There were hidden currents here. Draconus was not simply taking his bastard son away, even for reasons of blunting the ambitions of his enemies in the court. Something else was in play.
The day’s heat was slow to fade. They arrived upon another set of ruins similar to the last ones, although here there was evidence of at least three buildings, all massive and each one seemingly constructed without account of the others. Angles were discordant, lines clashing, and yet from what Rint could determine, the three buildings had all been raised at once. The remains of the walls were chest high at the corners, half that height along the walls. Stones seemed to have fallen randomly, inside and outside the structures, and there were no visible remnants of roofing in any of the buildings.
Sergeant Raskan turned back to Rint and Feren. ‘We will camp here,’ he said.
Rint rose in his stirrups, looked about. ‘I see no well, no source of water, sergeant.’
‘Only what we carry this night, I’m afraid.’
Displeased with this information, Rint dismounted. He slapped dust from his leather leggings. ‘Had you told us this in the morning, sergeant, we could have filled a few more skins.’
‘My error,’ said Draconus from a few paces ahead. The Lord still sat astride his horse, a figure in black mail and weathered leather, the ruins stark behind him. ‘My memory was that this settlement was occupied.’
Startled, Rint looked round again. ‘Not for centuries, I would say, Lord. Not for centuries.’
Grimacing, Draconus dismounted. ‘We shall have to make do.’
‘And on the morrow, Lord?’ Rint asked.
Raskan shot him a sharp look at the question, but Draconus was easy in his reply, ‘By midday, we should reach Herelech River which, unlike most in these lands, flows year round.’
‘Very good, Lord,’ Rint said.
Feren was removing the saddle from her horse, as if unmindful of the challenges facing them this night. The horses needed most of the water they carried. There would be little left for cooking and none for washing away the day’s sweat and grime. Yet his sister seemed eager to yield to all these inconveniences.
He realized he was scowling as he watched her, and so turned away.
Arathan had slipped down from his gelding, standing with a little less of the unsteadiness he had shown before. He was finding himself on this journey. More than he imagined, no doubt. But be wary, Arathan, that by this journey’s end you do not lose far more than what you gained.
* * *
Raskan watched the Borderswords readying the camp. Lord Draconus had walked up to wander in the ruins, while Arathan brushed down his horses, beginning with the gelding – though the young man’s eyes strayed over to Feren again and again.
Now that Arathan rode at his father’s side these days – ever since the night of Grizzin Farl’s visit – the sergeant had found himself more or less alone, riding between Draconus and his son to the fore, and the two Borderswords behind him, yet he felt himself a bridge to neither. Rint and Feren were at odds, but in the silent manner of siblings wishing to hide their mutual enmity from outsiders, lest family secrets spill forth. And of the conversations the Lord held with his bastard son, well, it seemed that there were few of those, and when they did occur, Raskan could not make out the words exchanged between them.
The ease that had been Grizzin Farl’s gift was crumbling. Deep in the night, Feren rutted with Arathan amidst gasps and low cries that sounded oddly desperate; and she was not content with a single grapple. He had heard her wake the boy up more than once, and it was beginning to show in the dark smudges under Arathan’s eyes.
Raskan wondered when Draconus would intercede. Surely the Lord could see that something untoward was being forged between Feren and his son. She was twice his age, if not older. And Raskan thought he saw a weakness in her that had heretofore been well hidden. The veneer of professionalism was fraying in the Bordersword.
Nor was her brother oblivious of all this.
Tensions mounted.
Draconus reappeared. ‘Jheleck,’ he said, gesturing at the ruins behind him.
‘They struck here, Lord?’
‘All that they could carry, including the roof beams and slate tiles.’
Raskan frowned. ‘It must have been long ago, Lord. Was it Grizzin Farl who assured you that this place was still occupied? Clearly he did not come along this trail.’
Draconus studied him briefly, and then nodded. ‘As you say, sergeant. No matter. We shall make do, I am sure.’
