“I do as my Thane commands me,” the Captain growled darkly.
“Yes. I’d not question Lheanor’s-”
“Roaric, now,” Kollen interrupted him. “Lheanor’s dead.”
Orisian set down his bowl. “How?”
“Black Road, they say. Inside the Tower of Thrones.”
“I’m sorry. We did not now. Was there… do you know if anyone else was killed? Hurt?”
Kollen shook his head. On the far side of the fire, K’rina groaned a little. She was hunched up, wrapped in a shawl that Eshenna had found in a corner. Kollen looked sharply at the na’kyrim.
“Is she sick? If she’s sick…”
“It’s nothing,” said Orisian. “Nothing she can pass to anyone else, at least. We only want a place to sleep. We’ll be gone in the morning.”
Kollen stared at him. He scratched his chin, fingers raking through his beard. The gesture reminded Orisian of Rothe.
“What’s the Thane of the Lannis Blood doing wandering around the Karkyre Peaks, then?” Kollen asked.
Orisian took up the steaming bowl of stew again, and frowned down into it. “Just trying to get home. That’s all.”
In the morning there was a dusting of snow across Stone. The wind had swept it from the exposed stretches of ground and packed it up against walls and into crevices. The village came alive before dawn. Orisian was already out, sitting on a huge square-cut slab of rock, when the eastern sky began to lighten behind the Peaks. He watched a pair of young boys drive a little flock of goats, vague shapes in the half-light, out across the mountainside, and wondered what pasture they could possibly find in this bare place. Some of the animals wore little bells at their necks. They rang and clattered their way through the village.
A little way further down towards the bridge, Torcaill and his men were gathered, talking quietly, preparing for the renewal of their march. Kollen had given them two men to act as guides, down through the foothills until they reached the road between Ive and Kolkyre. He had done it grudgingly, and Orisian blamed himself for that fact. He had spoken without thought, and without care.
The valley of the Kyre ran away, seemingly endless, into the north and west, sinking all the time. At the outermost limit of his sight, Orisian could see sunlight on summits. They shone. Here in Stone, though, the greatest heights of the Peaks still stood between him and the sun. A woman emerged in the doorway of a nearby hut, shaking out a blanket. It was an action that belonged so wholly and utterly to the mundane world of daily life that it transfixed Orisian. He stared at the woman’s blunt outline, the snapping flurry of the blanket, as if seeing something wondrous, something he had never before witnessed. She looked up at him. He could not make out her features in the gloom. She turned and disappeared into the hut.
And Orisian sobbed. Just once: an abrupt, convulsive sob that burst up from within him and shook his shoulders and squeezed water from his eyes. He sniffed and blinked and pressed his sleeve against his eyes, drew it across his nose. His jaw ached, and he feared for a moment that he might have split open his cheek.
Ess’yr was there, on the fringe’s of Torcaill’s huddle of warriors. Beside those burly figures, she was lean and lithe, standing straight, and looking up at Orisian. He wanted to hide in that moment, wanted to take his terrible smallness and fragility and burrow it down into some safe cranny where he could close his eyes and sleep away this bitter winter. But he returned her gaze; held it for what felt like an age. When at last she turned away, he rose and went down to join them.
III
The Inkallim came to Hommen out of fog. On such heavy air there was no sound to warn of their coming. They emerged, a dark mass, silently; scores of them. Hundreds, perhaps. Fiallic the Banner-captain rode at the head of the long column. Amongst the marching warriors were small groups of captive children, stumbling along in tight, frightened knots, herded by Hunt Inkallim and their dogs. Even those beasts were silent, their baleful presence alone enough to cow the children into terrified obedience.
Kanin oc Horin-Gyre was bitterly disappointed to see them come, for he was planning slaughter, and feared that their arrival would deprive him of it. He had his whole little army ready for battle, taut like a drawn bowstring. The battle he hoped for was not with the Haig Bloods, though. His spears and shields faced not south or west, but east. The enemy approaching was Aeglyss and those — hundreds, by all accounts — who marched with him.
