by Tom Lloyd
As they clasped arms, Morghien stepped away, to allow them some privacy. Isak opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. He released Mihn and withdrew his hand, feeling foolish and awkward.
‘Don’t go and get yourself killed, you hear?’ he said, sounding almost angry. ‘I’ll have things for you to do when you bring her back.’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ Mihn replied, as inscrutable as ever.
Isak shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘Well then, I suppose you should be off,’ he said gruffly.
‘Yes, my Lord.’ Mihn gave a bow and turned to leave.
Ah, damn, I’m being a fool, aren’t I? Isak thought suddenly. Never had much need for goodbyes before, not to a friend. ‘Mihn, wait,’ he said on impulse. Right, what do I say now? ‘Thank you for agreeing to go; Xeliath is really my responsibility after all. You’ve been as loyal a bondsman as I could have ever hoped for, as well as a friend.’
A smile crept onto Mihn’s usually expressionless face. ‘I am glad to have purpose in my life again,’ he said. For a moment he hesitated, off-balance himself. ‘I— when I was young and still with my people, weaponsmasters from the furthest clans came to watch me in a practice duel. I am-I was the best with the blades they’d ever seen. One said he thought he was watching the King of Dancers.’
‘The what?’
‘A myth among the Harlequin, that one day we would have a king of our own, one who will end our years of service to the Seven Tribes of Man. It isn’t a prophecy - even among the Harlequins we do not know its origin - but it is told to every child, down through the generations, because it is the only tale we have of our own. None of the history we relate involves the people of the clans. After that day I was treated differently, as though my destiny was assured and I carried their hopes with me.
‘When I failed, the old men wept as if they had no future. I know it isn’t the same for you, but I do know what it is to bear expectation. It was something I resented. I thought of it as a burden. Now I am glad I have the chance to be part of something magnificent again.’
Isak didn’t speak. He was transfixed by the outwelling of emotion, and by Mihn’s unwarranted decision to reveal such a personal matter.
‘Just remember,’ Mihn continued as he composed himself, ‘you’ve been blessed by the Gods. Never forget that, and never regret it.’ With that, he turned and walked away to his horse. He had a spring in his step, as though a weight had been lifted from him.
‘I hope you remember that too,’ Isak said to Mihn’s back, but whether he heard, Isak had no idea.
When the pair had disappeared behind a great outcrop of grass-topped granite, Suzerain Saroc led the procession in the opposite direction, eastwards, toward the town. As they traveled, the suzerain explained to Isak that the town was in fact owned by the abbey at its centre, run by the Brethren of the Sacred Teachings. His grandfather had bequeathed them land that hugged the banks of the river, but the second abbot, being a man of sharp business sense, had overseen the village’s expansion and now the once-sleepy hamlet was a busy town.
As they drew closer, Isak began to note increasing numbers of fit young men in blue habits, beyond that of any normal monastery. The suzerain was a popular man, and stopped frequently to talk to the townsfolk. He introduced the most important to Isak, but most were too intimidated by the huge white-eye to do much beyond bow and mutter greetings. Even so, Isak felt the atmosphere was one of welcome, more than anything else, and his fears about the Brethren began to subside - until he reminded himself that it was easy enough to put on a show for one day. He would need to hear Lesarl’s opinion before he accepted it wholly at face value.
At the abbey a small party stood waiting to greet them. The men were all dressed in dark blue, as befitted monks in the service of Nartis, but on their deep cuffs were thick bands of yellow, which Isak had never seen before. The abbot looked young for his position, barely forty summers, by Isak’s guess, although his head was clearly bald, unlike many of his companions, who had had to resort to shaving to correctly mimic their God, Nartis.
Suzerain Saroc went through the formalities, introducing Abbot Kels and Prior Portin. There were two unnamed monks, who were standing beside a third man, dressed as a lay brother and leaning heavily on a wooden crutch, his right leg raised off the ground. The man wouldn’t look at Isak, but scowled at the ground between the Duke of Tirah and Abbot Kels. There was something familiar about the man, but nothing he could put his finger on. In the distant recesses of his mind, Aryn Bwr, who had been quiet since the battle, chuckled infuriatingly. Isak tried to concentrate on what people were saying, but when the injured man did at last speak, the words escaped Isak completely.
‘But of course!’ exclaimed the abbot in response to whatever the man had said. ‘I should not have kept you here at all. My Lords, please excuse Brother Hobble, for he has just returned from the hospital with vital medicines, and as you can imagine, it is rather tiring to walk with a crutch.’
Isak motioned for the man to go, which Hobble did without another word. Aryn Bwr muttered something ironic in Elvish, as the man made his way down the street.
