in place with his stare.

Roscille stares back, chin trembling with defiance.

Without his gaze ever shifting, Lisander sets her veil back in place. His ministrations are precise, and gentler than she deserves. When the fabric falls again over her eyes, he stares for just a moment more, and then averts his gaze at last.

From his trunk, he retrieves a sheathed sword. His movement is again too deft: The sword is lifted and then strapped to his belt in the time it takes her to blink.

"Come," he says, beckoning her toward the door. His voice is hard and cold.

Roscille has no choice but to obey.

Her thoughts have been so scattered that she has not had time to ruminate upon this. Now, without other occupation, as Lisander prods her through the threshold and into the corridor, the realization forces itself into her mind. No mortal man has ever looked into her eyes and lived, yet Lisander did and still he moves and breathes and runs with blood. He was not compelled, not ensorcelled. Roscille looks back over her shoulder at the windowless room, and her eyes follow the strange marks slashed along the stone wall, no pattern to them, nothing her senses can constellate, and knows, with the certainty of a lightning strike, that Lisander is no mortal man.

As she is maneuvered through the long, twisting hallways, Roscille crafts excuses, for when Macbeth will inevitably command her to speak.

He was too strong, my Lord, he knew I was coming. I am sorry. He is too clever, as you have said.

I will do better. I will not displease you. I will not disgrace you.

And then, for the bruises at her throat: It is the necklace, my Lord. Your honor leaves its mark on me. It all sounds whinging and witless, even in her own mind. She has lost her innocence, well and truly. It is a trick that is now forbidden to her, a mask she may no longer wear. Roscille of Breizh was timid; Lady Macbeth is not.

Lisander forces her at a pace, and by the time they reach the courtyard, she is breathless. The chancellor has found his way here as well, red-cheeked with exertion that must be unusual to him, after years spent luxuriating at King Duncane's side. He leans over, hands on his knees, looking very old.

There is another man hidden inside the chancellor: a farmer, a fisherman, a shepherd. The monk he must have been once, shaved head as bald as a baby's, before he was plucked from his quiet abbey to attend the king. Roscille sees these men layered over one another, like the rings of a tree, more ancient closer to the center. She is surprised that she can still manage to glimpse this, cold creature she has become. But when she blinks, the vision dissipates.

The barbican grinds open. Three horses skid into the courtyard, kicking up dust. Spooked horses, their eyes rolled to the whites, snorting and salivating. One rider is Banquho, another Fléance. The last, Macbeth.

Tartans are ripped and brows are sweat-dewed, but Roscille can see no injuries. While there are no open wounds, blood is in the air. Macbeth breathes hard as he dismounts his horse, fury rolling off him in waves.

"You false, shrinking coward," Macbeth snarls. "Unhand my wife."

"Coward?" Lisander echoes. "It is you who sends your wife to do your rough work."

Lisander's sword-point is pressed against the small of her back. If there is any sudden, graceless movement by either of them, she will be stuck through with its blade like a pig on a spit.

"Cowardice runs in the blood of Duncane." Macbeth begins to circle them, his own blade flashing. "Your brother fled at the sight of our swords, like a frightened deer. He will first seek refuge at the keep of that witless Macduff, and then he will make his way to ?thelstan's court—too craven to fight his battles alone."

"Most would think it more craven to come at a man with three swords against one." Lisander nods toward Banquho and Fléance, still astride their horses. "Your right hand is clumsy, Thane of Glammis. Hardly more able than his sulking son. All three of you, outridden by a man barely out of boyhood."

With a furious growl, Banquho drops down from his saddle. Fléance follows him, chest heaving, and from this vantage point even the near-death wound seems faint, pale, drained of its honor.

Macbeth does not speak to defend them. Instead, he smiles thinly.

"Clearly you understand the arithmetic of your position, Prince of Cumberland," he says. "One sword will never triumph against three, and unlike your brother, you have nowhere to run."

