Godless World 2 - Bloodheir

by Brian Ruckley

  Anyara saw the slightest movement of Ilessa's hand. The Thane's mother reached discreetly out and touched him on the arm. At first Anyara was not sure whether Roaric had even noticed, but he moistened his lips and his gaze went for a moment to the arched stone roof of the hall.

  "I have heard your petition, Steward," the Thane said. "Let me think on it."

  "Not for long, sire," Lagair muttered. "Not for long."

  "I will not yield!" Roaric cried, red-faced with anger.

  Anyara could hardly bear to watch. The Thane and his mother confronted each other across a narrow table in one of the side rooms off the hall. All Roaric's fury, so barely controlled during his exchanges with the Steward, had burst out now, in the privacy of this tiny chamber. Anyara alone had been brought - by Ilessa, not by Roaric - to stand witness. Why, she could not imagine. It was a scene that should have been played out between the two of them alone.

  "I will not," the Thane repeated. "They died the death they deserved, and Gryvan oc Haig will get nothing from this Blood in answer to their deaths. You think he'll shed a tear when word reaches him of my father's death? Do you think so? Or do you think he'll laugh, and fill his cup with wine, and drink to the health of the bitch who killed him?"

  "I do not care what the High Thane does or thinks," Ilessa said wearily. "Your father - my husband - is dead and will remain so whether Gryvan laughs or weeps at the news. He will remain so no matter how loudly you argue with the Steward. It is not something that can be undone, any more than can your brother's death."

  Roaric thumped the table with his fist and spun away.

  "I am not a child, needing lessons in my own grief."

  "You are no child," Ilessa agreed quietly, "but you are my son. And you are not so old that there are no lessons left for you to learn. None of us are."

  Roaric slumped into a chair against the wall. He glared at his mother, but could not maintain his indignation.

  "What would you have me do?" he asked her.

  "You could take counsel with our friends, if nothing else," Ilessa said, glancing meaningfully at Anyara. "This is thin ice, Roaric. Every time you deal with the High Thane, or his heir, or his Shadowhand or Steward, it is thin ice. And if you stamp so hard that it cracks beneath your feet, it will never be just you who'll fall through it. Never."

  Roaric glared at Anyara. She longed to be elsewhere. It was not her presence that so infuriated Roaric - she hoped not, at least - but his anger, or grief, was so all-encompassing that she did not trust him to see clearly.

  "Your brother is not here," Ilessa said to her gently, "but in times such as these Lannis and Kilkry have always walked in step. We both stand to lose - have already lost - a great deal. There should be no secrets between us."

  "No," Anyara agreed, "but I don't think I can speak for Orisian, if that's what you want. He didn't . . ." She shrugged. "I'm not sure what he would want me to say."

  "I don't ask you to speak for him, though I do not doubt he would be happy to have you do so. I only ask you to tell my son whether you are content to see him risk an open breach with the Haig Blood, now that their armies are your best chance of recovering your home."

  Anyara thought she caught a glimpse in Ilessa's face, just for a moment, of the great ocean of weariness and sorrow that lay behind her words. After all the loss the older woman had suffered, she was still trying to hold on to what remained of her family, to protect her people. She knew her son too well, Anyara suspected. She was afraid of what Roaric might do. That was why she had brought Anyara into this little room: she had feared she was not strong enough to influence her own son alone.

  "There's no need to say anything," Roaric said. "I know the answers to my mother's questions already."

  "You could arrange for the men who did the killing to disappear from Kolkyre," Anyara suggested. "Let them escape to Il Anaron, or into the Vare Wastes. They might not be found for months, once they're out of the city. Or never."

  Roaric acknowledged the idea with a half-nod, though he did not look very enamoured of it.

  "And we can spare some silver, if the Steward wants to insist on it," said Ilessa. "The Haig Blood has always been easily distracted by glittering things, and Lagair is more bluster than anything. He doesn't care about the men who died, he's just fearful that Aewult will blame him for their deaths. He has to show that he did something about it."

  She was leaning heavily on the table now, tired. She lacked the strength for all of this, Anyara thought. Too much had happened too quickly for an ageing body and heart to bear.

