"Can't be done, can it?"
"No such word as 'can't', Gilly," Mazaret said. "They may have the numbers but we have the strategy and the unity of purpose."
The trader gave him a piercing look. "As well as the numbers, they also have all the towns, forts and outposts, whereas we have, what, two thousand would-be knights - "
"Two and a half thousand, plus a thousand of the Hunter's Children."
"Ah yes, the Hunter's Children. What a unity of purpose that is!"
Gilly's face was stonelike and Mazaret glared at him, feeling a sudden resentment at the man for speaking aloud the very doubts and fears that clouded his every day. Then a ghost of a smile crept across the trader's features, and Mazaret shook his head ruefully.
"I seem to recall having a similar discussion about ten years ago," he said. "You were so scathing back then that I almost decided to give up any idea of resistance or rebellion, sail away to Keremenchool, perhaps. But I didn't."
"You should have," Gilly said softly. "It was a madman's dream then, and it still is." He drank off the last of his wine. "But what sort of madmen would we be to let things stay as they are?"
They were silent for several moments before Gilly spoke again.
"Earlier, while I was on my way here, I heard a rumour that Suviel returned last night, and not alone."
"And what else did you overhear?" Mazaret said testily.
"That one of her companions was none other than Korregan's bastard and thus heir to the Imperial throne." Gilly smiled widely. "Which could upset your agreement with the Hunter's Children, if it's true." He gave Mazaret a sidelong glance. "Is it?"
"Bardow and the other mages certainly seem to think so," Mazaret said. "They also think that he will lose an arm."
"How so?"
"Apparently the boy was tortured by his captor, one of the northern Honjir warlords, who sliced his left arm to ribbons," Mazaret said, keeping back what he'd been told about Byrnak and the mirrorchild. "Suviel tried to save it, but the damage is too great."
Gilly cursed. "Beasts, some of them. Worse than beasts." He looked thoughtful. "How would the people regard a crippled Emperor? Would they follow him, do you think?"
"They followed Orosiada," Mazaret said.
"That was nearly two thousand years ago."
Mazaret shrugged. "For the moment I am more concerned with what Volyn and the Hunter's Children are going to say at the War Council later."
"That's at noon, I believe..."
"Yes, and I would thank you to speak with Abbess Halimer before it starts," he said dryly. "I've no wish to have to send the procurals out to find you..."
Gilly glanced to one side. "We have company."
Mazaret turned to see a staff runner approaching, pale yellow overshirt and trews flapping as he ran. The boy came to a halt a few feet away and saluted, open hand against opposite shoulder.
"Yes, lad."
"My Lord Commander, there is a visitor to see you at the Temple."
"Who is it?"
"I do not know, my Lord. The Rul told me to say only that it was someone of importance."
What is Rul Dagash up to? Mazaret wondered as he stood. "Will you join me?" he asked Gilly. "Or are you going to stay and finish the wine?"
The trader grinned, put the bottle to his mouth and uncorked it with his teeth.
Mazaret shook his head. "There could be only one answer, eh? All right, lad - let's be on our way."
* * *
It was a short walk back round the lake. As he followed the runner Mazaret looked across at the town, remembering how it was when he and the ragged remnants of the Order arrived here sixteen years ago. Then there had been only a decrepit Skyhorse shrine by the small lake, along with the tumbled, mossy stones of a few abandoned huts. Now there were barracks, cabins, stables, barns, a forge, a tavern, a mill and a bakery. And the Temple.
The Temple of the Earthmother was a large, single-storey building situated on a slight rise overlooking the town. It had a flattened dome at its centre and a slender tower at each corner. Within its confines were cells, and chambers as well as a library, the main armoury, a school, the healer's chamber, and the chapel with the sacred Tabernacle of Ash. As well as the fighting yards, the temple grounds included an orchard, a vegetable plot, and a burial garden. Mazaret's regard lingered on the gravestones and plinths clustered around a nearby copse of aging trees. His wife and three children lay buried there, along with several close friends and scores of brave knights. Although many had perished during the long, desperate flight from the terrible defeat at Arengia sixteen years ago, it was not till they reached Krusivel that others began to die from a contagion loosed by the Mogaun shamen. Perfect recollection brought back to him how the ghastly fever had taken hold of his loved ones and burned them from within, melting their flesh away, filling their eyes and minds with horror, destroying their memory of him before finally freeing their souls from agony.