Kanin had been ready to march himself within hours of hearing of Wain’s death. He meant, in the towering, agonised fury that mastered him then, to sweep up the coast and on to Kan Avor, and to turn that ruined city into a slaughterhouse. The orders for assembly had been given, the plans made. But word came that Aeglyss was on the move himself, descending the Glas valley, marching to join the army of the Black Road, beyond Hommen. As soon as he heard that news, Kanin thought he glimpsed an inevitable future: fate would deliver Aeglyss into his arms, onto his swords. He need only wait, and ready himself, and brood, rehearsing endlessly in his imagination the death of the halfbreed.
That hope was snatched away by the emergence of the Inkallim from the wintry mists. Fiallic and Goedellin of the Lore came to him, but he already knew what they would say. He could read the denial of his desires in the old man’s hobble, and in the warrior’s grave face.
“Word reached us of your sister’s death,” Goedellin said. “Killed in the struggle against Temegrin’s company, when the Eagle assailed Kan Avor in pursuit of Gryvan’s Shadowhand. Such is the tale that reached us.”
“I heard the same. I do not believe it.”
“No,” Goedellin said. “I did not expect that you would. We doubt it ourselves, though the truth remains obscure. It has proved… difficult to obtain reliable information on what has taken place at Kan Avor. Even Cannek has not been able to sift fact from rumour.”
“I don’t need the Hunt to tell me what happened,” Kanin growled. “My sister is dead. The Eagle is dead. Whose hand wielded the blade does not matter. Aeglyss is responsible.”
“And what do you intend to do about it?”
“I mean to destroy the halfbreed, and any who stand at his side.”
Goedellin nodded. He smiled. Kanin saw sympathy in that smile, but he was beyond its reach.
“You burn, Thane. The fires of grief burn in you, to be quenched only by blood. Hold fast to your faith, though. Your sister has passed from this world, and now awaits her birth in another, better one. She feels no sorrow, or pain, and must no longer suffer the miseries that we who remain are subject to. The grief you feel is not for her, but for yourself, deprived of her company.”
For the first time in his life, Kanin felt the urge to decry such pieties, even those uttered by an Inner Servant of the Lore himself. No, he thought. No, this is not a selfish grief, and it is not a deluded one. Wain was betrayed, and it is not fate that bears the responsibility, but one man. If the creed would deny that, I choose what my own heart tells me over the creed. As soon as that thought was in his mind, he was shamed by it. Nothing he had been taught by his father, his mother, or even Wain herself would condone such arrogance. He could be shamed by it, though, and still know — in his gut, and his heart — that it was true.
“There is a great battle waiting to be fought,” Goedellin said. “Just ahead of us, a few more paces, a few more days, down the Black Road. If we are its victors, this world will be changed. And if we are to be worthy of any victory that fate might offer, we must be united. Of one mind, clean and humble. The Banner-captain of the Battle is to be the one who leads us, who bears all our hopes.”
Kanin looked towards Fiallic. The Inkallim was a silent and still observer, a model of respect. Everything in his expression and his posture suggested deference to the old, hunched man who was speaking. Speaking platitudes, Kanin’s seething mind insisted.
Goedellin stirred the snow at his feet with the butt of his walking stick. “The Children of the Hundred believe the na’kyrim can be of no further ser
vice to our cause. His part in this is done.”
“You mean that you now fear him,” Kanin muttered. “You see, too late, that he is a poison, who won’t be controlled any more than.. ”
“Enough,” Goedellin said. “His presence no longer serves the creed. Satisfy yourself with that. But we will end his service, Thane. Not you. If it comforts you, think thus: your heart will have its desire, for the halfbreed will die. But not by your hand.” His beady eyes narrowed. “You would be better served by taking comfort in your faith. Fate has its plan for us all and, no matter how fierce the passions that burn in our breast, it cannot be gainsaid. If it’s bloodshed you crave, seek it on the field of battle, on the road to Kolkyre. The world waits to be subdued, Thane. That’s the cause in which to spend your anger now.”
“I will try to remember your guidance,” Kanin said. He was curt, unable to pretend to any enthusiasm. Goedellin appeared satisfied.
“There is often benefit concealed in the cruellest cuts,” the old Inkallim said. “We all serve a higher purpose. We are working for the deliverance of the world, of all humankind, out of shadow and into light. The na’kyrim has served that purpose, as he was fated to do. Your sister’s death was unlooked for — I dared to hope she would be a faithful servant of the creed in this world for years to come — but that of Temegrin is a boon, even if it brings with it much uncertainty and risk. It removes an obstacle upon our path, for he sought too often to pull against the current of fate.
