The two of them made their way to the edge of the camp as they had been instructed. Nobody paid them any heed. They passed a pair of old women cracking nuts on a stone anvil. A younger girl was stretching the still wet and gory hide of a deer across a drying frame. She did not even look round as they walked by.
Ess'yr and her brother were seated together at the fringe of the vo'an where the last few tents were spread thinly. Small packs lay beside them, and spears, arrow-filled quivers and bows. Standing in front of them, waiting with a still patience no human child could have achieved, was a young Kyrinin girl. She was watching as Ess'yr and Varryn fed long strips of leather through their hands, knotting them at regular intervals along their length. Afraid to interrupt the air of intense concentration that pervaded the little group, Orisian stood to one side with Rothe. The shieldman's sword and scabbard were on the ground.
Without waiting to be invited, he picked it up and began to examine it in the minutest detail.
Each knot was precisely tied and moistened with a touch of saliva before being pulled tight. Like beads upon a necklace, knot after knot was added to the strips. Finally, at almost the same moment, both of them seemed satisfied with their work. Each passed their piece of leather to the child. She took one in each hand and walked off.
Ess'yr turned to Orisian. She brought out a thin knife from inside her jacket. It was made for throwing, with a smooth wooden hilt that lacked a crosspiece.
'This was in you,' she said, holding it out to Orisian. 'You have no weapon. Take this.'
He took it and slipped it into his belt. It reminded him of his wound, and he felt the flesh there ache for a moment, but it was better to have this knife than none.
'An Inkallim blade,' said Rothe almost admiringly. 'That's a rare trophy to carry.'
Without a word, Ess'yr and Varryn rose, took up their packs and weapons and headed into the forest.
Orisian and Rothe glanced at each other. Rothe shrugged. They followed the Kyrinin away from the vo'an.
Only after they had been walking for a few minutes could Orisian bring himself to ask Ess'yr what the knotted leather cords had meant.
'One knot is one thought,' she told him. 'Thought of people, of times, from the life. It is done before a journey. If our bodies do not return, the cord goes to the dyn hane and is buried. It will bind our spirits to the willow. We will not be restless.'
The two Kyrinin set a demanding pace. The forest was open, with broad stretches of grass between the stands of trees. Every few hundred strides they would pass an ancient oak tree in some sheltered spot.
Often their route would change direction beneath the branches of one of the oaks, and Orisian suspected that the Kyrinin were navigating by these gnarled trees, using them as markers on some map they carried in their heads.
'How far is it to Anduran?' he called ahead to them.
'Not far,' was all Ess'yr replied, without even turning round.
They came to a more difficult stretch, where a swathe of trees had fallen and a dense thicket of saplings had sprung up around their corpses. Varryn led the way straight into the undergrowth. Orisian and Rothe found it difficult to fight their way through. They emerged, scratched, on the other side to find the Kyrinin warrior awaiting them, leaning on his spear once more, as if he had been standing thus for hours.
'A speared boar is not so loud,' he said.
Rothe looked grievously affronted in a way that might have made Orisian smile had he not feared that words between these two might turn into something more physical. The shieldman had, in any case, no opportunity to respond. Having delivering his rebuke, Varryn spun on his heel and was off once more.
'A speared boar ..." muttered Rothe. 'That it should come to this . . . following woodwights through the forest like children. I wore a beard before that . . . that wight was a bulge in his father's breeches.'
'It is a sad day,' Orisian agreed, 'but we had best keep up nevertheless.'
They strode after the two Kyrinin, pressing on along the southern flank of the Car Criagar towards Anduran.
Chapter 3
The Black Road
IN THE DAYS when Monach oc Kilkry was High Thane in Kolkyre, when his Blood had ruled over all the others for close to a hundred years, Amanath the fisherwoman fell into a slumber in Kilvale. For three days and three nights she lay thus, and her family thought she had begun her journey to the Sleeping Dark. They sang songs of loss and put oils upon her eyes. But on the fourth day she awoke and began to speak. She spoke of the Hooded God, the Last God, and of how he had remained when his brothers and sisters left the world. She spoke of the Book of Lives he bore and the tales he read from its pages; tales that told the story of every life there has been or ever will be. And those tales she named the Black Road , which is the fated path from birth to foretold death. She spoke of the Kall: the day when humankind would be united by the creed of the Road; when the Gods would answer the call of that unity and return to unmake and remake the world. And she taught that only for those who had been faithful to the creed would there be rebirth in the world that was new.
