by Tom Lloyd
Torl gave a sigh. 'That may be, but how he knew of the death of Lord Bahl is not. He first saw an image after spending several hours watching sunlight filter through the branches of a yew; then again in the movement of leaves in a herb garden. To most people that sounds like he's some sort of prophet, and 1 wouldn't want to give you that impression of our order.'
'I'm intrigued,' Isak said. 'Perhaps I should meet the man – and when you bring him to Tirah Palace, I look forward to your report on your Brethren as well.'
'My Lord-'
Isak quickly cut him off. 'Your loyalty is not in question, but I must know what other allegiances my nobles hold. The events in Narkang and Thotel mean 1 cannot afford to be ignorant of anything, certainly not the activities of my subjects.'
'The rumours about Thotel are true then?' Suzerain Saroc interjected before Tori could continue his objections. He was very conscious that the dark monks and the Ghosts were eyeing each other suspiciously, and neither side had yet sheathed their weapons. 'Has Lord Styrax has taken the city and torn down the Temple of the Sun?'
Isak nodded. 'So I've been told.'
'But what about Narkang? Were you not returning to claim your inheritance because you felt Lord Bahl's death?'
'Unfortunately, it's not as simple as that. These parts may see more fighting before-'
'My Lord,' the ranger Jeil broke in, 'I need your help.'
Isak nodded at the suzerains and returned to Carel. He crouched down beside Jeil to inspect the damaged limb. Carel was terribly pale, and sweat poured off him as he panted, almost gasping for breath.
'I can't save it,' Jeil said calmly. He was too experienced to bother trying to hide the truth from Carel. 'You're his best chance.'
'Me? I've never done anything like this,' Isak protested.
Jeil pointed at Eolis. 'The marshal doesn't need a healer, not at the moment. He needs a butcher, and saving your pardon, my Lord, you're the best we have. Eolis will give the cleanest cut, and with a touch you can cauterise the wound.'
Isak looked down at Carel. He could see the old man was weaken¬ing before his eyes.
'There's no other way?'
'None.'
Isak looked around, but none would meet his gaze. He stood and drew Eolis. Carel couldn't stop himself howling in pain as Jeil manoeuvred the injured arm away from the body and indicated where Isak should cut. As Isak raised the slim sword, he looked at Duke Certinse, a glare of such pure venom that the duke shrank back in fear.
'On a spike,' Isak growled. He slashed down.
CHAPTER 4
'Lord Isak, your health.' Suzerain Saroc, looking markedly different dressed up in silks and fine linens, raised his goblet for the other guests to follow. A bronze brooch bearing his chalice device was pinned to his left shoulder and he now sported his earrings of rank – though the three hoops through his left ear were not plain gold, like those worn by Count Vesna and Suzerain Torl; his were intricately carved and set with flecks of jet. To Isak's intense surprise, the deeply religious Saroc, last seen dressed in dour black, had transformed into something of a peacock once they reached his estate.
The men echoed the suzerain's words; the women, all wearing tight-wrapped dresses and feathers in their hair, hmmmed agreement. It was the first time Isak had participated in a formal Farlan toast, but Tila had found a few minutes to coach him in his expected role
– which largely boiled down to draining his cup whenever his name
was mentioned. He still didn't grasp why only men carrying weapons
were allowed to speak above a mutter, though she had pointed out
one or two wearing ceremonial swords solely for that purpose.
Emptying his goblet: Isak was more than willing to do that in the name of protocol, and he did so with a flourish. He nodded graciously to each of the noblemen around the table and set his goblet down for it to be refilled – but somehow he miscalculated, and the thump as it hit the table caused the bowl of rice beside it to jump and overturn. He frowned at the table; it seemed to be closer than he'd first thought
– but when he looked up, he realised there were startled faces turned
his way. Perhaps that had been a little loud; suddenly he was reminded
that his huge frame was oversized for this rather delicate dining hall.