With time the raging grief had ebbed to a dulled sorrow but he could still remember when the last of his family, little Talve, had died and how he had uttered a cry of anguish and ran out into the night, stumbling among the trees and bushy undergrowth, losing himself. At some point he had staggered, scratched and bleeding, out of the dense forest and found himself beside a deep pool into which a waterfall poured with an embracing, rushing sound. Madness was upon him and, filling his tunic and his pockets with stones, he threw himself into the pool. There had been a blinding pain in his head and he had known no more till waking on his back, lying on the rocks behind the waterfall with sunlight shining down through the spray. Then out of the hissing cascade had come a voice:
"Death is not for you, son of my daughters. Much has been lost, yet the fight is not done, the race is not yet run."
A swirl of odours filled his head, earth, roots, the heavy moist smell of growing things. A cold fear had made his heart pound. "Who speaks?"
"You know me, and my beloved who was slain with your emperor at Arengia. Bitterly have I wept for my heart's desire whose spirit is no more but who I cannot forget. Know that your sorrow is as my own, black and tenacious, yet my hunger for vengeance is more than its equal. So hear me, Ikarno Mazaret, choose life so that life may yet triumph. For although the Lord of Twilight appears to have been victorious, his darkest strategy has failed. And a day will come when the Lord of Twilight's baleful workings shall again twist the world and war shall eat the weak and the innocent. So live, son of my daughters - live and prepare for that day. And avenge our loss."
Searchers found him later, half-dazed and slumped by the side of the pool. A brooding darkness of spirit had gripped him for weeks thereafter, during which the guidance and command of the survivors was in the hands of the Order's Shield-Prior, Attal. Mazaret frowned, trying to recall Attal's likeness, then sighed in regret. Poor Attal's remains lay in the burial garden with the rest now, dead from a spearthrust that should never have reached him.
But the memory of that voice speaking in his head, and of the intense, eldritch smells of leaves and wood, would remain undimmed by the passing years.
Mazaret and the runner followed the quicker path to the Temple, leading round the town and through a small orchard. About two score novitiates and knights were practising swordcraft in the Temple's main yard as they hurried by, heading for the vestry-gate. Rul Dagash was waiting in the archway as they approached.
"See Tol Urzik," he said to the boy. "He has other tasks for you."
The runner saluted and darted away. Dagash watched him disappear round a corner before turning to Mazaret.
"My Lord," he said quietly. "A visitor is waiting in your antechamber - "
"Good." Mazaret said, following the Rul into the dim interior.
" - where I have him closely guarded by two senior novitiates."
He paused, staring at Dagash. "Why? Who is he?"
"A patrol encountered him and another, an elderly manservant as it turned out, riding in along one of the ravine paths in the midd
le of the night. After hearing the man's explanation, the Tol in charge of the patrol had them bound, gagged and blinkered then brought up to Krusivel."
"So who is he?"
"My Lord, he claims to be your brother."
Mazaret went very still, gaze averted from Dagash. "Describe him."
"A man in his forties, shorter than yourself, carries more weight than is good for him, has a sallow complexion, and shoulder-length black hair tied back. He was carrying a sabre and a sleeve dagger when the patrol found them."
Mazaret nodded, holding up his hand. "Thank you, Dagash. You've done very well. I'll deal with this matter immediately."
Without another word, he turned and stalked off down the corridor, bootheels loud on the floor planks. Emotion surged through him in varying shades of anger and as he came to his antechamber he slowed, trying to regain his equilibrium. Then he opened the door.