  "We'll have nothing left with which to buy food for our own table soon," Roaric muttered. "But yes. Perhaps. We can throw some more silver at them, if we must. What is all this obeisance, this submission, meant to achieve, though? For us, I mean? Our Blood? There's no purpose to it, if it doesn't even buy us peace, or safety within our own borders. Cannoch let Haig raise itself up as highest amongst the Bloods to spare our people unending strife. My father suffered Gryvan's arrogance for the same reason. But if all we've gained is the right to have Haig armies marching back and forth across our lands at will . . . the honour of paying so that they can plot and scheme in their palaces . . ."

  He thrust himself up out of the chair, full of renewed exasperation and anger. He pointed at Anyara.

  "What has the Lannis Blood gained by making obeisance to Gryvan oc Haig? All its lands are gone. That's how much Haig cares about us, about the unity of the Bloods. That's Orisian's inheritance. We've got the Black Road bearing down on our borders, and we're forbidden - forbidden! - to gather our own armies. All the men I brought back from the south, the ones who haven't already died for Gryvan oc Haig, have scattered: gone back to their postings, or their homes, by Aewult's command."

  The Thane paced back and forth, his arms swinging. Ilessa was hanging her head. Anyara wondered whether Roaric truly could not see how drained, how much in need of gentleness, his mother was. Perhaps not. She understood a little of how he felt. Blind rage was not a wholly unreasonable response to much of what had happened.

  "All right," Roaric said. He gave every appearance of talking to himself now, of voicing the struggle between his warring instincts. "All right. We'll find an accommodation with them in this. We'll show enough obedience to keep the Steward happy. I'll not have one man punished for those deaths, though. Not one. And I will have my army back. I don't care what Aewult nan Haig thinks, he can't tell me, in my own lands, what to do with my own warriors. I'll send messengers tonight. The Steward won't be so sure of himself if we've five thousand swords gathered within the city walls."

  The Thane stalked out with only the most cursory of glances at his mother.

  "You will have to forgive him," Ilessa said. "This is hard for him."

  She went slowly, hunchbacked, fragile, to the chair that her son had vacated. As she sank down into it, she closed her eyes. Anyara watched her exhaustion and grief take hold of her.

  "It is hard for all of us," Anyara said. "You need rest, I should think."

  "Oh, yes. I do need rest. I need to sleep. But when I do, I dream of grief. I miss my husband very much."

  "Yes," Anyara murmured. She had no idea what she could, or should, say. Ilessa deserved comfort, she deserved kind words and more. Nobody, Anyara was beginning to think, received what they truly deserved. "I didn't know him well, but . . . he was a kind man, I thought. Good."

  "He was good," Ilessa said. She nodded, her eyes still closed, a weary frown still across her brow. "He often said that there were too few good men left in the world. One less, now. And the world much darker to my eyes."

  Anyara began to back away, edging towards the door. She felt guilty at her inability to offer this woman any succour, though such profound, private sorrow was, in her experience, not often salved by the sympathy of others anyway. Ilessa summoned up a rueful smile from somewhere.

  "We're all to suffer loss this winter, it seems. All to take on our own burdens. You carry yours well, Anyara. Your
father, your uncle, would be proud of you, and of your brother. I am sorry to draw you into the sorrows of my family as well. You deserve better, but . . . I do need help. My son does."

  "I'll give you whatever help I can," Anyara said sincerely. "I don't know what it is you think I can do, though."

  Ilessa rose to her feet. She had recovered some of her poise.

  "Roaric is young. He has been Bloodheir for only a few weeks; Thane for just days. It will take time for him to . . . he makes everything a personal matter. Always has done. Any blows against our Blood, against our honour or pride, he feels landing on his own back. Every failure or shortcoming that he perceives in himself, he makes into a crisis fit to convulse nations. Your presence alone will help. Anything will, that reminds him there are others - your Blood, not least - with much to lose if he mis-steps.

  "His father . . . Lheanor spent half his life restraining himself, submitting himself and our Blood to slights and petty humiliations. He did it to preserve the peace. It cost him a great deal of his pride, and of his strength. He missed the young, fearless man he had once been. Oh, you should have seen him when he was young. He thought himself reduced by time, but I loved him just the same, and never thought the less of him. He served his people better than they know."