A hot feeling began at the back of his neck as he felt the eyes of the room on him. With painstaking care he disentangled his fingers from the goblet and raised his hand in apology to the suzerain, who smiled back and nodded graciously as the rest of the room looked away with embarrassed expressions. Oh damn, Isak thought, I'm the guest of honour, I shouldn't be apologising. Didn't Tila say I couldn't do anything wrong at a meal in my honour?
'He's going to be fine.' The soft voice in his ear was accompanied by a waft of perfume. Around them, conversation sputtered back into life as the guests returned to their meals.
Isak turned to Tila and nodded glumly. The doctors were agreed on that point at least, despite it being the only one they had been able to reach a consensus on. A middle-aged monk with a hard stare, accompanied by three novices, had arrived from a nearby monastery to help tend to the wounded. He'd been friendly to the suzerain and polite to Lord Isak, of course, but his face betrayed his feelings when he saw a local woman also tending to the sick; her hair cut short to display the scars and tattoos around her neck marked the woman clearly as a witch. No one said much, but even the veteran soldiers had deferred to her opinion.
'I know he will be,' Isak said, prodding the lump of pork on his plate with a knife, 'but I can't seem to get the smell of burned flesh out of my mind.'
Looking round at the forty or so faces in the hall, Isak saw a number still watching him with slight concern; the Countess Saroc was one who had little time for alcohol and no patience with drunks. Isak ignored her sharp eyes, which shone from her long, thin face. His natural charisma had a more dramatic effect on inanimate objects than on the Countess Saroc, but her courtesy remained faultless and her compassion for the injured unmatched; that she didn't like him was a small price to pay.
'He's too old to be leading men into battle,' Isak continued, pick¬ing at his meal. It was too rich, and had set his stomach churning. Aside from the wine, he had consumed only rice and a bowl of dressed tomatoes. Popping another in his mouth, Isak licked the oil from his fingers and sighed. 'I shouldn't have asked it of him.'
You're right that he's too old,' agreed Tila, placing her fingers on his forearm. 'You're wrong that it's your fault. The old buzzard knows his own strength better than you do, and you can't claim to be more aware of the dangers of battle than he. Let his decisions be his own.'
Her hand looked like a child's against Isak's green-edged cuff. They had little time to sit together and talk as friends these days. Isak didn't
resent the love that had flourished between Tila and Count Vesna, for both had become dear to him, but in his first weeks in Tirah Palace, he and Tila had spent nearly every minute of the day together.
Isak saw a fond smile appear on Tila's rosebud mouth. 'And, of course, a friend should be on hand to cut one's arm off when one makes the wrong choice.'
Isak resisted the urge to reach out and hug her, uncomfortably aware of the eyes on them. Instead, he stuck his tongue out at her, prompting a muted squeal of amusement, and went on the hunt for more wine.
'My Lord.' Suzerain Saroc spoke as Isak filled his own goblet from the decanter in front of him, placed there by Mihn so he wouldn't have a servant hovering at his shoulder all night – the tale of the bat¬tle in Narkang had raced through the suzerain's household, and every one of the staff was surreptitiously trying to catch a glimpse of Isak's left hand that had been left as white as the tunic he wore. Isak turned towards the suzerain, his body feeling heavy and ponderous.
'Might I persuade you to rest here a few weeks before returning to Tirah? We seldom have the chance to entertain our lord down here in Saroc; your presence would be a blessing for us all.'
'We will stay a fortnight,' he went on. 'I doubt Carel will be able to travel by then, but I want to see him stronger before I go. And I have a few matters that I want to attend to before I return.'
'Plans, my Lord?' The suzerain's interest was piqued, especially as he saw Tila's puzzlement.
'Plans, my Lord Suzerain,' Isak confirmed with a broad smile. 'The tribe is run by its dukes and its suzerains, and if I am to rule, I should meet them – half of those I already knew have died in battle, and I'm planning to hang Duke Certinse in front of a crowd. Suzerain, I would like you to gather messengers ready to send out a proclamation. My advisor here will have it ready in a day or two.' Isak twitched his fingers in Tila's direction – he didn't let Tila's ignorance of his plans interrupt his flow. 'I intend every suzerain and duke to gather in Tirah Palace and swear fealty to me at my coronation ceremony.'