The wind blows in a great, sweeping gust through the courtyard, grasping at Roscille's veil. She hopes this will account for the way her eyes are watering, that her husband will not see her crying—or if he does, he will think it out of fear for her own life, not out of grief for what she imagines will come. The sword-thrust that will strike Lisander from the earth.

But if Lisander feels such fear, he does not show it on his face. His green gaze is steady.

"I would suggest you think on your position, too, Thane of Glammis," he says. "My brother will reach ?thelstan's court within the week, and once he arrives, all of England will be moved to his cause. Name yourself King if you choose, but Alba is a country in pieces. How many thanes will join you when they know it means standing against ?thelstan's army? I am your only hope for gaining allies in Scotland, and your only hope for peace with England. Evander will bargain for my life, but he will make no concessions for a corpse. And you know well that the lion always devours the unicorn."

Macbeth grows still where he stands. The wind brushes through his hair and beard, braiding it with cold. Roscille's blood is frozen in her veins. Lisander does not blink, does not falter.

Her husband may be an artificer of violence, but he is not completely without reason. Roscille knows by now he is more than a dull brute. These long moments pass like water, rising, falling, drenching the shore, retreating, rising, and falling again, smothering the sand with streaks of foam.

Finally, Macbeth's words come through gritted teeth.

"Drop your sword," he says to Lisander. And then, over his shoulder, he calls out to Banquho and Fléance: "Clap him in chains and put him in a cell."

The pressure in her back is relieved as Lisander's sword falls to the earth. She exhales, but there is no true alleviation of tension, of terror, as Macbeth strides toward her and grasps her around the shoulders, pulling her small body against his colossal chest.

"I'm sorry—" she begins.

"No," he says, quiet but firm. "Not now."

She cannot bring herself to watch as Banquho and Fléance descend upon Lisander, grasping each of his arms, dragging him out of the courtyard. Yet she cannot bear to look away, either. She meets Lisander's eyes, which are still cold and unreadable, and too appallingly, exquisitely green.

"Traitor!" cries a sudden, warbling voice. "You, Macbeth—turncoat, apostate! You slew the king in his bed!"

Slowly, Macbeth turns. It is the chancellor who shouts from across the courtyard, trembling in his fine robes, clutching the jeweled crucifix in thin, gnarled fingers.

"Silence," Banquho bites out.

Macbeth holds up a hand.

"Think on your position, Chancellor," he says. "Your old master is dead and cannot protect you. You are trapped now, in the castle of his killer. You have two choices: You may bow to me, or you may follow Duncane to his grave."

The chancellor quivers, like a reed blown through with wind. His mouth opens, then shuts. Because she's still pressed to Macbeth's chest, Roscille's vision grows blurry and hot and she cannot breathe.

After several moments of silence, the chancellor lowers himself to his knees. He sets his crucifix down in the dirt and raises his arms above his head. He tips forward, face to the dusty ground, palms flat and open against the earth. Pure supplication. Complete surrender. Macbeth will savor this image like the headiest of spirits.

Macbeth approaches. His footsteps are as loud as stones dropped from a great height. When he reaches the prostrating chancellor, he tips his head to the side, considering the lowly form of this man. Shame stirs up from him, like clouds of dust.

The blade drives swift and true through the chancellor's wattled neck. Macbeth has killed so many men that he knows precisely where to strike, how to deliver the exact wound he desires. He crafts each kill with the cleverest touch. Sometimes there will be a showy bleeding, a gasping for breath, a long, drawn-out dying, if this serves his purpose. But now it is brutal and brief. The chancellor has no last words. His already-slumped body hardly moves from its position. There is a single spasm, like the flopping of a fish. And then only a growing red circle in the dirt.

"I have no use for another driveling priest," says Macbeth.

He removes his sword with a subtle twist, which creates the sound of splintering bone. He lifts the blade in the air and licks its tip, tasting the chancellor's carefully crafted death. And, too, he has crafted this message, shown to all who can see the redness wet his lips: He is observing the rite of first blood, which means there will be more blood soon to follow.

