'Such a thought would never cross my mind,' murmured Inurian.
'Excellent. Now I am afraid I must send you on your way. Should we meet again, perhaps some time in your uncle's prison cells will have blunted that tongue of yours, Anyara.'
He gave an exaggerated bow in her direction. She took a step backwards, shying away from the gesture, and cursed herself silently for the reaction. She caught a contemptuous curl at the corner of Wain nan Horin-Gyre's mouth as she was ushered out of the room.
Anduran's gaol lay off the long, broad Street of Crafts that passed from the square through the town's northern quarter towards the castle. As she and Inurian were marched towards it, through rain that was now hard and sharp enough to sting her scalp, Anyara stepped over and around the flotsam left in the wake of the town's foundering. As well as the fragments of broken and burned homes, the road was littered with debris dropped by fleeing townsfolk or looting soldiers: here a child's straw dolly, there a single cloth glove, a matron's cap, a baby's shawl. All were sinking, or had been trodden, into rivulets and puddles of dirty water.
The enemy lurked in many of the buildings, sheltering from the rain. Grim, hostile faces regarded Anyara and Inurian from doorways. Once, from the upper floor of one of the houses, someone threw a half-eaten hunk of bread that bounced off Anyara's shoulder. She trudged on.
The gaol had the look and feel of a fortress or barracks in miniature. Anyara and Inurian were led through the gate in the long outer wall. Within, two separate blocks of cells lay on either side. Tight, metal-barred windows fixed the newcomers with a gloomy gaze. Guardrooms and sleeping quarters were attached to each of the blocks, but the house of the head gaoler stood alone. A group of Horin-Gyre warriors had gathered outside it. They were watching as the bodies of two young men were cut down from the makeshift gibbets that flanked the building.
It was a moment or two before Anyara realised that she and Inurian were being separated. Their captors were steering them apart, Anyara towards the cells on the right and Inurian to the left.
'Inurian,' she called.
He was looking at her with something close to anguish upon his face.
'Be strong,' he said. 'It is not over yet.'
Anyara managed a nod, and then someone was pushing her head down and forwards as she was forced through a low doorway and swallowed whole by the gloom of her prison.
Later, cast down upon the hard floor of a narrow cell - the door slammed shut and barred, drops of rain splashing in through the tiny window high in the wall - and with no one there to see, she wept at last.
IV
LHEANOR OC KILKRY-Haig had been arguing with the High Thane's Steward for some time. Lagair Haldyn dar Haig was not the worst Steward Lheanor had been forced to deal with in his time. Since he became Thane of his Blood, there had been three holders of that office, and by the end of his tenure the second - Pallick - had been almost impossible. Even Gryvan oc Haig had eventually accepted that the man's presence in Kolkyre served nobody and had sent him instead to Igryn oc Dargannan-Haig's court. It was without great surprise that Lheanor later heard that Pallick had been thrown into a gaol cell by Igryn. He sometimes wondered if the man's appointment to the post of Steward in Dargannan lands had not been a deliberate ploy to provoke Igryn to rebellion. Gryvan oc Haig, or his Shadowhand, were certainly not above such manipulations, and although few men could singlehandedly cause a revolt through their obstinacy and arrogance, it was probably not beyond Pallick.
By comparison, Lagair's failings were limited to indolence and an all-encompassing indifference to the concerns of others. It made arguing with him a thankless task. Lheanor was an old man, and he found the effort wearying. He was thankful that his son, the Bloodheir Gerain, was here with him, to share the burden.
'I am not disputing your right to act,' the Steward was saying. For some reason he was not looking at the Thane, or at Gerain, but staring vacantly at the fire burning in the grate. 'I merely insist that you refrain from marching your entire army into the Glas valley until we first have a better idea of what exactly is happening there and second, have word from Vaymouth regarding the High Thane's intent.'