‘Brother Hobble?’ Isak enquired of the abbot, who spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
‘It is the only name he will give us. He came to us several months ago, and he has been a blessing to the abbey ever since. He’s a learned and pious man who I hope will soon take his vows, but he will tell us nothing of his past, or the cause of that shattered ankle that refuses to heal properly.’
‘I know him,’ mused Vesna. ‘I’ve seen him at the palace, I think - a Swordmaster? his name escapes me, but I know I’ve met him.’
As the memory of his first morning in the palace rose in Isak’s mind, a cold chill ran down his spine and his mouth went suddenly dry. A face in the crowd as he sparred with Swordmaster Kerin; a pain in the back of his knee; the bubbling anger as he sprawled flat on his back on the packed earth of the training ground; a savage blow as he lashed out at the man who had caught him, and the thumping connection with an ankle that was so hard it had jarred his wrist.
Isak hadn’t even looked at the man, intent as he was on besting Kerin. Only afterwards had he noticed the man, face contorted by pain as he held his leg just above the shattered ankle - the ankle that still hadn’t healed.
‘Oh Gods.’
‘What is it?’ Vesna asked. ‘Can you place him?’
Isak ignored the question and asked the abbot, ‘Can you not do anything for him? Have you tried to heal it with magic?’
‘Of course, my Lord,’ the abbot replied, ‘we are a dual-aligned abbey, dedicated to Nartis and Shotir.’ He brushed the yellow cuff of his habit: Isak now realised it was the colour of the God of Healing. ‘Unfortunately, our best efforts - and we do have a number of talented healers here - have proved fruitless. The damage done to Hobble’s ankle is no normal injury, and our magic has had no effect. I suspect Hobble believes the hurt done to him was a divine judgment, that he has something to atone for. Certainly that impression is sustained by the vigour he goes about any task he is given, but considering how selfless the man is, I cannot begin to imagine what that might be.’
Isak stared down the road at the man limping through the crowds of townsfolk. ‘Tsatach’s balls,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘An angry boy’s moment of petulance, nothing more, and he takes it as a divine judgment?’ Now he knew why the last king had been so amused.
‘My Lord?’ said the abbot anxiously, trying to catch Isak’s words.
‘What does he do at the hospital?’
‘He is experienced at dressing wounds and spends much of his day tending to the poor folk afflicted with leprosy. He will not turn from the most menial of tasks.’
‘Leprosy?’ Isak exclaimed, wide-eyed with alarm.
The abbot chuckled. ‘My Lord, calm yourself. We have tended lepers in these parts for decades; I am certain there is no risk of contagion. Brother Helras has been in charge of the hosp
ital for ten years now, and has persisted in good health the entire time. You are quite safe.’
‘Did Brother Hobble know that when he volunteered for the duties?’
The abbot paused. ‘I’m not sure … perhaps. If not, it is a testament to the man’s faith, no? Now, may I show you around the abbey and offer you refreshment?’
‘The consequences of this life,’ he muttered under his breath, too softly for anyone else to hear. He tells me to be thankful for what I have, yet every step of the way I hurt someone else. In my wake I hardly notice the futures I ruin. Oh Mihn, you’ve got such faith in me, but what magnificent destiny are you going to find down a road paved with broken lives?
‘My Lord?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Lead the way.’
That evening, Isak found himself out in the walled garden again, staring up at the hunter’s moon at its zenith. The memory of Brother Hobble, struggling with his crutch and scowling down at the ground, had haunted him all day. Clearly he had not forgiven Isak for the injury, divine retribution or no, and Isak certainly couldn’t blame him for that: constant pain and the end to his life as a Swordmaster were hard things to forgive - although that the latter must have been the man’s own choice, knowing Swordmaster Kerin as he did. It was the heroes of war who gained Farlan titles and fame, and there were dozens of men who’d found their place in the Land through being a champion of the Ghosts.
‘Contemplating the futility of existence, my Lord?’
Isak whirled around at the unknown voice, Eolis flashing from its sheath. The silver blade glowed in the moonlight as a man stepped from the shadows with a chuckle. A sword remained sheathed on his back while his hands were held out in Farlan greeting.
‘With such gifts, who could lead a futile life?’
‘Who are you?’ Isak tried to make out the man’s face. He wasn’t Farlan; his lighter hair and darker complexion made him look more Western, if anything. His dress was dark, functional, reminding Isak of the King’s Men of Narkang. Not quite a soldier, and more than one.
‘I am Ilumene.’ There was a pause. The man stood with the ghost of a sardonic smile on his lips. Isak had the oddest sensation, that Ilumene was not just a King’s Man, he could be King Emin’s son - though of course he could not be, as he was some thirty summers old, and Queen Oterness was well noted for having failed to produce an heir … but this man did have every ounce of Emin’s mocking arrogance.
‘For a man who seems to like the sound of his own voice, you’ve gone suddenly quiet,’ Isak said. ‘If you don’t want me to run you through, perhaps you would care to explain yourself in a little more detail?’