A slight gasp ran around the room at that, and all attempts to pretend conversation stopped as Isak took another swig of wine and continued, 'There's been too much treachery, too much plotting in recent years. I want each and every one of my most powerful nobles to swear an oath of loyalty. If they refuse, I'll know where they stand; if they look me in the eye and lie, I'll break them in half and feed them to the pigs.'
Isak spoke with such vehemence that more than a few flinched. From next to Tila Isak heard Suzerain Torl clear his throat to break the silence.
'That will be a difficult undertaking, my Lord,' Suzerain Torl murmured. 'Some are old and infirm; many will have a long way to travel.'
Isak gave a dismissive wave of the hand. 'If they wish to present their apologies instead, I'll leave it up to my Chief Steward to decide who has a valid excuse… and who should be stripped of their title.' Isak gave a dangerous grin. 'I think recent events have proved that divisions remain, but that cannot continue. We will make a festival of it. Business will be done and matches made, no doubt. I'm sure most of the suzerains will have requests to present to me as well, and they will be heard, but any who consider the journey a waste of time I shall consider a wasted title. The Chetse have been conquered, the Fysthrall have returned and who knows how many new enemies we will find ourselves with come the end of the year.'
Isak saw Tila tense slightly at that. Damn, he thought, I didn't mean him – but you've got a point all the same. How long until the Elves discover their king is reborn? Long enough 1 hope; I don't want to be fighting on too many fronts all at once.
Looking around, Isak saw worried faces, men dropping their eyes as Isak's glittering gaze swept over the tables. A handful were nodding their agreement, but most just looked shocked. It was understandable, Isak reflected. Lord Bahl had ruled for almost two hundred years, and while he had sometimes been unpredictable, the man had largely left his nobles to their own devices. Now they had an arrogant young pup who wore dark tidings like a cloak announcing two hundred years of tradition was about to change. Perhaps they were right to look nervous. He was a white-eye, after all, and wherever he went trouble tended to follow.
Isak stood, motioning the others back down as they rose with him.
Hooking two fingers around the neck of the half-empty decanter, he excused himself to Suzerain Saroc and his countess. He knew he was being rude, but he didn't want to be drawn further on the subject tonight; his sour temper and too much wine might lead him to say something he didn't intend. Now he wanted a chance to hear what his advisors had to say before discussing the matter further.
Making his way out of the hall, Isak followed the corridor to the terrace that overlooked the suzerain's formal garden, apparently in the Tor Milist style. Mihn was on his heel, as normal. He crossed the terrace and felt the lush dew-kissed grass underneath his shoes and breathed in the smell of evening blooms.
The suzerain was proud of his gardens, and though the concept remained alien to Isak, who knew nothing of such things, in the warm gloom of twilight and lit by scattered paper lanterns, he had to agree that the sight before him was beautiful. Low yew hedges sectioned off the long garden, each enclosing a different style. Thin swirls of flowerbeds cut paths through the grass, blazing with the colours of summer, but it was the stillness that Isak savoured the most.
A dwarf apple tree the height of Isak's chest stood at the centre of a piece of lawn, flanked by slender stone birdbaths. Resting the decanter on the nearest, Isak fumbled in his pocket for Carel's tobacco pouch; the countess had forbidden it to the veteran. Soon, the thick smell of pipe-smoke was drifting through the slender branches of the apple tree and fading to nothing in the darkening sky. Isak inspected the snow-white skin of his hand. It hadn't changed at all since the battle in Narkang, where lightning had burned the colour from it. Not even weeks of riding with it exposed to the sun had tanned it.
'Had you planned that?' asked Mihn quietly, having checked for anyone who might overhear their conversation.
'Of course.'
'Then why did Lady Tila and the count look quite so surprised?'
Isak sighed. 'Because I'd not planned to announce it quite like that. Did it just sound like the ranting of a drunk?'
Mihn shook his head. 'No, it was a little more eloquent. There will be serious opposition, though, even from your supporters.'