“And if it is true, as rumour testifies, and as Temegrin believed, that the halfbreed has somehow brought the Chancellor of the Haig Blood within our grasp, we will look back on these as days when fate truly smiled upon our endeavours.”
Kanin turned away. He could not stand and listen to this, for fear that his innermost thoughts would burst free and condemn him in the eyes of the Lore. Walking away, he had never been so alone. All that had surrounded him throughout his life — his Blood, his faith, his sister — was gone, burned off like a mist consumed by the sun’s unforgiving gaze. He moved through an empty landscape, one he did not recognise, populated by people whose language he no longer understood.
The straggling host that came to Hommen the next day was as strange as any that Kanin had ever seen. He could see no order in it, no columns or ranks. It came down the coast road from Kolglas like a huge, leaderless herd of cattle. Standing with Fiallic and Goedellin, amidst the assembled might of the Battle Inkall and his own Blood’s warriors, he looked out through softly falling snow and saw Kyrinin — scores of them — coming along the higher ground on the landward side of the road. He saw Tarbains milling about on the flanks of the moving mass; standards and pennants of his own Blood, and Gyre and Fane, lurching along in its dark heart. And Shraeve at the forefront, her ravens around her. Aeglyss rode beside her, small in the saddle; limp.
Something else came with this ragged army. Something that Kanin could not see, or hear, but that stole across his skin and shadowed his mind. This host drove a bow wave of foreboding before it, and Kanin felt it wash over him, felt the idea take root in his mind that this was more than a mere assembly of warriors; that it was somehow fate itself, given form. He doubted all his certainties in that moment. He saw his loathing for Aeglyss clearly for what it was: the futile, foolish ravings of a child standing in the path of one of the Tan Dihrin’s grinding glaciers, commanding it to turn aside from its chosen path.
It was the thought of Wain that drew him back. The clear memory of her, riding away from him that last time they had spoken, was handhold enough for him to keep his grip upon his self. Aeglyss was only a man, his resilient hatred insisted. He would die like any other.
The whole eastern side of Hommen, from the crumbling watchtower all the way down to the sea, was defended. A thicket of spears and shields and swords barred the way. Kanin heard the uncertain murmuring that rippled through the ranks as Aeglyss drew near. He even saw a few of his own warriors shuffling backwards, looking around with hunted, fearful eyes. He shouted at them. Most, but not all, obediently resumed their places in the line.
Aeglyss dismounted. He moved like an old man whose brittle bones might snap under his own weight, Kanin thought. When the halfbreed walked slowly forwards, Shraeve flanked him on one side, a powerfully built Kyrinin warrior on the other. Kanin had eyes only for Aeglyss, though. He stared, and knew his hatred would be shining, obvious. He could not have concealed it, even had he wished to.
Aeglyss lifted his arms and spread his hands. Shraeve and the woodwight stopped, letting him take a few paces beyond them. The na’kyrim faced Fiallic, but the Inkallim ignored him; looked beyond him, and spoke to his fellow raven.
“This man is to be surrendered to the Hunt,” he said to Shraeve. “He goes no further than this.”
“No,” Aeglyss said.
Fiallic continued to address Shraeve. “And the Shadowhand, as well, if you have him here.”
The na’kyrim grimaced. “We have him. He is bound for Vaymouth. Nowhere else. He carries a message from me to the Thane of Thanes.”
At last Fiallic turned his gaze upon Aeglyss.
“You will be sending messages to no one. We require the Shadowhand. And you. It is not a matter of choice.”
“Nothing is about choice to you, is it? Your miserable, gloomy little creed does not… ah.” He flicked a dismissive hand at the Banner-captain and turned, began to walk away.
Now he dies, thought Kanin, with both a shiver of anticipation and a twist of regret. It would not be his own hand that took the halfbreed’s life, but the fact of his death was the most important thing.
“Where is my sister?” he shouted after Aeglyss.