‘Of course, Lord. Shall I attend to your horse?’
‘No, thank you. Leave me with something to do while supper is being prepared.’ Draconus seemed to hesitate, however, and seeing this Raskan edged closer.
‘Lord?’
‘A quiet word with you, sergeant.’
They walked off a way, round the faint mound on which stood the ruins. Raskan was startled to see an avenue carved into the slope on this side, marking the entrance to a barrow. But before he could enquire as to it, Draconus spoke.
‘The boy needs warning off.’
At once Raskan understood the Lord’s meaning, and so he nodded. ‘I fear so, Lord. It is natural zeal—’
‘Her zeal is anything but natural, sergeant.’
He had meant Arathan’s, but Draconus had cut to a deeper truth. ‘I think she is eager to beget a child from this union, Lord. But I do not think it is to hold a blade above House Dracons.’
‘No, I agree – that would be pointless.’
Raskan wondered at that comment, but knew no proper means of querying it. ‘She advances in years, perhaps—’
‘She is forty years of age, give or take a year. She can bear more children for decades to come, if not longer.’
‘It is the capacity for love for a child that withers among older women, Lord,’ said Raskan. ‘Few choose to give birth once past their first century. Tracks deepen to ruts. Independence is hoarded with avarice.’
‘This is not the source of her impatience, sergeant.’
He was not inclined to disagree with that assessment. He had ventured his observations in invitation to Draconus, that the Lord might choose them to mitigate his unease. But this man standing before him was not one to embrace delusions simply because they offered comfort. After a moment, Raskan said, ‘One might wonder, since we do not know, if she has never been a mother before. But to my eyes, Lord, hers is a body that has carried a child to term, and fed it at the breast.’
‘No doubt of that, sergeant.’
‘I would warn him, then, Lord. But he is only half the problem here.’
‘Yes.’
‘As her commander I can—’
‘No, sergeant. You show courage in assuming that burden, but it is not yours to bear. It is mine, and I will speak with her. Tonight, with darkness upon us. Take Arathan off, but away from this place here.’
‘Yes, Lord. Back along our trail, perhaps?’
‘That will do.’
* * *
Arathan could not take his eyes off her. She had become his vortex, around which he circled, tugged inward with a force against which he had no strength. Not that he struggled much. In her heated embrace he thought he could vanish, meld into her flesh, her bones. He thought that, one day, he might look out from her eyes, as if she had devoured him whole. He would not have resented the loss of his freedom, the abandonment of his future. Her drawn breath would be his; the taste in her mouth would be his taste, the supple movement of her limbs his own.
They would look for him, in the morning, and find no trace, and he would hide well behind her eyes and she in turn would give nothing away, content in a glutted, swollen way. He wondered if what he was feeling was the definition of love.
Unfurling his bedroll, Arathan collected up the weights and set them near his saddle. He had thoughts of Sagander, and how his tutor now fared. It would seem strange to be delivering gifts from a scholar who had been left behind, and all the knowledge the old man so
desired would remain beyond his reach. Questions never asked, answers never offered – these remained somewhere ahead of Arathan, formless as a low cloud on the horizon. The weights, carefully stacked on the dusty ground, looked useless. Out here, nothing could be weighed, nothing could be measured out; out here, so far now beyond the borders of Kurald Galain, there was a kind of wildness, swirling through everyone.
He felt every current and at times seemed but moments from drowning, swept under into something animal, something base. Such a fate, when he considered it, amounted to little or no loss. All that he had known, all that he had come from, now seemed small, banal. The sky was vast overhead, the plain unending, and in moving beneath, in crossing it, they made bold their desires. This motion he felt, day after day, seemed to him far grander than any raised keep, any ruined house. He remembered playing in a heap of sand behind the workhouse, when he was much younger. It had been brought in for the potter who was visiting on her rounds. Something to do with grit in the clay, and moulds for firing and shaping. The sand had felt soft, sun-warmed on the surface but cool underneath, and he recalled lying sprawled across it, reaching out with one hand, watching his fingers sink deep, and then dragging handfuls close, as if to bury himself.