'Good, that's the point.' Isak jabbed the pipe towards the high roof of the hall. 'Most of the Farlan legions are led by fat, contented old men. If they object to a trip to Tirah, they'll be of no use on campaign. They need waking up, Mihn, our blades have become dulled.'
'What threat is it you want them to be ready for?' Mihn sounded unconcerned, but Isak could tell the man was worried by the fact they were conversing at all. He would go several days on end without speaking a word to Isak – when Mihn deemed conversation necessary, Isak knew that he'd damned well better pay attention.
'Take your pick. I don't think there's any way to tell yet, but Lord Bahl wasn't killed by accident. If Morghien and King Emin are to be believed, this is all some artifice of Azaer's – or it might be Lord Styrax, building himself an empire. And we must not give the White Circle time to regroup – they all add up to one thing: we must be prepared for war.'
'You intend to punish the White Circle?'
Isak shrugged. 'They brought the fight to us; what can I do except strike back?'
'There are ways to strike back that don't involve razing Scree and Helrect to the ground.'
'Is that what you're worried about? My lack of proportion?' Isak took a sip of wine and screwed up his face. The wine didn't go with the bitter soldier's tobacco Carel preferred. He turned to look Mihn in the eye: the northerner's usual passivity was gone completely and he matched Isak's gaze without blinking or turning away as he normally would.
'Spreading chaos on our borders may not serve you well, not if chaos is what your enemies want. If there is another way to deal with the Circle, will you promise to consider it?'
Isak blinked. 'That's the first time you've asked me for anything.'
'All I ask is that you do not start the war, that you do not let yourself be goaded into fighting on the wrong front.'
After a moment's pause, Isak held out his arm for Mihn to take. All you're asking is for me to promise to act sensibly; it's a more than fair request.' The smaller man bobbed his head in acknowledgement, returning to his customary reserve.
Isak stopped, hand still gripped about Mihn's forearm, and looked Mihn straight in the eye. Curiosity flickered over Mihn's face, but he had patience enough to outlast a glacier. Isak looked away briefly, then rubbed his hand over his face, as if to sober up a little more.
'You might not like what else I've decided quite so much.' He could almost feel the quiet of the night, and fou
nd himself peering around at the shadows, unwilling to continue until he was sure they were not being spied on. He couldn't feel anything; it was only his muzzy brain and his innate sense of caution.
'I want you and Morghien to fetch Xeliath for me, to bring her back to Tirah. It won't be long until someone works out her part in what happened, and when that happens, she'll not live long. She knows Morghien, and you, I assume, can speak Yeetatchen. I have no one else I could ask such a thing of.'
Mihn was quiet for a moment, then he bowed his head. 'If she is that important to you, I will do it.'
'I don't know how important she is to me,' Isak said honestly. 'I've only spoken to her a handful of times. All I know is that she'll be another casualty of my existence – of my twisted destiny – if I leave her to her own fate. The blood of another innocent on my hands.'
He took a draw on the pipe, only to find it was out. He jabbed his thumb into the pipe bowl and hissed as he discovered the embers were hotter than he'd expected. He wiped his thumb on his tunic, leaving a smear of ash on the white fabric. 'Speaking of blood on my hands, it's time to check on Carel.'
CHAPTER 5
'Xomejx? That's a long way to go for a girl you hardly know,' Morghien said. 'I know she's a pretty young thing-'
'She's in danger and I can hardly go myself,' Isak said, raising a hand to cut Morghien off. 'I need you to go because she knows you, and she can reach your mind.'
'But I don't speak Yeetatchen – never been there in all my years of travelling.'
'Well here's a chance to correct that oversight. As for the language problems, Mihn is going with you and I'm sure he'll manage to pick up a few words.'
Isak squinted up at the old wanderer and grinned. He was stretched out on the grass in the suzerain's private garden, dressed in only a thin shirt and cropped trousers that looked more suitable for a dock worker than a duke. An eight-foot stone wall surrounded the garden, so he'd donned the shirt only when Morghien arrived – he hated displaying the scar on his chest, even to those close to him. Morghien knew the truth about his snow-white left arm, so Isak didn't worry about trying to keep that from sight.
