At the centre of the room stood the woman Nerek, clasped hands outstretched, with a huge four-poster bed lying half-wrecked and smoking before her, sheets twisted and strewn on the floor. Gleams, no, drops of brightness began to leak from between her fingers. Then her hands parted quickly and a knot of dazzling brightness streaked out to smash into the thick mattress. Canvas burst, wadded horsehair flared, and Byrnak watched in fascination as the bright knot traced a burning zig-zag trail across and through the mattress. After a few seconds it slowed, darkened to an angry red then spiralled in on itself, a flickering nub of flames that soon guttered out.
"Impressive," Byrnak said.
Nerek spun, eyes wild with fear, a hot glow blossoming in her hands. Then she saw it was him and the glow died. "I was...teaching the fire to move," she said, letting her arms fall to her sides.
"Sourcefire is a risky weapon for the untutored."
"Then teach me more."
Byrnak smiled. "You already know enough for the task ahead."
An eager hope lit up Nerek's features. "Good. How do I find her?"
He regarded her thoughtfully. In her emotions she was utterly different from the others, with her fear and desire for him warring on the surface of an unpredictable anger. But it was her ability to tap the Wellsource that truly set her apart - none of the others he had bound to his will had displayed so much as a glimmer of lore talent. For that reason he was loathe to tamper with her mind, that and the fact that she was created by that shadowed part of himself whose purposes yet eluded him.
Then there was the matter of the swordswoman. Why would this ancient shadow, this fragment of a god that I carry, remake a young man into the form of that particular woman? Was Nerek's pursuit of her some kind of test? He was unsure, but the compulsion was upon her and he knew she would have to pursue it.
Byrnak looked about him, spotted a tapestry near the doorway and went over to it, beckoning Nerek to follow. Being almost as high as the room, the tapestry was an elaborate affair edged with gold and silver vines and bordered with a sequence of panels depicting the progress of a king and his knights through adventures, predicaments and tragedies. The main portion of the tapestry showed the king hacking the last head from a many-headed monster against a background of burning trees and a boiling lake.
"An exaggerated account," Byrnak said sardonically, touching the border with his fingers.
At once the central panel flared into a mass of pale green fire. The eldritch blaze took on a coiling appearance as if a whirlpool was drawing all the tongues of flame into the centre. Then, in an eyeblink, the gyring green fire changed into a slow-moving swirl of mist. Images began to emerge and grow clear, a village nestling among wooded hills with a stream running by. Three riders crossed a low log bridge, the first a man that Byrnak did not know, while the second one he recognised as the female mage who had frustrated his crude attack at the gorge. The third was Keren. Beside him, Nerek just audibly caught her breath.
A young boy climbed down from behind the mage, ran to a nearby cabin and banged his fists on the door. Adults and children, and a few dogs, came out and the riders dismounted to stretch their limbs and exchange greetings. Byrnak then directed the far-seen view up high and swung it round to show lowland woods and fields sweeping down westwards to a wide river mouth and the sea beyond. Nerek let out a sigh.
"They are still west of the Rukangs, at the southwestern end of Gronanvel," Byrnak said, "but they will almost certainly seek a way through the mountain passes. I want you to head north to my garrison in the Nagira Mountains – I'll give you written orders for the commander there, ordering him to provide you with ten of his best riders."
Alarm crossed her face. "If I am to go without you, how will I know how to hunt for them?"
"The Wellsource will guide you. Touch it, breath it, taste it and it will lead you to your destiny."
She breathed in deeply, still staring at the images in the tapestry, and nodded.
"And when can I leave?"
"Soon," he said, reaching for her. "Very soon."
Behind him the tapestry fell apart in a cascade of ash as fine as dust.
Chapter Nine
King Orosiada:
Monster, you have laid my cities to waste, slain thousands of my people, and poisoned the very land. Before I carry out my judgement, tell me why you have done this?
The Beast Orgraaleshenoth:
O blind and witless king! Because only the strongest weapons are worth breaking.