The fisherwoman's teachings did not please the powerful. The High Thane's men hung her from an ash tree. All the Thanes felt fear, save one. Avann oc Gyre-Kilkry who ruled in Kan Avor heard Amanath's words and took them to his heart. He gathered to him all those who saw the truth, and gave them shelter.
And when war came his Blood stood against all the others in the name of that truth. Avann it was who, when Kan Avor had fallen, led the ten thousand over the Vale of Stones and into the north. The truth that Amanath spoke lives there still amongst the Bloods he fashioned. The flame still burns, and does not falter.
Hear well. This is the truth, for those who have the ears to hear. Put away pride and put away fear. The day of your death has already been read from the pages of the Last God's Book. There is only the fated path. There is only the Black Road .
from an anonymous commentary upon
“The Book of the Road”
I
THE VAST WALLS of Vaymouth, shining in the last rays of the sun's light, soared over Taim Narran dar Lannis-Haig and his company. The capital of the Haig Blood had become, in the last hundred years, what might be the greatest city in the world. Its fortifications were on a scale unseen since the Shining City of the Kyrinin was cast down. The southern gate, called the Gold Gate, was open, its great doors of plated iron swung back and chained in place. A handful of guards were clustered to one side, leaning on their spears and watching the approaching band of men impassively. The beggars whose shack-towns seethed around the city's walls lined the road, reaching out to the Lannis-Haig warriors.
As he drew close, Taim felt his familiar distaste for the city, and the ambition its grandeur embodied. He would gladly have passed it by and gone on through the coastal plains toward Ayth-Haig lands and the way north, but several of his men would not survive without rest. Ten had already died on the journey back from the Dargannan-Haig mountains. He was tired of burning bodies on makeshift roadside pyres.
He rode through the gateway and was immersed in the shadow of the walls, as if engulfed by a gigantic beast. A figure stepped into the roadway ahead. With a sense of cold resignation, Taim recognised the man who blocked his path: Mordyn Jerain, Chancellor to the High Thane. Born and bred in Tal Dyre but long ago adopted as a son of Vaymouth, Jerain had been at Gryvan oc Haig's side for nearly twenty years. He was a handsome, brown-haired man whose every movement was precise, poised and considered. He wore his power with ease. He wore, too, a dark reputation. In places where there was little affection for the intricate dealings of the Haig court, the Chancellor was called by the name
Shadowhand.
'I was told you were coming,' said Mordyn as Taim drew his horse to a halt.
'Of course.'
The Chancellor smiled, and it was a smile both glittering and hollow. 'I came out to meet you,' he said obviously. 'There are matters we must discuss.'
'I have men
with me who need rest and healing. That is my only interest here. I have permission to quarter my company within the walls. We will rest for a little while, and be on our way.'
Mordyn's eyes narrowed and he put his graceful hand on the bridle of Taim's horse.
'I am Chancellor of the Haig Blood, Narran. There are many demands upon my time. I do not come to meet travellers at the gate for idle entertainment.'
Weariness coursed through Taim, and with it a trace of the anger that lay deep-buried. He looked at the Chancellor's hand, and at the embroidered cuff of his sleeve. A fine tracery of gold thread wound its way through velvet. The coat had most likely been smuggled out of the Adravane Kingship in the far south, into the Dornach Kingship and thence through either the marketplaces of Tal Dyre or the masterless towns of the Free Coast to Vaymouth. The journey placed a dizzying price upon such a garment, and his possession of it spoke as eloquently of Mordyn Jerain's status as any title could. This was not a man to trifle with, but Taim had left much of his discretion on the bloodstained screes beneath An Caman Fort.
'And I do not speak with Chancellors for mine,' he said.