'We already have riders on their way to find out what is happening,' replied the Bloodheir levelly, 'but whatever the details, you cannot deny the need to act. You have seen the same messages we have: more than a hundred people from Kolglas and the villages around there have already crossed our borders. Others are on their way. Kolglas itself has been attacked, the castle and half the town burned, and Kennet nan Lannis-Haig has been killed. White Owl Kyrinin are looting farms, and Inkallim are loose in Anlane. Inkallim, Steward! If the ravens of the Black Road are fighting pitched battles as far south as Kolglas, how can you doubt that disaster threatens?'
Lagair scratched at the side of his nose, frowning with concentration.
'If there is one thing I have learned in all my years,' the Steward said - and Lheanor groaned inwardly at this repetition of a phrase Lagair used with self-important frequency - 'it is that the obvious conclusions are not always proved correct by subsequent events. I mean, think on it for a moment. Kolglas has been raided, not captured. The entire Battle Inkall numbers no more than a few thousand, to the best of our knowledge, so they can hardly be planning to march all the way to Kolkyre on their own. No, this looks more like a piece of clever hubris, to me. A few Inkallim have somehow managed to sneak to Kolglas, kill the Thane's brother and have now snuck off back to Kan Dredar or wherever they call home. At the same time they've managed to stir up the woodwights, which I freely admit is surprising but hardly a disaster.'
Gerain was hiding it well, but Lheanor could see that his son was only a few minutes away from losing his temper. The Bloodheir had a generally equable temperament - certainly in comparison to his brother Roaric - but was quite capable of the occasional ill-judged outburst. There had probably been enough talking in any case.
'Well, we shall know the truth of all this before too long,' Lheanor said quietly.
The Steward glanced up and gave the Thane a vacant, pointless smile.
'Our finest scouts are on the road even now, and we'll have their reports within a day or so,' Lheanor continued.
'Yes, lord,' agreed Lagair. 'Quite true. A day or two's patience will cost us little.'
'There's a difference between patience and inactivity,' Lheanor said. 'Whatever the uncertainties, I am entitled to do as I see fit to protect my own borders, and to see to the safety of the Lannis Blood as well. You would not expect me to stand by while another of the True Bloods faces . . . well, whatever they are facing.'
Lagair looked doubtful but held his tongue.
'I will look forward to hearing the High Thane's opinions on the matter - no doubt you already have detailed reports on their way to Vaymouth -- but in the meantime, I shall take such action as seems to me wise and prudent. I can assure you,' Lheanor said with studied clarity, 'that I will not go so far as to march my entire army into the Glas valley. You've made it clear you, and therefore Gryvan oc Haig, would disapprove of such a step, and as it would in any case be the act of an idiot, I am happy to promise to refrain from it.'
'Yes, very good,' said Lagair. His expression suggested he put little value on Lheanor's promise.
'Of course,' the Kilkry Thane said, 'if, once we know what is actually happening, it no longer seems idiotic, then I will march my entire army wherever I wish. Since it is, after all, mine. That part of it which the High Thane has left me with, at least.'
After the Steward had gone, Lheanor took a private meal with his son and his wife, Ilessa. They were all subdued and their mood communicated itself to the servants, who stepped lightly around the table and took care to stay out of sight until they were needed.
There were close ties of friendship and history between the Kilkry and Lannis Bloods. Kennet nan Lannis-Haig had been a frequent, and well-liked, visitor to Kolkyre before the Heart Fever. Lheanor had never known him as well as he knew Croesan, but had believ
ed him to be a good and reliable man. It meant nothing to Lagair Haldyn - and nor would it to the High Thane the Steward served - but for Lheanor and his family, Kennet's death was cause for great sorrow. All the more so if it was truly the work of the hated Bloods of the Black Road.
Gerain was uninterested in his food. He took only a few desultory mouthfuls.
'Will you let me go?' he asked.
Ilessa looked up from her platter to her son, but his gaze was fixed upon Lheanor. For a moment or two, the Thane seemed not to have heard the question. He prodded at the meat in front of him, his brow furrowed.
'How many men do you want to take?' the Thane asked at length.
'Only two or three hundred,' Gerain replied at once. He sounded eager, though he was trying hard to maintain a level tone. 'My own men: none from the border watches or the castles. Just my own company.'
