“Have you refused the food as well?” Orisian asked her.
“Not all. But it is too wet, too lifeless. Too human.” She said it without rancour, a mere statement of fact.
“Tell us what you would prefer and it will be provided,” Orisian said.
“When do we leave?” Varryn demanded.
Orisian looked back to the warrior, determined to keep all sign of the weariness he felt out of his voice.
This had been, from the instant his foot touched Kolkyre’s quayside, the only thing Varryn would willingly talk about.
“You know you can leave whenever you want, and you know why it’s difficult,” he said. “We’ve offered you a boat and crew. Lheanor has, anyway.”
An almost undetectable flick of Varryn’s head and wrinkling of his nose betrayed his opinion of another seaborne venture.
“We will walk,” the Kyrinin said in a tone that allowed no argument.
Orisian shrugged. “As you wish, but you know, too, what the chances of you reaching your lands are if you go alone. Lheanor can’t even guarantee your safety on the street outside this house. If you thought you could do it, you’d have gone already.”
Varryn sank into silence, glaring at the floorboards, and Orisian could see then what Anyara meant; perhaps more a truculent child than a sulking one, though. It pained him to see the steadfast warrior so disturbed. It made him feel guilty. He owed a great debt to these two Kyrinin, and so far had been unable to repay it as he should. Even so, since he had no easy answer to the constant complaints, they became tiring.
“If you won’t go by boat, there’s not much I can do yet,” he said to Ess’yr. “You’ve refused Lheanor’s offer of an escort to Kolglas. And even if you reached there, you’d still have to get through the Black Road army.”
“We are Kyrinin,” Ess’yr said quietly. “Huanin we do not know are not trusted.”
“I know,” Orisian sighed.
“We trust you. When will you go north?”
“Soon,” said Orisian, and hoped it was true. “There is a great army here now. The Black Road will be defeated, and your way home will be opened. I will take you to Glasbridge myself. Soon.”
“It must be soon. The enemy is on Fox land. Our spears are needed.”
“We didn’t want to come here any more than you did,” Anyara muttered, ignoring Orisian’s warning glare. “We’d be back in Kolglas now if that Tal Dyreen hadn’t taken fright and shipped us down here instead.”
Edryn Delyne, the captain who had given them passage away from Koldihrve, was long gone now, running across the west winds back towards the comforts of Tal Dyre. Their parting had not been on the best of terms. In the first day or two of the voyage he had exuded charm and solicitude. Everything changed once they encountered a boatload of fearful fishermen, who told Delyne that the Black Road had reached the sea and burned Glasbridge. He turned the ship towards Kolkyre and was deaf to all argument against his chosen course. Nothing, clearly, mattered to him save the safety of his precious ship and cargo. After that, Anyara had plagued him with accusations and invective, until Orisian had begun to worry for their safety.
“It doesn’t matter how we ended up here,” Orisian said firmly. “We’re here now, and that’s the end of it. It won’t be for much longer. Ess’yr, tell me if you want anything. I’ll get it for you if I can.”
She regarded him for a few moments, and he felt a familiar surge of pleasure and nervousness at being the object of that intense gaze.
“Water,” she said at length. “Clean and fresh. They bring us wine. What good is wine?”
“Somebody’ll have to find the cleanest of clean wells, if we’re to get them the kind of water they’re used to,” Orisian mused as he made his way downstairs with Anyara and Rothe.
“Maybe so,” said Rothe. “I’ll sort out some proper food for them, though. I know what it is they’re wanting: roast meat, nuts, dried fish, that kind of thing. I’ll get the kitchen folk thinking straight about it.”
Orisian smiled. His shieldman, once as suspicious and hostile towards Kyrinin as anyone else, had undergone a surprising transformation. He had fought alongside Varryn, and for a warrior that perhaps made all the difference.
“What about Yvane?” Anyara asked. “Is she any happier than they are?”
They stepped out onto the street, into the sharp, blustering breeze.
“Not that I’ve noticed,” Orisian admitted. “She still hasn’t come out of her room in the Tower, as far as I know. Now there’s someone who really is sulking, I think.”