Travelling across this world felt much the same, as if by movement alone all could be taken hold of, taken in grasp, and thereby claimed as one’s own.
Musing on this, as he watched Feren building the fire for the night’s meal, Arathan thought he found an understanding of the nature of war; one that might impress even Sagander. When more than one hand reached out; when there was challenge over what was claimed: then would blood spill. There was nothing rational in it. The sand slipped through the fingers, sifted down and away from the hands that would hold it, and it remained long after the claimant had left. Nothing rational. Just desire, raw as a body’s release in the night.
‘Arathan.’
He looked up. ‘Sergeant Raskan.’
‘The light fast fades. Come with me.’
Arathan straightened. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Back up the trail.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it is my wish.’
Bemused, Arathan followed the man. Raskan walked as if in a hurry to leave the camp. He had removed his worn-out boots and now wore the moccasins Draconus had given him – but so precious were they in Raskan’s eyes that he had taken to wearing them only at day’s end. Arathan could not be certain that this was the reason, but he suspected that it was. A gift from his lord. There was value in that. It made Raskan seem younger than he was, but nowhere near so young as Arathan felt when in the sergeant’s company.
The track bore signs of their horses’ passage. Torn grasses, hoofprints stamped deep, a ragged line that did not seem to belong on this open, rolling landscape.
‘Did you drop something on the trail, sergeant? What are we looking for?’
Raskan halted, glanced back at the camp, but all that was visible was the red and orange glow from the fire. The smell of its smoke reached them, thin and devoid of any heat. ‘Your father wanted you to learn the ways of the flesh. To lie with a woman. He judged the Bordersword useful in that, without having to worry about anything … political.’
Arathan looked down at the ground, unable to meet Raskan’s dark eyes. He brought a finger to his mouth to chew on the nail, and tasted the past night’s lovemaking. He quickly pulled it away.
‘But the feelings that can build, between a man and a woman … well, these things can’t be predicted.’ The sergeant shifted about, muttered a moment under his breath, and then continued, ‘You’ll not marry her. You’ll not spend the rest of your life with her. She’s twice your age, with twice your needs.’
Arathan looked off into the darkness, wanting to run there, lose himself. Let Raskan utter his cruel words to empty shadows.
‘Are you understanding me?’
‘There should have been more women with us,’ Arathan said. ‘So you could’ve had one, too.’
‘Like a hole in the ground? There’s more to it than that. There’s more to them than that. It’s what I’m getting at. She ain’t a whore so she don’t think like a whore. What do you think coin pays, when it goes between a man and a woman? It pays for no hard feelings, that’s what it pays for. Your father thought it would serve you. A few nights. Enough to make you familiar with the whole thing. He didn’t want you to take on a woman, half lover, half mother.’
Arathan trembled, wanting to strike the man, wanting to draw his sword and cut him to pieces. ‘You don’t know what he wanted,’ he said.
‘I do. He sent me to you – he knows what we’re talking about right now. And there’s more than that – he’s taken Feren off, too. He’s telling it to her as plain as I am to you. It’s gotten too much, too important—’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘She’s taking your seed—’
‘I know.’
‘And when she’s got it, she’ll toss you aside.’
‘She won’t.’
‘She has to. To keep you from claiming that child years from now. To keep you from stealing it once it comes of age, or once you decide it’s time.’
‘I wouldn’t do that. I’ll live with her—’
‘Your father can’t allow that.’
‘Why not? What does it matter to him? I’m a bastard son and he’s throwing me away!’
‘Stop shouting, Arathan. I tried making you see. I tried using words of reason, but you’re not ready for that, not yet old enough for it. Fine. See if you understand this: if you two keep it up, your father will kill her.’
‘Then I will kill him.’