He thought he saw the na’kyrim ’s head lift a little at his call, but Aeglyss did not look around or slow his stride. Fiallic stepped forwards after the halfbreed, and set his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Aeglyss paused at Shraeve’s side, leaning on her shoulder. It looked like a moment of feebleness. He stretched his head up and whispered something to her. She was watching Fiallic, and did not seem to react to the na’kyrim ’s words. Fiallic came on. And Shraeve blocked his path, putting Aeglyss at her back.
The two Inkallim faced each other, snowflakes tumbling about them. Kanin frowned. He had a sudden, lurching sense of disorientation, as of a man poised on the brink of a precipice. But this was not the dizziness of height; it was an imbalance of the world, a twisting away, out of reach, of possibilities and hopes.
“Stand aside,” Fiallic said quietly.
Shraeve only shook her head, stirring little accumulations of snow from her shoulders.
Aeglyss was still walking away, stoop-shouldered, frail. “She sees what you cannot, raven,” he said. He turned, amongst his woodwights once more. “You think it is the sun of your power, your authority, that still illuminates the clouds, but your eyes deceive you. It is only afterlight, Fiallic: the fading echo of a day that’s already passed. Shraeve has set her face towards the new dawn.”
“With regret,” Shraeve said, “I challenge you, Banner-captain. I make a claim to your rank and your standing in the Battle. I ask that we reveal fate’s intent, in this matter that comes between us.”
“No,” Kanin heard Goedellin saying behind him. The old Lore Inkallim pushed forwards, stabbing his crooked stick into the soft snow. His hooked back held his head no higher than Kanin’s chest, but Goedellin’s voice was clear, with all the vigour of his authority. “This is not a fit time for such an issue to be tested, Shraeve. Later, if you must, but first this half-wight is to be-”
“This is a matter for the Battle,” Shraeve said levelly. “The fitness of the time is no concern for the Lore, or for any of us. I have seen things… I believe that this na’kyrim is here because he has a great purpose to serve, a great fate to live out. I have seen enough to leave me without doubts in this. If you mean to kill him, I must oppose you. I am entitled.”
Fiallic shifted sideways. Shraeve matched his movement. Beyond them, Aeglyss wa
s watching. There was such contemptuous confidence on his inhuman face that Kanin felt a flicker of alarm.
“I make a claim on the place of Banner-captain,” Shraeve insisted. “Fate’s judgement is infallible. Let us face it together, Fiallic. There is nothing improper in my challenge.” She bowed low, bending from the waist, her head almost brushing Fiallic’s chest in its descent.
Again Goedellin thumped the butt of his walking stick down, punching a hole into the snow. Fiallic looked round to the Lore Inkallim, and in the raven’s expression Kanin saw the betrayal of everything he had hoped for from this day.
“She is entitled,” the Banner-captain said. “The rule of the Battle permits it.”
“No,” Kanin said before he could help himself, but no one paid him any heed. Shraeve was still bent over, perfectly poised and still. Fat snowflakes dotted her back.
“It will be no service to the creed for either of you to die today,” Goedellin growled.
“Do you fear to let fate play itself out, old man?” Aeglyss shouted. “I do not. Let the ravens dance their dance. If she fails, you can have my life, and welcome to it.”
Fiallic was already backing away. He settled himself a spear’s reach from Shraeve, and slowly bowed down. Goedellin gave an irate snort and stamped away. Shraeve straightened.
“Choose the field, Banner-captain,” she said.
There was, on bare, rising ground beyond Hommen’s southernmost dwelling, a great sheep pen: a low stone wall that described a perfect circle across the slope. Snow had piled up against the wall: and laid itself into every crevice between the stones. Outside that circle, another assembled itself, Battle Inkallim ringing the killing ground within. They stood in single rank, thirty of them, widely spaced. Each one of them took position and then set their own weapons down on the snow behind them. Beyond that ring of swords and knives the crowds assembled.
Hundreds were there, of many Bloods, of many callings. Warriors and commoners, Inkallim and Kyrinin. And one Thane. Kanin stood above the pen. The snow blew into his face, carried on a sharp wind, but he barely felt it. The flakes were coming down thickly enough now to almost obscure the village below them. The old watchtower was an indistinct hulking mass, the cottages spread around it blurred into a single grey-black shape. The harbour and the sea beyond were gone, sunk away into the winter. Kanin spared none of it more than a moment’s glance.
Bloodheir tgw-2 Page 47