Salutes came from the two guards within, and a figure sitting at the room's single long table rose as he entered and took a couple of steps towards him, smiling with hand outstretched. The smile faltered when Mazaret's demeanour remained grim and the hand fell to fingering the edge of a shabby brown cloak. Mazaret dismissed the guards and closed the door behind them. Then turned back to his younger brother.
"So - you're here," he said. "Now what do you want?"
Coireg Mazaret resumed his seat at the end of the table, leaned one elbow on it and stroked his chin. "The tapestries in here are quite rare, did you know that? And as for that Order banner over there - there are collectors in the north who would really pay - "
"Right, I'll call the guards..." Ikarno Mazaret reached for the door.
"No! Wait! Damn, but you never did have a sense of humour." The younger man sighed, took a handful of his cloak and rubbed his face on it. "I'm...sorry, I forget how badly we get on usually."
"Another thing you forget is what I said I'd do if I ever saw you again," Mazaret said, hand straying to the dagger at his waist.
Coireg's eyes widened in alarm. "In the name of the Mother, Ikarno, it was an accident!" He rose from his chair and backed away as Mazaret advanced. "It was eight years ago, for pity's sake!"
"She was our sister and you let those Mogaun scum take her..."
"There was nothing I could do, do you hear me? Nothing!" Trembling, Coireg tore the cloak from his shoulders, flung it on the floor then walked up to Mazaret and looked him in the eye. "There! You want to gut me? Well here I am, and you won't even have to reach very far. But before you do anything, you better listen because there's something you should know."
Staring back, Mazaret was unsettled to see despair and sorrow naked in his brother's face. "What could you have to say that would interest me?" he muttered.
"He's dead," Coireg said, falling into a chair at the table. "Father's dead."
An awful empty silence came in the wake of those words and a sense of hollowness and a kind of panic filled Mazaret. This was no ruse. He could hear the truth in Coireg's voice.
"How..." he said.
"Poison in his food. He hadn't been well for quite a while, and the Mother knows how many times I begged him to leave Casall and join you here. He'd have none of it, of course, always claiming that the Midnight Ships would come to a halt without his personal direction."
Mazaret leaned on the table. It was as if it were someone else hearing the terrible news and feeling this powerless anger and grief. Out of a numb stillness he tried to remember the last time he saw his father, which was during a secret journey to the north five years ago. Hevelik Mazaret, a baronet to the ancient crown of Anghatan, was also Master of Harbours for the city of Casall. Instead of fleeing the invasion, he had appeared to bend the knee to the conquering Mogaun, offering to manage the harbours and docks on their behalf. In reality he was assembling a clandestine organisation called the Midnight Ships, dedicated to providing an escape route for refugees, particularly nobles, desperate to leave. In the years that followed, the risk of being unmasked grew steadily but despite that, and his advancing age, he refused to step down.
"If I retired," he told Ikarno during that last visit, "they would put some spineless fool in my place, a puppet for this Thraelor they've made High Captain. If that happened, many traders would opt for Rauthaz instead, or even some of the Jefren ports, and then where would they be, hmm?..."
For a moment or two, Mazaret listened to the sound of his own breathing. Then he said: "Did they catch whoever did it?"
"A kitchen servant was found dead the next morning." The younger Mazaret shrugged. "Maybe it was because too many refugees were turning up across in Keremenchool. Or perhaps one too many high-ranking prisoners had been spirited out of the Red Tower, and someone close to Thraelor decided that Old Man Mazaret should be made an example of..."
His voice tailed off in a quiet, gasping sob, quickly stifled. Ikarno Mazaret regarded him with sorrow and pity, recalling how deeply Coireg had been affected by their mother's death sixteen years ago. They had, he realised, both drunk deeply from the cup of grief. He released a shaky sigh and reached out to rest a hand on his brother's shoulder. Coireg looked up with reddened eyes.