He flicked his horse's harness out of Mordyn's grasp and nudged the animal forwards. The Chancellor shook his head like a man faced with a petulant child. He raised a hand, and guards spread themselves across the gateway. Beyond them, inside the city, a small crowd was gathering, drawn by the sight of their infamous Chancellor.
'You are tired and the road must have been a long and hard one for you and your men,' said Mordyn.
'Your impatience is understandable. However, I must insist that you find the time to speak with me. I have news that you will want to hear now rather than later, and I will not give it in the street.'
Taim slumped in the saddle as his horse slowed to a halt. Behind him, some of his men were pressing up, and he could feel the tension in them without looking round. All he wanted to do was find a quiet, warm bed and sleep, dreamlessly. His dreams had been unforgiving of late. He wanted to set the world aside, even if just for one night.
Instead, he turned to the Chancellor. 'Very well,' he said.
He dismounted and passed his reins to the closest of his men. He sent the company on without him, while he followed Mordyn and his honour guard on foot to the Palace of Red Stone.
The palace, one of several magnificent residences constructed for the family and high officials of the Haig Blood, was not far away. It abutted the inner face of the city wall, and was raised up on a terrace from which trailing vines and bushes overflowed. Its walls were inset with blocks of red porphyry. Sentries in immaculately polished breastplates and gorgets stood on the broad steps leading up to the entrance.
Their helmets bore plumes the colour of corn.
A faint, rich scent in the air distracted Taim as he walked beside the Chancellor through marble halls.
The sounds of the city faded behind them, soaked up by the Palace's massive bulk. Pillars as thick as hundred-year-old trees supported a painted ceiling. They passed a fretwork grill set into the wall and Taim glimpsed female faces behind it, watching him go past. He thought he heard whispers and laughter.
The Chancellor led him to an audience chamber. There was a great desk of dark, almost black, wood there, decorated with gold leaf. Mordyn Jerain ignored it and gestured to a pair of cushioned chairs.
'Please have a seat,' the Chancellor said. 'Can I send for some food or drink?'
A maidservant, hovering between the motionless guards who flanked the doorway, looked hopeful.
Taim dismissed the suggestion with a shake of his head and the woman departed.
Taim sank into the chair and was for a moment seduced by its luxurious comfort. He almost had to suppress a sigh of relaxation and relief. The feeling took him a thousand miles, more, away from the memory of the unyielding mountains of Dargannan-Haig. Mordyn's voice dispelled the sensation.
'You will forgive my insistence, and my departure from the usual courtesies, I think, when you hear what I have to say. I was told yesterday that Inkallim have overrun Castle Kolglas.'
Taim's mind went blank. He could not unfix his gaze from the knots and whorls in the wooden arm of his chair. He was, he noticed in a detached way, all of a sudden clutching that arm fiercely. The cloying aroma he had smelled in the halls returned. It had a clovey, spicy texture.
'Little is certain,' the Chancellor was continuing, 'though it does seem clear that the castle was burned, and that the attackers escaped into the forest.'
'Kennet?' asked Taim. He longed to believe Mordyn was lying to him. He could imagine no reason for such a deceit, though.
'I cannot say. I expect more messengers at any time. The first knew only what I have told you.'
'It is not possible. They could not reach Kolglas. What of Tanwrye, and Anduran?'
For the first time, the faintest hint of doubt seemed to touch the corner of Mordyn's eyes. It was there for a heartbeat before being extinguished.
'There was mention of Kyrinin,' he said. 'It is... well, it seems absurd, but it may be that woodwights had a hand in the assault. You know how confusion thrives at such times, so I would not place much faith in the report. Still, if the White Owls have aided the Black Road it might explain the inexplicable.'
Taim could find no words. He shook his head.
'I fear this may be the herald of worse news to come,' Mordyn said. 'It seems unlikely that the Gyre Bloods would commit the Inkallim so far beyond their borders, in numbers large enough to take the castle, if it was not part of a grander scheme. The whole valley may be beset. Soon, if not already.'