—Tales of Yularia, book 3, 37
The abandoned mill was a square-built, two-storey building with thick stone walls and a small tower. Once it had been a fort guarding against raids by mountain bandits; the walls still had their arrow slits and a low parapet. At some point it had been converted into a mill, but now it was a dark and empty shell, its outbuildings gone to overgrown debris and the great mill wheel lying a short way downstream, entwined with weeds, rotting slowly into the muddy bank. Only the stream remained, pouring endlessly out of the Bachruz Mountains, carrying reflections of the nightsky's stars down to empty them into the long depths of Lake Audagal.
Sentinel Kodel was quick to move everyone and the horses inside the mill, for which Tauric was truly grateful. The cold night air was causing the stump of his arm to ache in a way that made his head spin and his stomach rebel.
Inside torches were lit, revealing a wide, empty room with a low wooden roof held up by heavy wooden pillars. Off to one side was the big millstone and its driving axle, thick as a man's thigh, once attached to the waterwheel but now dislodged and lying on the millstone, its rust staining the granite. The floor was littered with rubbish and animal droppings which Kodel had one of his men sweep out of the main door. A fire was lit in a crumbling hearth, supplies were unwrapped from the pack horses, bedrolls were laid on the flagstones and soon the odours of cooking began to fill the room.
Tauric unpacked his own bedroll from his horse, aware of glances from others but not really caring. He took it over to an alcove near the doors, away from the rest, laid it on the floor and sat down heavily. He felt bleak, burdened by loss and by his thoughts. The initial shock of the amputation of his lower right arm had lessened, but the anguish remained. He was continually finding himself reaching for horse reins or plates or buttons with the hand that was gone, lied to by sensations that insisted it was still there. He stared down at his truncated limb, wrapped in cloth bound with leather ties, cradled it with his good hand and squeezed his eyes shut against tears as he thought of his father, the Duke of Patrein.
Flashes of memory came to him - running with his old dog, Holdfast, or riding out on the moors of southern Khatris, a trained crownhawk swooping to alight on his father's outstretched arm. He remembered visiting Tobrosa for the yearly horse races, and cheering on the duchy's finest riders. He remembered his mother, the Lady Illian, teaching him to write poems and how to play the four-stringed kulest. He also remembered catching a glimpse of his father shedding silent tears at her bedside when life left her after a long illness. Then later, seeing him carrying her out to the fountain garden under a dusky sky and singing sadly for her.
Later there were lessons in swordcraft and archery, and duty and reponsibility, all against the background of growing tension between the Duke of Patrein and various Mogaun chiefs. Once, his father had sat him down and told him how he wished that he, the Duke, had aped his peers after the fall of the Empire and fled across the sea to Keremenchool. But he had chosen to stay, to stand between the ordinary folk and the Mogaun, and somehow protect them from the worst of what was to come.
His father. Tears stung his eyes, fell on his cradled half-arm. Yet even that had been lost to him after the Archmage Bardow and Shin Hantika told him of his real father and the awful responsibility that was now his alone.
Someone came over and sat cross-legged beside him. It was Earthsister Pirica, Abbess Halimer's advisor, a round-faced woman in her middle years, attired in a short grey habit and heavy cotto
n leggings. She offered him a wooden bowl of stew and a spoon which he accepted gratefully, balanced on one knee and began to eat. He was almost finished when she said:
"Enjoying it?"
Mouth full, he nodded.
"Good. Now - who was king of Mantinor when the League of Jefren was founded?"
Tauric suppressed a groan. Ever since leaving Krusivel four days ago, Pirica and Himber, Bardow's advisor, had subjected him to a neverending string of lectures and questions on the history and cultures of the Khatrimantine Empire and its predecessors. Some of it he knew well, especially that to do with Khatris and the southern kingdoms; on the northern realms his knowledge was patchy.
Pirica was smiling her waiting smile.
"Um, Tavalir the...Second."
"The Third. And his High Counsellor was?"
Tauric could feel sweat prickle on his scalp. "Akroom...?"
"Okroom of Bhanav, who sent which army to their doom at the Pass of Rahl?"