As it sometimes did once Winterbirth was past, Kolkyre’s air in the next dawn had the tang of the sea on it. A salty mist settled over the roofs and alleyways; all the timbers and the stones of the town were damp with it. The sailors and fishermen called it the moir cest , this breath of the sea that drifted in off Anaron’s Bay, its name in the ancient language from which that of the Aygll Kingship, and later the Bloods, had grown. Its arrival in Kolkyre was held to be an ill omen for any undertaking. The longer the leaden fog persisted, the more downcast and querulous would the superstitious seamen who filled the dockside taverns become.
Such concerns did not deter Old Cailla as she made her careful way down towards the quayside, a long yoke across her shoulders. She knew without doubt that a body’s fortune, whether good or ill, depended upon things other than the weather. She had lived more than three score years in Kolkyre, and seen the moir cest come and go hundreds of times. For the last thirty of those years, she had made this same journey every week, in rain and shine and storm alike: out from the servant’s quarters in the grounds of the Tower of Thrones, around the edge of the garrison’s barracks, then down the long straight slope of Sea Street towards the harbour. She had walked this way so often that she could have done it blind, let alone in a heavy mist.
At the foot of Sea Street she turned left and made her way along the row of inns, warehouses and workshops that lined the waterfront. The mist made everyone who was out and about keep their heads down and their voices low. There were oars rattling in a boat, invisible out on the water somewhere, and a few half-hearted shouts rang out. A handful of stallholders were setting out their wares on the quayside, but they did so in a subdued manner, as if they did not wish to disturb the melancholic fogs.
“It’s a bad moir cest , eh, Cailla?” Merric called to her as she entered his shop.
The old woman swung her yoke off her shoulders and rested it against the doorpost. “I’ve seen worse and better.”
“Well, so’ve I. I’ve seen more better than worse is all I’m saying.”
“Fair enough. Perhaps you’re right.”
“Perhaps I am,” Merric said, sounding pleased to have wrung this concession from her. “Look here, you’ll have your pick of a good haul this morning.”
He gestured at a row of pots set along a table. Every one of them was filled with shellfish, bathed in sea water. Cailla peered into each of the pots in turn.
“You’ve many guests up at the Tower now, eh?” Merric said. “They’ll not have tasted the like of our Kolkyre shells down where they’re from.”
“That I wouldn’t know,” Old Cailla said. “All fresh, Merric?”
“I’d not try to pass anything but the freshest on you, you know that. You were buying from my father when I was still at my mother’s breast. You’d sniff out a stale shell faster than I could myself, wouldn’t you?”
Cailla grimaced at him: an indeterminate, gap-toothed expression that might have signified anything from disgust to amusement.
When she emerged a short while later, Cailla bore two lidded pots strung from her yoke. They swung heavily in time with her stride. A few steps from Merric’s door, having felt the balance and sway of the pots, she paused. She knelt, lowering her burden to the ground, and made a few swift adjustments to the knots. Satisfied, she made to rise, one hand pushing against the cobbled surface of the path.
No one paid any great attention to Cailla on her
weekly journey from the Tower to Merric’s shop and back again. Had someone watched the old kitchen maid, they might have noted that every time, week after week and year upon year, she paused thus to adjust the balance of her yoke. Every time, she knelt in exactly the same place on the roadway, and rose with exactly the same touch of one hand to the cobblestones. They might note it, but would still have thought it nothing but the habit of a woman old enough that to change anything in her routine would be beyond her.
This time, there was a difference. No observer, however keen-eyed, could have caught it. Nevertheless, it was a difference profound enough to set Cailla’s heart pounding in her chest as she made her slow way back up Sea Street. For the first time in several years, her finger had caught the edge of something nestled in the seam between two of the cobbles. A subtle flick had freed it and folded it up into the palm of her hand: a thin piece of wood into which was cut a single short line of script. Cailla had not looked at it. She did not need to. A brief examination with practised fingertips told her what the message was, and it bestowed upon her a great task in a worthy cause; the final shedding of the lie she had worn for a life all these years.