Taim glared at the Chancellor. Mordyn was unperturbed. 'I speak the truth, Taim. You must know it.
The Inkallim do not make empty gestures.'
'What...' Taim fought to master himself, wrestling with a tide of emotion that threatened to blind him.
'What will you do?'
Mordyn arched his eyebrows. 'I? Await the High Thane's return. I sent messengers south as soon as I had the news. You no doubt passed them on your way here.'
'Wait?' snapped Taim.
'And gather our forces as quickly as we can. Even if there was an army provisioned and ready here now, it would still be three weeks or more before it reached Anduran. That means fighting in winter, and if we are to do that it must be with the strength to be certain of swift victory.'
'Lheanor will not wait,' said Taim darkly.
'The Thane of Kilkry-Haig will do as his master commands, I imagine.'
'He will not wait,' Taim repeated. 'He is a true friend to my Blood.'
'Taim, Taim,' the Chancellor said, 'your Blood's truest friend now is Gryvan oc Haig. He can bring twenty, thirty thousand men to Croesan's aid. Yes, it will take time, but Gyre will regret its ambition.'
'I do not care about Gyre,' muttered Taim. 'Only Lannis... Lannis-Haig... and my Thane.'
'Of course,' said the Chancellor. 'I understand that, and I counsel you not to let your fears run too far ahead of our knowledge. This may yet prove to be nothing but a raid. And your Blood has, after all, won great victories over the Black Road before. The High Thane's support, or that of Lheanor, may not even be required.'
'Perhaps not. It may well have been so, had I and my two thousand men not been summoned south.'
Mordyn Jerain smiled tolerantly.
'We can all share in that regret. You know it was necessary, though. Igryn's open defiance of the High Thane could not stand. The True Bloods are nothing if they cannot hold together in the face of rebellion by one of their own. It was fitting that every Blood should play its part in Igryn's defeat. No, more than fitting: essential. We live in dangerous times. If our enemies saw divisions between us, they would not be slow to act.'
'The Black Road is our greatest enemy,' murmured Taim. 'It always has been. My Blood has not forgotten that. Nor has Kilkry-Haig. The True Bloods might hold together more easily if others shared that view, rather than spending all their time dreaming of the riches that could b
e theirs if only the Free Coast, or Tal Dyre, or even Dornach, would fall to them.'
A decorous cough drew the two men's attention to the doorway. The woman standing there was of a beauty that caught Taim's breath in his throat for an instant. Thick, glossy black hair fell across her shoulders and she wore a silken dress that could not be imagined upon another, so perfectly did it fit and become her. Gold dripped from her ears, her neck and her wrists; a glut of the metal that would have hypnotised a greedier soul than Taim's. It seemed to him that the rich scent pervading the palace clung, as well, to her, so that as she entered she brought it into the room with her.
He recognised her at once: Tara Jerain, the Chancellor's wife. He had seen her riding at Mordyn's side during the ceremonial review of the High Thane's army before they had marched south. Such a presence once experienced was not forgotten.
'Ah,' said Mordyn, springing to his feet. 'Taim, this is my wife, Tara.'
Taim rose and inclined his head as graciously as he could manage. 'I am honoured to meet you, my lady.'
'And I you,' replied the woman in a voice as luxuriant as her jewellery. 'I am sorry not to make your acquaintance on a happier day.'
Taim was a touch surprised that the Chancellor's wife should refer so directly to the source of his distress, then he recalled the rumours that surrounded this woman. There was no shortage of them, and all suggested that she wielded almost as much influence, in her own way, as her husband. She was a worthy wife to the Shadowhand and would, Taim supposed, know all that Mordyn did about events in the north.
'I asked Tara to join us,' the Chancellor was saying, 'in case there was anything she could do to make your men more comfortable here in the city. She can find them anything they need.'
'Indeed,'Tara confirmed. 'Food, drink, the care of healers. Tell me what your men require, and it is theirs, Captain Narran.'
'Their needs will be well seen to,' Taim said, unable to keep an edge from his voice. He felt as if he had been waylaid. He was being dismissed; delicately, sympathetically, but quite deliberately.
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