He knew that one. "The Golden Phalanx."
The Earthsister nodded in satisfaction, and he scooped up the last of the now-cool stew and set the bowl aside.
"Some of these names and places may be unfamiliar to you," Pirica said. "But for all the peoples of the kingdoms they are part of life, strong threads in the tapestry of past and present." She smiled thoughtfully. "You're doing well."
"Thankyou, Earthsister," Tauric said. "Will Shin Himber want to question me tonight?"
"No. His back is bothering him again so he has retired early to rest." She indicated a blanket-wrapped form lying over in a shadowy corner. "But it could be advisable to study the manuscript he gave you, in preparation for the morning." She gathered her short robe and stood. "You might like to read mine over again, too."
He waited till she was across the other side of the room before sighing. He reached for the small brown pack that held his few possessions and took out a thin book of frayed pages bound between hard torwood covers, their varnished surfaces worn and scratched with use. Resting it on his knees, he traced the words carved into the front cover - The Roots Of Empire: Being A Discourse Upon Those Monarchs Relevant To The Formation Of The Khatrimantine Empire - then opened it at the chapter on the clans of Kejana.
But before long he had turned back to the beginning to reread the story of Orosiada of Ebro'Heth, the legendary king who united the kingdoms against the Daemonkind. Orosiada lost his left hand to one of those terrible monsters in battle when they descended upon his realm, yet he lived to rally first his own people then all the other kings to his standard, eventually defeating the invaders in the uplands of Prekine, forcing them to return to the Realm of Ruin. The mages and loreweavers who had been so vital to the victory were granted the province of Prekine as a permanent sanctuary and home, on condition that they would found colleges for the investigation and teaching of the Rootpower and the Lesser Power.
The empire that Orosiada created split into warring fragments in the reign of his grandson, Allutra, but Prekine remained, inviolate and impregnable, a point of stability down the millenia.
At the end of the chapter was a woodcut showing Orosiada attired for war, a longsword in his right hand, its point resting in the ground, and a long oval shield bound to his left arm. Tauric looked down at the stump of his own arm, trying to imagine something similar, then leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed.
What's the use? he thought. Orosiada was at least an adept of the Lesser Power, but I don't have any ability at all. Why should anyone see me as a king?
There was the creak of hinges and he glanced over to see the Lord Commander's brother, Coireg Mazaret, enter by the main door. The man noticed Tauric watching him, gave a nervous smile and a nod then hurried over to his bedding near the hearth. Tauric frowned, turning away. Coireg Mazaret was a strange man of shifting moods, caution and uncertainty turning an hour later into optimistic bravado, so different from the Lord Commander. Coireg had spoken to Tauric a few times on the trail, pointing out animal tracks and other spoor, identifying some woodcalls and birdcries, but he was no tutor. He seemed more interested in tending to Seftal, his old servitor.
Tauric returned to his book and was halfway through the chapter on the Empire of the Generals when a torch-cast shadow fell across him. He was surprised and apprehensive to see Kodel, Sentinel of the Hunters' Children, lowering himself into a cross-legged position beside him. Since setting out from Krusivel, Kodel had exchanged barely a dozen words with him, leaving Tauric feeling that he was the focus of resentment because of his ancestry. He knew of how House tor-Galantai had supplanted House tor-Cavarill generations ago, and how the supporters of the tor-Cavarill line named themselves the Hunters' Children and vowed to see House tor-Galantai removed from the throne. Now here he was, descendant of that house sitting face to face with someone sworn to deny him the imperial crown.
And part of him would be happy for that to happen.
Kodel's angular face was expressionless. "How old are you?"
"I have seen seventeen summers, my lord."
"You will call me Kodel, not lord. So - seventeen. Slept with a woman yet?"
Tauric shook his head, feeling suddenly flushed.
"Killed anyone?"
"No."
"At least you can ride. What weapons have you used?"
"Short sword, sabre and bow."
Kodel regarded him for a long still moment, then said: "Show me your arm."