Lheanor sighed and gestured for one of the attendants to remove the unfinished meal before him. He poured himself some wine. A little of it spilled, his hands made slightly unsteady by age.
'Still no word from Roaric,' he murmured. 'We've heard nothing from him for . . . what? Two weeks?'
'Three,' Ilessa said quietly.
'We cannot just sit and wait, no matter how much the Steward may complain,' Gerain said. 'You told him as much yourself, Father. Out of all the Bloods, Lannis is the only one we can truly call our friends.'
'You think I don't know that?' The Thane could not keep irritation out of his voice, but his expression showed that he immediately regretted it. He half-raised a placatory hand. 'What times we live in. Both my sons must go into harm's way? You'll allow me to regret that.'
'They are their father's sons,' said Ilessa. 'That is why they do as they do. When you were Gerain's age you would have been the first to ride out.'
The Thane returned her gentle smile. They had married young, Lheanor and Ilessa, too young almost to understand what they were doing. Neither had ever suffered even a moment's regret. They had grown old together as willingly as any two people ever had.
'I remember well enough,' Lheanor said. His blood had sometimes run hot when he was young. When he was Bloodheir he had been at least as eager, as fired by passion, as Gerain. Looking back from the lofty vantage point of his now advanced years he could not remember when caution - something that could almost be called fear, even - had started to erode that youthful vigour. Perhaps it had been the moment he became Thane.
'I'd not seek strife, but if it comes looking for us we cannot turn away from it,' said Gerain. 'Let me go. Perhaps Croesan does not need our aid. Perhaps all I can do is tell him we share his sorrow at Kennet's death. But if he does need our aid - our spears - it would shame us to wait for Gryvan oc Haig's permission before giving it.'
'You'd find no one in all our lands, except Gryvan's own Steward, to disagree with that. It does not change the fact that he is High Thane. We must tread with care, that is all. I will tread carefully around Gryvan and his Steward; you take your men to Kolglas, and you tread carefully there. I want both of my sons alive to celebrate next Winterbirth here with your family.'
V
ORISIAN STRUGGLED UP from unconsciousness as if waking from a viscous sleep. He was being carried through the forest on some kind of stretcher. He thought hazily about moving but his body was unresponsive. His gaze jolted in time with the stride of whoever was carrying him. The peeling trunks of birch trees loomed one after another across his vision and passed away. He saw a carpet of rough grass, dark green moss and fallen leaves. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the fleeting image of tall, pale figures walking. There was no sound. It was like a dream. He felt dull, throbbing pain in his side. He could not imagine why it should be there, but it mounted to a stabbing fire that surged and retreated in a remorseless rhythm. He slipped away again into a dark place.
Later he opened his eyes but still could not shed the stupor that clung to him. Voices had roused him. He saw, and heard without understanding. There were sounds, in turn like the chattering of squirrels, the croaking of crows or the movement of leaves in the breeze. He was being carried past strange bulbous tents. He saw a woman crouched in a doorway, her face with its delicate, impassive features trying to tell him something he did not understand. An animal hide was stretched upon a wooden frame. He smelled woodsmoke. Children flurried by. Like something out of nightmare or hallucination, there was a great face woven of boughs and twigs that leered at him. There was a pole thrust into the earth, with deer skulls fastened to it one above the other. They watched him with their dead sockets as he went past and his own eyes faltered and closed beneath their mournful gaze.
When he saw again, there was a face close to his: dusk-grey eyes looking into his own; fragile skin so close he could have laid his lips upon it. He felt the warmth of someone's breath upon his cheeks and brow. He was inside, beneath a curving roof of deerskin. Somewhere very far away he thought he heard a voice he knew shouting his name. It fell silent and as he was laid down upon the ground he lost consciousness once more.
He returned, at first, without knowing who he was. He blinked and turned a little towards the faint light. The movement was enough to trigger pain in his side. He grimaced at it, wondering why he should feel such a thing. The pain eased into an ache and he lay still for a time. His memories came slowly back, but they were unreal and he could not sort truth from dream, or nightmare.