  Ilessa sighed. She regarded the worn surface of the table thoughtfully, brushing it with her fingertips as if it was spread with some fine, soft material.

  "Is it true that you saw the Haig men killed?" she asked Anyara quietly.

  Anyara nodded. "It was not . . . pleasant."

  "I am sure. Times like these bring savagery closer to the surface. I think perhaps men like Aewult, like my son, do not fear it, or hate it, quite enough. Perhaps, if they are given the time to do so, people will remember the value of the peace that our forefathers built. Perhaps they will understand the sacrifices that are needed to sustain it."

  II

  The pervasive tension of Kolkyre wore Anyara down. Like a ramifying spider's web, it seemed to have infiltrated every alleyway and courtyard. She tired of it, and when she woke to find a rare morning of vast, cloudless skies and still, clean air, she took Coinach and half a dozen other Lannis men and rode out into the low hills east of the city. She wanted some open ground beneath her, some movement.

  The land here was rich and fertile. The gentle dips and slopes of the rolling hills were swathed in grass that even at this time of year had a lushness to it. Her horse stretched its legs, as if it too had tired of the narrow horizons of stables and city streets. She let it run, and the rush of cold air across her face filled her with a fierce exuberance. The speed was almost enough to make her think that she could outpace all the woes of the world, that peace lay only just beyond the next rise.

  Her horse pounded across a slope. The thudding of its hoofs in the soft earth was a drumbeat to match her exhilarated heart. A flock of little birds burst up from the grass ahead, and horse and rider chased them, almost as if one more bound might bear them up into the great sky. Anyara heard herself laughing, the sound tumbling away in her wake, spilling back over her shoulders. Freedom and forgetfulness were just there, just ahead: a few more strides, one more surge of effort from the great animal beneath her, and she would be free.

  The shouts of her escort drew her back. That sense of weightlessness was gone and she was pressed into her saddle, hauling at the reins to slow her mount. Coinach drew level with her. He was flushed, his cheeks red.

  "You must be careful, lady," he said a little more loudly than Anyara thought was necessary. "There could be holes for the horse to trip in, a hidden ditch."

  She grinned at him. "You are an old woman, Coinach. I suspected as much. Doesn't this lift your spirits? Don't you feel better for some clean air? It's put a fine blush on your cheeks."

  The shieldman half-raised a gloved hand to his face in surprise, but snatched it back down again. Anyara laughed again and nudged her horse on, turning up the slope.

  "Look," she said, "we'll go to that barn up there, see what's over the rise. We can rest then, if you like."

  The building was empty, though in good order. The lands around Kolkyre had been feeding fine horses and sheep and cattle for centuries, making their owners wealthy, their Thanes powerful.

  Anyara dismounted in the lee of the barn and tousled her horse's mane.

  "Thank you for that," she whispered in its ear.

  Coinach had a couple of the other warriors quickly search the barn, and did not descend from his own mount's back until he was assured that they were alone on this lofty ridge. He brought some bread and cheese and a flask of wine to Anyara.

  She sat on the edge of a stone watering trough and ate. The view was not as dramatic as some she had seen - in the high Car Criagar or even from the rocking deck of the Tal Dyreen ship - but it felt amply vast enough for her today. The waters of Anaron's Bay were a soft grey mass beyond Kolkyre. They looked calm and peaceful. The grassy humps and hollows that rolled down towards the coast were gentle, tamed. Even the farmhouses and barns and stables scattered across the landscape had, in her eyes, a solid, safe look to them.

  "I never really knew that Kilkry had such rich grazing lands," she reflected.

  Coinach, loitering nearby, took a step closer.

  "They've always bred the best horses here, lady. So they claim, anyway. You know what they say: the Storm Years were ended from the back of Kolkyre's horses."

  "I know. I'd just never really thought about it. Are you not eating?"

  The shieldman shook his head.

  "Sit, then," said Anyara.

  He hesitated, but did settle himself onto the rim of the trough, keeping a respectful distance from his charge.

  "When we visited Kolkyre before . . . when my father was alive . . . we never went outside the city walls," Anyara mused. "It's a pity. He would have liked a ride like this."