Macbeth does not go to his hall, to quench his thirst with wine or to spread maps across his war table. He goes instead to his chamber. Roscille has been ordered, with only a sharp jerk of his head, to follow. She trails after him in silence, and when they reach the room he ushers her in, then shuts the door behind her. All this time he has not even looked at her, not into her eyes, through the veil.

A servant comes with a bucket of water. Roscille stands on the bear-rug with her hands clasped in front of her, gaze fixed on the dead animal's face, praying she can appear contrite enough to please him, praying that his eyes do not linger too long on her throat.

She raises her head only when she hears her husband drop his sword unceremoniously onto the floor; it clatters on the stone, blade still flashing red. Then he unlaces his jerkin and yanks his shirt over his head.

Her mouth turns dry with fear. No, she thinks, no, there are still two of her requests left to fulfill, still two trials before bloodied sheets and bloodied thighs and the terror of a child growing inside her—but perhaps her failure, his anger, will have movedMacbeth beyond care of the old custom. Bile rises in her throat.

But her husband still does not face her as he says, "Bring the water and cloth."

With slow, creaking movements, Roscille kneels beside the bucket. She soaks the rag in the water, then draws it up and wrings it out, until it is damp but not dripping. Then she rises again. Macbeth turns to her at last, naked from waist to head, and looks expectant.

Roscille has never seen this much of her husband, or of any man, before. His chest is a craggy landscape, broad hills and narrow valleys, long divots like dried-up streambeds,bones fitted together in an intricate puzzle under his skin. The skin, cratered with scars. One broad and short along his left shoulder; another, long and sinewy, across his abdomen. It is transformed by the swelling of his muscles, made all the more gruesome and bizarre. The way it is raised, the wound must have been terrible. Deep.

Hands trembling, Roscille approaches him. A thin film of sweat and grime covers his skin. She lifts the rag and dabs it on the hollow of his throat. This seems the least frightening place to start. She has, after all, seen this part of him before, the first near-death scar. Macbeth's pulse throbs under her hand.

Roscille is a noble lady and has never cleaned anything in her life; only now that Hawise has been taken from her has she learned to wash herself. She scrubs hesitantly at the line of his collarbone.

Macbeth grunts. "Am not made of glass."

Her own neck prickles. "I'm sorry, my Lord."

She scrubs harder, at first with the rag held between her thumb and forefinger, and then, when she reaches the broader planes of his chest, she spreads the rag beneath her open palm. Macbeth's heart beats in steady thumps. She feels it humming up through his skin.

When Roscille kneels to rinse the rag and soak it with new water, Macbeth says, "You did not kill him."

Her fingers curl around the cloth. It drips and drips and drips onto the stone floor, the only sound in the room. The water is cold and now so is her hand.

"No," she says slowly. "I did not."

The water forms a small pool on the floor. Her husband watches her, through the veil. Can he know? Will he see the way her lips are swollen, just slightly, tender to the touch? Will the necklace slip down to reveal the red marks made by another man's mouth? Can he smell the adultery on her, like blood alerting the senses of a hound? Roscille draws a breath that sucks the veil inward.

If she chose, she could reveal Lisander for what he is—or rather, what he is not: He is not a mortal man. But what will this achieve? A secret only has value until it is spent. Then it is dust. She cannot see how it will advantage her, to spend this secret now.

And Lisander is the only man alive—so long as he remains alive—who may see her truly, her unguarded eyes. When she is gone from the world, she realizes, a piece of her soul will go with him—the clandestine, mystic knowledge that Roscille is almost too afraid to discover. What do you see, inside me? Speak truth. Tell me what mortal men cannot.

"It is good," Macbeth says. "He is of greater use to us alive."

The knot in her stomach loosens slightly. "As hostage?"

"As a hostage, yes—who knows how much ?thelstan will cede for his safe return? In the meantime, he will provide good knowledge of our enemies. Their plots, their powers. How many Scotsmen will rally to his brother's side—and how great an army ?thelstan can raise in England. He will not disclose this information for nothing, of course. But there are ways to make men speak."