‘Right, you’ll want to, and he doesn’t want that between you. So that’s why it’s got to end here and now. You’re not to be given to a Bordersword woman just because you want it, and that’s not because she ain’t good enough for you or anything. It’s because she only wants one thing from you and once she gets it, she’ll hurt you bad.’
‘Why do you keep saying that? You don’t know anything about her!’
‘I know more than you, Arathan. She’s had a child and lost it – that’s what I know. It ain’t just a guess, either; there’s something about her. And now, how she’s taken you in. It’s not right, none of it.’
‘Is my father killing her right now?’ Arathan stepped past the sergeant.
Raskan grasped him by the arm and pulled him round. ‘No, he isn’t. It’s not what he wants, and I guarantee you, Feren’s not acting as hot-blooded as you are at this moment. She’s listening; she’s hearing what he’s saying. Your nights with her are done with and that will be the proof to my words.’
Arathan pulled free and set off back to the camp.
After a moment, Raskan followed. ‘It’s all right,’ he said to the boy striding ahead, ‘I knew it wouldn’t be easy.’
* * *
The moment she saw the sergeant lead Arathan away, Feren knew what was coming. When Draconus gestured, she straightened. To her brother she said, ‘Don’t burn the stew – it’s already sticking.’
He grunted his understanding – of everything.
The Lord led her past the ruins, round to the base of the mound on which the houses had been built.
Feren was not interested in getting an earful. ‘I have done as you asked of me, Lord.’
‘Shed your iron.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Your dagger. Your sword, and the belt.’
She made no move. ‘You would disarm me, Lord Draconus? I would know: to what end?’
An instant later and she was lying on the ground, her bones aching from the impact. She was not sure what had happened – had he struck her? She felt no imprint from a fist or hand. Stunned, too weak to move, she felt him fumbling at her waist, then heard the rasp as he stripped the belt from her. Metal clanged some distance away. The dagger followed.
She fumbled at his hands, trying to push them away, and sought to draw her legs
up to protect herself.
He gave an irritated grunt, and then she felt him grasp her left ankle. She was twisted on to her stomach, and then he was dragging her through the grasses. She wanted to cry out – to summon her brother – but then more blood would flow. Crimes would tear through them all – too many to countenance.
If Draconus was intent on raping her, she would permit it. Vengeance could lie in wait a long time.
He dragged her down into a channel lined with boulders, and in the grainy gloom she saw the stacked stones of a squat, wide doorway pass to either side, and all at once the night sky vanished into deeper darkness.
She was still weak, still helpless in his grasp. Was this sorcery? Was this the power from his lover, Mother Dark? To reach so far, to be so easily abused by this man, this Consort – no, it did not make sense.
In the low confines of the barrow, as the floor sloped sharply downward, Feren smelled death. Old, withered, dried out.
He dragged her alongside a stone sarcophagus.
Sudden fear ripped through Feren. ‘Lord,’ she gasped. ‘I yield. There is no need—’
‘Be quiet,’ he hissed. ‘We take a terrible risk here.’
He released her leg, used one foot to turn her on to her back, pushing her roughly up alongside the cold stone. ‘Be still.’
She saw him lean over her, reaching into the sarcophagus – there was, it seemed, no lid – and then there was the sound of rustling, creaks and faint pops, followed by a sifting, as of sand.
Draconus pulled the corpse on to the edge of the coffin. Dust rained down on Feren, covering her face. She coughed, gagged.
He used both his legs to hold her in place, pushed up against the sarcophagus, and she saw him fumbling with the withered corpse – the creature was huge, the limb bones long and thick. Black hair tumbled down to brush Feren’s face, smelling of mouldy skin.
A bony hand was suddenly pressed down on to her belly.
Convulsions of agony took Feren, strong enough to knock Draconus away – he staggered, still holding the corpse by one leather-wrapped wrist. The body tilted, and then slid down to land heavily on Feren’s legs.
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