  "It will be better to ride out from Anduran, along the banks of the Glas."

  "I suppose so. You're so sure we'll be back there, then?"

  "Of course," Coinach said. "The fishing boats will be sailing from Glasbridge again. The drovers and shepherds will be grumbling in Targlas. The Thane and his family will ride to the hunt in Anlane. Everything will be as it was before, one day. You'll see."

  "I hope you're right." But she knew better. Whatever happened, nothing would be quite as it was before. Her father would not be there, nor Inurian. She and Orisian would never be children again. And she would never be able to look upon Castle Kolglas without seeing death, or Anduran without feeling fear, or the distant peaks of the Car Criagar without feeling cold.

  "I hope you're right," she said again. "It's the waiting that's so hard. I feel trapped. I did not want to stay here. I should have gone with Orisian, or with Taim Narran. I should have made them take me."

  "We cannot always do as we want. Sometimes we must do what is required of us."

  Anyara frowned at him, and the shieldman looked abashed.

  "I am sorry, my lady. I speak out of turn." He averted his eyes.

  "Don't worry," Anyara said. "I expect you're right. But didn't we agree you were to call me by my name?"

  He nodded.

  "I don't suppose you wanted to be shieldman to a woman, did you?" Anyara asked. "You're better at doing what is required of you than I am, clearly."

  "I serve the Blood. I think guarding your back is good service. You and your brother are all we have left."

  Anyara stared off over the undulating lowlands. Where moments ago she had seen escape in these huge spaces, now she felt small and exposed. It was absurd, unfair, that such burdens should have fallen upon Orisian's shoulders. Armies moved, Thanes jostled for power, cities burned, and somehow amidst all of that her brother, and she, had become important. The boy and girl who stole bread from the kitchens of Kolglas, chased one another up and down its stairwells, played tricks on Ilain and the other maids: those people were no more, in the eyes of the world.

  Far off to the north, where dis
tance blurred and muted everything, a stain was spreading across the land. Like a trickle of dark water, a mass of figures was slowly flowing down the road. Anyara narrowed her eyes. She could make out no detail.

  "Look," she said.

  Coinach followed her pointing finger.

  "The Bloodheir. It must be."

  "That or the Black Road," Anyara muttered.

  The shieldman shook his head once, emphatically. "No. We would have heard long before now if it was them. It must be Aewult."

  "Either way, it's not likely to be good tidings. We'd have heard before now if Aewult had won a great victory, too. Wouldn't we?"

  Coinach did not reply. Anyara was not even sure he had heard her question. He stared out, from that quiet rise of grassy ground, towards the distant, indistinct army moving down the road towards Kolkyre.

  "We should get back to the city," he said. "Whatever's happened, now's not the time to be out here."

  For an instant Anyara was in the grip of a child's frustration at being deprived of some treasured possession. She did not want to return to Kolkyre. She wanted to stay here, with the grass and sky and the horses, and recover that brief feeling of freedom. She wanted to know nothing of armies and Bloodheirs and battles won or lost. The feeling subsided as soon as she told herself how foolish it was, but it left traces: a soft sorrow, a fragment of apprehension.

  She turned, heavy-hearted, back towards her horse.

  "Come, then. But we'll go slowly. I want a little more of this air yet."

  The mutual loathing that seethed between Aewult nan Haig and Roaric oc Kilkry-Haig was so potent as to be almost visible, like a sickly miasma staining the air. It made Anyara want to turn away or shrink back amongst the small crowd of officials and warriors that had gathered to witness the confrontation. Had the two men been lowly townsfolk, confronting one another on the street, their acid tones and blatant contempt would have presaged certain violence.

  Aewult was seated on a wooden bench outside his huge white tent in the midst of his army's encampment. The Bloodheir's refusal to enter Kolkyre had unsettled both the city and the Tower of Thrones. For the last day and night Anyara had heard many servants and officials muttering in consternation, asking one another whether Aewult's rejection of Kilkry hospitality was studied insult, veiled threat or careless oversight. Or, perhaps, admission of shame; for everyone knew, by know, that the Bloodheir had been humbled by the Black Road. The story of the disastrous battle in the snowstorm was on everyone's lips.