Roscille feels her throat closing. She is no stranger to this, of course; she was raised in the court of Alan Varvek. The Duke is miserly with his violence, but when he does spend it, he spends it lavishly. His torture chambers are as opulent as his feasting halls. His racks are always well oiled, so the metal does not scream when the victim does. His saws are sharpened weekly. Breizh's finest blacksmiths crafted the spikes on his chair. His breaking wheel has never once broken.

She has to swallow hard before she can ask, "Will this not affect his value as hostage? Evander may pay less for a damaged good."

Macbeth huffs. "No man comes out of war intact and clean. Even the cosseted boy-prince knows this." He looks down at the rag dripping in her hand. "Go on."

Roscille raises her hand and scrubs again at his chest. He is solid, impenetrable. Nothing gives way beneath her touch. She hopes he cannot feel the way her fingers tremble. If she closes her eyes for the briefest moment, if she even blinks, she can see the darkness of a dungeon, pricked with the light of glinting silver blades. If she were alone, she would retch.

If Macbeth does notice her quaking, he does not remark upon it. Instead, he says, "I will entrust this to you."

A shock along her spine, as if she's been prodded. "What?"

"I leave for Moray tomorrow, with the joined armies of Glammis and Cawder. Once I take Duncane's throne, the rest of Alba will fall to its knees before me. And while I am away, you are the Lady of Glammis. The prince's questioning will be your purview, the whole castle under your keep."

Roscille stops scrubbing. "You will leave me here alone?"

Macbeth mistakes this for attachment. Affection. He smiles.

"I will not be gone too long," he says. "And when I return, Glammis will be the new seat of power in Alba. I will be King, and you will be Queen, hereafter."

Her mind returns to a dark place. Not an imagined dungeon this time, but the basement, with its damp, filthy air. With its churning waters and rattling chains. Les Lavandières gleam in the blackness, showing streaks of curdled skin. Their blind eyes are too cloudy to hold the torchlight. Their augury rises from the water like fog, syllables of prophecy scraping the jagged ceiling.

All hail Macbeth, Thane of Glammis.

All hail Macbeth, Thane of Cawder.

All hail Macbeth, King Hereafter.

"I do not know how to keep a castle," Roscille says at last, weakly.

"You will have help. I am leaving Banquho and Fléance behind."

Bewilderment shadows her thoughts. Fléance has proven himself, however falsely, an able soldier. Banquho promised him time on the battlefield, swore that he would not be forsaken again. And Banquho himself?

"But my Lord," she says, true puzzlement in her voice, "Banquho is your right hand."

Macbeth's gaze rests upon her for a long moment. She cannot read the emotions behind his eyes. Lisander's words return to her. Your right hand is clumsy. Perhaps these words, spoken merely to rile and taunt, are truer than she imagined.

"A great warrior can fight just as well with his left," Macbeth answers finally. "They let the prince escape. I cannot worry that they may falter again." He pauses. "And I have not forgotten the treachery among my clan. I will not risk you to more of these masked cowards. Banquho and his son will serve and protect you, in my absence."

Is this attachment? Affection? Surely it is intended mostly as a punishment for Banquho and Fléance, for the extremities that failed him, but it would be punishment enough to be left behind without suffering the ignominy of serving a woman in the place of their Lord. He disgraces his own most loyal men to feed the honor of his wife. Roscille tries harder to read the look on Macbeth's face.

She tries to see herself, from his eyes. Here is the foreign bride who is learning to speak Scots like a native. Here is the girl asking for a cloak made from the creatures of her new homeland. Here is the Lady who has killed for him three times over, and then washed the blood from her hands and pretended to shrink and simper under her veil. Here is a witch who wears her manacles like bracelets, who calls her shackles armor. Here is the wife who has served him in every manner a wife is meant to serve her husband. Except for one.

She has arranged herself into a shape that pleases him. She sits comfortably in the order of Macbeth's world. And for this she has earned his prophecy. Queen Hereafter.

A vision spreads out in front of her, a waking dream. The pool of lampreys, bordered neatly by stones, the eels swimming in their unending circles. Their lithe bodies twist in and out of the water, silver spines braiding the blackness. Light and dark and dark and light. Her reflection ripples in the pool's center.