It was all the old woman could do not to laugh exultantly as she trudged on towards the mist-wrapped Tower of Thrones with her two heavy pots of shellfish.
III
“Allow me to offer this gift, Thane.” Mordyn Jerain pressed a small bundle wrapped in the softest deer hide into Orisian’s hands. “It is nothing much. Just a token of our High Thane’s support for your cause.
And of our sympathies.”
“I am grateful,” murmured Orisian as he fumbled with the folds of deerskin. The soft brown hide fell away to reveal a flat, round belt buckle of polished gold, twisted in mimicry of rope.
“It’s a very fine piece,” he said.
“Yes,” agreed the Chancellor. “Made by one of Hoke’s finest goldsmiths, we believe.”
“Hoke,” Orisian repeated.
“Indeed. It comes from Igryn oc Dargannan-Haig’s own treasury.”
“I see.”
“You need not worry,” said Mordyn, with a radiant smile. “Igryn has no further use for it.”
“I imagine not,” Orisian said. He, like everyone in Kolkyre, had heard of Igryn oc Dargannan-Haig’s fate. The rebellious Thane, after his humiliating defeat at the hands of Gryvan oc Haig, had been blinded and taken in chains back to Vaymouth. He languished there now, humbled along with the rest of his Blood. The belt buckle was what, then? Message? Threat?
The summons from the Shadowhand had been polite, deferential even, but it had been a summons nevertheless. It had come without further explanation, beyond a vaguely expressed desire to meet Orisian formally before the feast that Lheanor would be hosting in the Tower that evening. Orisian’s nervousness had hardly been assuaged by Taim Narran’s earnestly offered advice as they walked together towards the Steward’s House where Mordyn had taken up residence.
“It’s nothing more than that he wants to take your measure, I’m sure,” the warrior had said. “He’ll be pleasant most likely. Full of easy words. He’s seldom short of them, from what I’ve seen. Most of what he says will be empty, though, or insincere, so pay it no heed.”
Watching Mordyn now, Orisian detected no sign of either emptiness or insincerity. The man was relaxed, as apparently at ease as he might be if Orisian were an old friend.
“Let me offer you some wine,” the Chancellor said, turning to a small table where a simple clay ewer stood.
“Only a little, thank you,” Orisian said. He would have preferred none, but was fearful of giving offence, or betraying his nervousness.
“Let’s sit.” Mordyn nodded over his shoulder towards a pair of cushioned chairs. “I think you’ll find the wine pleasing. It’s one of the best out of Drandar: a gift to the High Thane from the Vintners. He allowed me to bring just a single vase with me.” He handed Orisian a full goblet. “We can count ourselves greatly fortunate that it survived the journey. The roads are not as smooth as they might be in these parts.”
Orisian took a cautious sip. No matter how good it might be – and it did indeed taste as smooth and rich as any wine he had ever come across – he had no intention of drinking more than that one mouthful.
“I cannot imagine how bitter your grief, your anger, must be,” the Shadowhand sighed as he settled into the other chair. He shook his head sorrowfully. “That one so young should have to suffer such losses is most cruel. It is utterly undeserved.”
“I have been taught not to wish for what cannot be.”
“A valuable lesson,” Mordyn said. “Much misery could be avoided in the world if it were more widely heeded. You’ve caused great excitement here.”
“Not by choice.”
“Of course. But a young man, come into a Thaneship in such . . . harsh circumstances. And bringing Kyrinin and na’kyrim to Kolkyre. Kyrinin, housed at the city’s garrison! By choice or not, you’ve made yourself the subject of much gossip.”
Perhaps it should be no surprise that the Chancellor knew about Ess’yr and Varryn, Orisian reflected, but it did unsettle him. The Shadowhand had barely settled into his chambers in Kolkyre, and already he knew things that Orisian would prefer he did not.
“You are, what – the seventh Thane of the Lannis Blood?” Mordyn said. The rapid shifts in the conversation left Orisian feeling slow-footed.