He was looking up at the roof of a strange tent: a broad sweep of animal hide on a framework of poles. Furs were lying over him, filling his nostrils with a musky scent. Once more, he tried to turn his head to look towards the light that was filtering in from somewhere to his left. He was braced for the pain; still when it came it brought a gasp out of him. He lifted his lead-heavy hand and put it to his side. There was some kind of dressing there, warm and moist against his skin. He was taken by a fit of coughing that filled his chest with fire and sent blurring flickers of light across his vision. He watched them dancing inside his eyelids as dizziness swept through him.
Then there was someone inside the tent with him, laying a cool palm upon his forehead and lifting the furs to look at his bandaged flank. He looked into a face from his dreams: a beautiful, pale-skinned face, framed by yellow-white hair, from which clear grey eyes regarded him. The hand upon his brow was withdrawn, and he glimpsed spidery fingers tipped by long, white nails. The thin lips moved.
'Be still,' came a voice that was as light and floating in Orisian's ears as a breath of summer wind.
Kyrinin, some small, clear part of his mind murmured to him. The thought drifted away, unable to find any purchase upon him.
'Rest,' he heard her say, and he did.
Fariel was there, in a half-waking, half-sleeping place. His dead brother stooped in the doorway of the tent. He was a handsome, almost beautiful, young man now. He held his long hair back from his eyes as he leaned forwards.
'Walk with me,' he said, and Orisian rose and followed his brother out into the evening.
The forest was bathed in low sunlight, the trees throwing sharp shadows across the grass. Butterflies flitted from light to shade and back to light again. His brother waited for him, holding out a hand.
'Let's go down to the sea,' he said, and Orisian nodded. The trees stood far apart, and they made their way down towards the waves. The water was shining. The two of them stood side by side and looked out to the west. The great globe of the sun was just touching its rim to the horizon. A warm breeze was blowing in.
'It's beautiful,' said Orisian, and Fariel smiled.
'Very,' he said.
'You've been gone a long time,' Orisian said.
His brother picked up a stone and threw it far, far out. He wiped his hand on his tunic.
'Not so long, and not so far away.'
'No, I never thought you were very far away,' Orisian said.
They started to walk along the shore. Birds above them called with voices almost human, mixing alarm and loss.
'I'd like you to
come back,' said Orisian.
'I can't. I'm sorry,' said Fariel without looking at his brother.
'Are you alone? Is . . .' Orisian's voiced faded away.
Fariel laughed gently. 'Yes, she's with me. And Father.'
That brought Orisian to a standstill. He stared at the back of Fariel's head as his older brother walked on a few steps before stopping and turning. Orisian felt a sickness stirring in the pit of his stomach. Gulls were screeching in the air, the sound of screams. The sun was sickening and taking on a red hue.
'Father?' he echoed. Dark shapes were at the corner of his eyes, dancing, taunting.
Fariel pointed out to sea and there, impossibly close, was Castle Kolglas. It was a burned-out shell with smoke still rising from its broken windows, sections of its walls cast down and crumbling, its gates torn asunder and lying like flotsam at the water's edge. As Orisian watched, a great block of stone toppled from the battlements, crashed on to the rocks below and splashed into the sea. He reached out with his arms, as if he could touch the shattered castle. He felt dizzy. Deep inside his head, he saw his father, blood trickling from the side of his mouth, the hilt of a massive knife protruding from his chest. He gagged.
'You'd forgotten,' said Fariel.
Orisian bowed his head. 'What should I do?'
'I can't say,' replied his brother. 'No one can tell you that any more. You'll have to decide for yourself.'
Orisian looked up. Fariel shook his head sadly. He seemed to be further away, out over the water. Orisian could not make out his features any more.
'Wait,' cried Orisian, rising to his feet, 'don't go.'
Fariel said something, but Orisian could barely hear him now.
'Where's Anyara?' shouted Orisian.
His brother faded into the bright demi-circle of the setting sun.
'Don't leave me,' Orisian said.
He felt himself falling backwards, slumping down towards the earth. He fell into something soft and sank into it.
Godless World 1 - Winterbirth Page 16