"I was nearing Casall when word reached me. I stayed there a day and night before deciding to ride south to tell you. Five weeks is a long journey on horseback, especially for Olgen, my servant. When I started out, all I intended was to find you and deliver the news. But I dwelled on what had happened and now, as I sit before you, all I know is that I want someone to pay." His fist clenched. "I want the chance to hit back, Ikarno, you understand? That's the other reason why I'm here, to ask you to let me join you. Oh, I know I'm no knight, but I am a good scout and I know how to fight dirty. At the very least, I could teach some of your people a few tricks, perhaps go on a raid here or there..."
His voice was level and serious, but Mazaret knew with a kind of shock that his brother was begging. He thought of his mother and sister, of the graves behind the Temple, and of his father, then considered the arrival of Suviel and the boy Tauric and found himself with the seed of an idea. With a hand on Coireg's shoulder, he drew him to his feet.
"There is a way that you can help us."
Chapter Six
When deceit makes a mask,
Trust makes us dance.
—Avalti, Song of the Blade
The east corridor of the Temple of the Earthmother was long and windowless, yet devoted to artistic expressions of devotion. Dozens of glass lamps hung from delicately ornate wall stanchions, shedding plentiful golden light on the paintings, carvings, sculptures and illuminated parchments. Suviel was standing before one of the niches, examining a portrait of the Emperor Korregan, when she saw the Lord Commander and another man emerge from his chambers. The man was heavy-set, aged about forty and carrying a dark cloak over his shoulder. In the torchlight they exchanged muttered words, then the stranger nodded and glanced at her before walking away to disappear down a branch passage.
"Fair morning, my Lord Mazaret," she said with mock solemnity.
"Shin Hantika," he replied with a faint smile, looking either way along the corridor before drawing her to him.
Suviel hugged him, her face against his, enjoying the broadness of his back through his leather jerkin. Then she pulled back slightly, frowning.
"Is something wrong?"
Mazaret sighed. "My father is dead, poisoned while in Casall. That was my brother you saw - he brought the news."
"Your brother Coireg? Was he not responsible for - "
"Yes...yes, I know. But he is not as he was. Something in him has changed." He looked at her. "He is all the family I have left, Suviel. I must try to heal the rift between us."
She put her hand gently on his cheek. "I am so sorry about your father," she said, wanting to say much more but knowing it would be unnecessary.
He went silent for a moment then said: "There is never enough time to get to know someone, Suviel. I do not even know if my father approved of what I have been doing here, and we me
t at least twice a year since the invasion...since our mother died." He laughed, a quiet, dry sound. "Now she would have approved. We always knew what she thought about anything which involved right and wrong because she was quick to speak her mind..." He breathed in deep and seemed to gather himself together. "How is Tauric?"
She smiled wanly. "He is still full of grief about his father - well, the man he knew as his father. We have not mentioned the matter of his lineage yet. It would just add to his sorrow and confusion."
Mazaret nodded sadly. "I met the Duke of Patrein several times. He was a good man. What of the boy's arm?"
"It cannot be saved. Bardow and the chief surgeon intend to amputate it below the elbow this evening."
"He is young. He will overcome these...losses."
Suviel felt otherwise, but decided against voicing her disagreement. "What about Coireg?" she said. "Are you going to admit him into the Order?"
"He would not wish it, and the discipline would not suit him. No, there is another way in which he can help us, and himself."
* * *
Mazaret would say no more as they made their way to the Abbess's study where the War Council was to be held. Abbess Halimer of the Earthmother Faith was waiting when they were showed in, an elderly, slightly built woman wearing a pale blue cassock. With her was Cheil Bardow, Archmage of the Rootpower, looking amiable and almost unremarkable in his customary brown and grey townsman's attire. Bardow rose from the study's great oval table in greeting.
"My Lord Commander - does the day find you well?"
"Well enough, Archmage, though I am saddened to hear that your patient will lose an arm."
"Some lose much more, my Lord."
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