“Yes,” he said quietly, realising he had raised the cup of wine to his lips again.
“You come after many great men. Croesan not the least of them, of course. Your uncle was a worthy successor to Sirian. Always firm in the defence of Lannis-Haig interests.”
At the expense of proper deference to Gryvan oc Haig, Orisian guessed was the unspoken implication.
He swallowed down another gulp of wine, hoping to quench the first flicker of anger in his breast.
Silence, he had concluded, was much the wisest course here. The sooner it was all over, the better.
“A terrible blow, Croesan’s loss,” the Shadowhand said, with a sad shake of his head. “He would have been the very man to lead your people against the Black Road. The very man. It will be hard to measure up to his memory, but I am sure you will one day stand just as tall. We must ensure that you have the chance to grow, eh?”
The tone of Mordyn’s words was convivial, yet Orisian had the nagging sense that the Chancellor was belittling him. He hoped that his face would not betray his mounting irritation. Mordyn dropped his voice to a conspiratorial murmur, so low that Orisian had to angle his head to catch it.
“You may find Aewult nan Haig somewhat overbearing – many do, I’m afraid – but he will not be here for long. Once he has restored your rightful lands to you, the Bloodheir will be gone in no time. And when you come to Vaymouth, you will find the High Thane much more . . . amenable. You’ve never been to Vaymouth, have you?”
“No.” The Shadowhand’s assumption that he would be making that journey had caught him unawares. It was not something to which he had given even a moment’s thought.
“It’s a wonderful city. Truly, you can’t imagine until you have seen it. But then Taim Narran may have told you of it, since he’s so recently passed through? How is he, by the way? When I spoke with him in Vaymouth he was very distressed. We’d only then heard the first rumours of the Black Road stirring, as I recall.”
“He’s well,” Orisian said. “As well as any of us are, at least.”
“Indeed. It’s perhaps improper of me to say anything, but you may be well advised not to bring him to Vaymouth with you when you come. He and the High Thane did not part on the best of terms, you know. Taim Narran may be richly gifted in the matter of war – exceptionally so, by all account – but . . .
well, you understand, I’m sure.” Again, Mordyn smiled. It was an expression so winning, so open, that it elicited its pale reflection upon Orisian’s lips before he could help himself. “Anyway, there’s not one of us can say he is without fault. For all
Aewult’s failings, he knows how to lead an army. He will make short work of the Black Road, Thane, you need not concern yourself over that. We can leave that bloody business to those with more experience of such things than you or I.”
“I don’t mean to let others shoulder my burdens for me,” Orisian said, the words sounding harder and angrier than he had intended.
The Chancellor shrugged. “Of course. But a wise man would never turn his back on good fortune. The High Thane has sent his own son – his Bloodheir, no less – to fight this battle on your behalf. You would not cast aside the cloak of his protection, would you?”
“No,” said Orisian. No other answer was possible; even he, in his inexperience, knew that.
“No.” Mordyn nodded. “Believe me, Thane, the wisest course here is to stand aside and let those with battle running through their veins resolve matters.”
“My Blood fought alone until now,” Orisian snapped, his self-control faltering. “Our . . . my people would not expect me to stand aside and let others finish the struggle.”
“You think not?” The eyes above the smiling mouth were piercing and fixed. Orisian’s anger melted away, replaced by unease. He wondered if he had crossed some invisible, and dangerous, boundary; and whether he had done it himself or been led there by the Shadowhand.
“Well, perhaps you are right,” Mordyn murmured. “But Thanes must remember things that their people can sometimes forget, of course. The army Aewult has brought north is payment for an agreement his father made with your uncle. Gryvan protects those Bloods that have submitted to his own. A simple truth, best not forgotten.”
The Chancellor reached for the wine ewer. “Let me fill your cup.”
Orisian laid a hurried hand over the top of his goblet.
“No, thank you,” he said. His mind was rattling around, fumbling for some kind of handhold.
“Does the wine not meet with your approval?”
Bloodheir Page 4