Out the corner of his eye Tauric noticed Pirica watching from across the room as, trembling, he extended his cloth-wrapped left arm. Kodel unfastened the leather ties and unwound the bindings. "Good. Only two layers and loose enough to breathe."
He exposed the still-puckered, lividly scarred stump. Tauric felt oddly fearful as the man's rough fingers probed the healed wound, yet there was something both grimly practical and compassionate in his actions.
After the brief examination, Kodel began replacing the bindings. "Where we're going there is a smith skilled in making false limbs in wood and steel. We'll have him make you several, one for holding a shield, another for a bow, and so forth." Finished, he stood. "Once you get your balance back, we can find out what you really know about fighting."
"Thank you," Tauric said.
Kodel grunted, then walked back to the fire in the hearth.
* * *
Tauric read for a little while longer before tiredness persuaded him to turn in for the night. Dousing the torch he'd wedged in the floorboards nearby, he lay down and pulled the blanket up to cover his head. Sleep's irresistible tide swept in over him soon after.
He dreamed that he stood before a tree burning in the night, its every flame a face contorted with pain. From one side a voice said - Save them, save them! He turned to see in a tall standing mirror the image of his father, the Duke of Patrein. How can I? Tauric cried. I have no power. The Duke shook his head, pointing at him. Tauric looked down to see that both his arms were whole, and of shining metal. Then a host of faceless iron warriors marched out from behind the tree and rushed him. As they attacked Tauric struck them with his shining hands and they fell apart, tumbling pieces of empty, rusting armour. Yet still they came, crowding in close till he was fighting them hand to hand. Save them, save them! came the Duke's voice once more, but Tauric had his hands around the neck of one of his attackers and in one violent motion wrenched away the helm to reveal a womon of unearthly beauty, long golden hair spilling forth, and eyes of icy starlight whose gaze struck him to the core as she said - Save us, save us! - but something had him by the shoulder...
...shaking him gently awake to see Coireg's sallow features. The scout put a finger to his lips before Tauric could speak aloud.
"What?" His voice was a whisper.
The man glanced about the room lit by the faint glow of the burnt-down fire and a couple of guttering torches. Only snores broke the quiet.
"There's something you should know about Kodel and the Hunters' Children," he murmured. "Wanted to tell you earlier, but
I had to wait till my turn for the watch came round."
"So what is it?"
"Tell you outside," Coireg said, straightening. "Make sure no-one overhears us."
Shivering, he followed Coireg outside. The night sky was a solid canopy of cloud and the air was icy cold. The scout beckoned and Tauric trudged after him along the side of the fort on a path of broken slabs, brushing past thick tangles of bushy growth. At the corner of the old fort, a figure stepped out of the shadows to meet them. It was Coireg's manservant, Seftal.
"It is good that you are here, young sir," the servant said. "All is as it should be."
There was a blinding pain as something struck him on the back of the head and his legs gave way. Everything swung around him, then dissolved into grey nothingness.
Awareness returned in jolts of pain. There was a taste of blood in his mouth and a roaring in his head which swayed limply in time with his arms. Someone was carrying him over their shoulder, he realised. Then he began to hear a pair of voices.
"...are they? We should have met them long before now!"
"Curb your whining." It was the old man, Seftal. "We're far enough away from the fort now to halt- here, by that tree will do. They will find us, never fear."
Half a dozen steps later Tauric felt himself being lowered onto lumpy ground, all the time keeping his eyes closed. For a moment or two there were only sounds of his captors settling down nearby, then Coireg spoke again.
"I'd have thought some of the others would be with us by now. It sounded like a fierce fight as we left."
"They will stay as long as it takes to finish the task." Seftal sounded unconcerned. "At the very least, none of the heretics will have the time to wonder about the whereabouts of our young guest here. Who, if I'm very much mistaken - "
A sharp slap stung Tauric's face, making him yelp.
" - is awake. Sit up!"
Tauric levered himself upright, edging away till his back was against the tree. In the weak light of predawn the old man's thin face looked cadaverous, his eyes full of a gleeful darkness.
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