The lampreys converge on her, blind mouths feeling for flesh. Within moments, Roscille of Breizh has been consumed. Lady Macbeth stands above the water, and the eels resume their circling, waiting for the next creature that will be pushed before their teeth.

"Your faith honors me, my Lord," Roscille whispers.

He does not know that she once prayed for his death. Tried to push him before the blades of his enemies. He does not know that she needfully opened her legs for another man.

"You have proven yourself worth honoring," says Macbeth. He takes the rag from her hand, drops it into the bucket. "I know that Glammis will be well kept in your care. And I will expect a messenger soon, bearing the confessions of the prince."

Roscille swallows.

Macbeth suddenly clasps her by the shoulders and pulls her toward him, crushing her body against his bare chest. His skin is cold, damp. Hard and ridged, practically stone. Roscille feels his stillness spreading to her, like lichen blooming white on deadwood.

Then he leans down and presses one brusque kiss to her forehead, through the fabric of the veil. His lips are rough. The kiss reminds her of a dog's tongue, rasping her palm. He holds her more tightly after that, for just a moment, and she is seized with terror, wondering if she is meant to return this gesture, somehow.

But then Macbeth lets her go and strides across the room. He approaches the large wardrobe, carved in oak wood. He opens one of the doors, ancient hinges mewling. His hands seek something inside of it.

After several moments pass, he turns to her again. One hand is a closed fist, the other an open palm. Resting on his palm is a rusted key.

"This is under your purview now, too," Macbeth says. "Should you choose to seek counsel in my absence."

The rusted key fits a rusted lock. The rusted lock is inside a rusted door. Behind the rusted door is that imperfect darkness, cut through with scythes of light. A single torch, pulsing, making the water crease and pucker.

There is the primal magic upon which Macbeth's power has grown, swelled like roots in the rain. Roscille remembers another story from antiquity, the story of a nobleman who cut down the trees in a sacred grove. Nestled inside one of these trees was a wood nymph. His axe sliced cleanly through her delicate skin, her slender divinity parting under his blade. When the goddess to whom the grove was dedicated saw her death, she bade the spirit of Famine curse this nobleman, so that he hungered endlessly and would never be sated. He ateup everything within the reach of his hands, and then he ate himself.

This nobleman was a fool. He should have kept the nymph in chains and bound the goddess to his bidding. Roscille takes the key and slips it into her bodice. The cold metal slides neatly against her cold flesh.

The courtyard again, at dusk. Every soldier girded and braced. Horses snorting and kicking up dust. Everything is washed in a dim gray light, wrung through the clouds that stretch over Glammis like wet cloth. Men are jostling one another to fit in this small space, and still there are more soldiers spilling out past the open barbican, trailing down the great hill. Roscille can count half a dozen different war banners rising above the mass of bearded heads. Each one bearing a clan's sigil, and the clansmen gathered in their matching tartans beneath it.

Winter Fox and Mountain Goat and Weasel-cloak are among them, shouting over all this disjointed noise. Macbeth struts his horse in front of the crowd, back and forth, to swelling cheers.

"All hail Macbeth!" the men cry out. "King of Scotland!" Their swords jab the air.

There are only two men without armor or horses. Banquho and Fléance stand on either side of Roscille, swords at their sides, arms folded across their chests. Neither hides his face: Storm clouds bloom and burst on their brows, and their eyes burn red like embers. Fléance's scar looks not nearly as garish as he had hoped. In this light, it shrinks into his skin.

Weasel-cloak trots over to Macbeth and presses the flanks of their horses together. He is in his position at Macbeth's right. This is where Banquho should be.

The wind picks up, blowing Roscille's veil against her face. Once she would have shivered, but now the cold of Glammis is in her marrow, and she feels nothing at all.

"Let us go inside," she says.

She turns, and with barely checked fury, Banquho and Fléance follow her. The men are still chanting, yet as she walks farther into the belly of the castle, their words are swallowed up by the wind, and lost with distance.