The edge in Isak’s growling voice served only to widen Ilumene’s smile. The man had two scars on his otherwise handsome face, on the left-hand side. One skirted the ridge of his eyebrow; the second was a jagged cut down the outside of his cheek.
‘I am of the Brotherhood.’ Ilumene gave a chuckle and turned his head to the right to give Isak a better view of his scar. ‘But as you can see, my duties have not left me unsullied.’ The base of his earlobe that would have carried the Heart rune had been torn away by the cut. When Ilumene pointed at his ear, Isak saw a network of criss-crossing scars on his hands, as though the man had been dragged through a bramble bush of steel thorns.
‘Strange that you didn’t appear when Morghien was here.’
For an instant Ilumene looked genuinely shocked. ‘I didn’t know Morghien had been in the region. Come to think of it, I didn’t know you and he were known to each other. It seems I have much to catch up on. When did he leave?’
‘Today, this morning.’
‘I’m surprised he didn’t wait then; I’ve not seen him for a long time. I was starting to wonder whether he could sniff us out - I can’t remember how often he’s stepped out from behind the only tree around on a deserted stretch of road.’
Isak relaxed a little. There may have been something odd about Ilumene, but he’d not liked all of those Brothers he’d met in Narkang either - the tall, blond one with a scar all the way down the side of his face, Beyn; King Emin and Doranei were confident of his loyalty, but there was something about the man’s face that Isak didn’t care for. I suspect it’s just because he has a white-eye’s arrogance, he thought, being honest with himself.
As it was clear that Ilumene did know Morghien, and Isak was certain the wanderer wasn’t one for casual acquaintances, he sheathed Eolis.
Ilumene stepped a yard closer so they could speak normally.
‘Well, I suppose that also answers how you got past the guards,’ Isak commented. ‘I hope you didn’t hurt any of them.’
Ilumene gave a small smile. ‘One will have wounded pride when his comrades find him, but nothing more. King Emin may encourage many unsavoury traits in his men, but a love of killing is not one of them.’
Though Ilumene spoke with a smile, there was an edge that left Isak with a slight frown. Most of the Brotherhood were respectful of their king to the point of reverence; Ilumene sounded like he was on more familiar terms with Emin. Maybe, Isak reflected, it’s because they’re so similar. His brief time in Narkang was enough to realise King Emin was not hot on excessive formality if it were not necessary.
Isak broke the brief silence. ‘I take it you were here for a reason?’
‘There is always purpose in my master’s actions.’
And in your choice of words? Isak wondered. A prickle ran down his neck, but he refused to let it show. The man was playing a game, trying to unsettle Isak - but could he expect anything less of King Emin’s friend?
‘And that purpose is?’
Ilumene shrugged. ‘I was to give you a message, though I do not pretend to understand everything behind it. King Emin is secretly traveling to Scree, the Brotherhood his only guards - it was thought that you should know.’
‘Scree? Why? What’s happened there?’
‘I intend to leave tonight to find out more. The message was short; there was no space for explanations. I have heard a rumour about a monk fleeing his monastery and hiding in Scree.’
‘A monk? What could a monk have done to make Emin hunt him down personally?’ Isak was genuinely confused. ‘And in Scree, no less? I’d have thought a White Circle stronghold was the last place Emin would want to go.’
‘Unless he considered it important enough,’ Ilumene corrected him. ‘I have the impression the king will not be the only one hunting the monk.’
‘What could a monk have done to attract that sort of interest-no, wait, let me think: if a monk has done something wrong, he gets assassins sent after him. If King Emin is going himself, the man would have to be a mortal enemy - or have something the king wants personally. An artefact of some kind, perhaps?’
‘A reasonable assumption,’ Ilumene conceded, ‘but truly, I can tell you no more. And now, I must be on my way.’
‘Wait,’ Isak said as Ilumene turned to leave, ‘why did he send the message? Because he wants me to not lay siege to Scree? Or does he want me to get involved?’
‘The king did not give me a reason, but I’m sure he would appreciate you pursuing a more subtle revenge than the wholesale destruction of the city if he is inside it. I cannot say if he wants you involved; if the king required your presence, I’m sure he would have summoned you.’
Isak growled, disliking the implication that he was at Emin’s beck and call. ‘Then your king might have to be more careful about what he takes for granted,’ he snapped.
Ilumene bowed in acquiescence and disappeared into the shadow of a laurel. Even with his remarkable hearing, Isak couldn’t hear the man leave. It was as though he simply faded into the darkness.
Scree? What could possibly lure King Emin there? He looked to the south, where he fancied he saw the faintest of lights on the horizon. He had a sudden, desperate urge to know what the King of Narkang was up to.
‘Home first,’ he reminded himself. ‘Everything else can wait.’
CHAPTER 6
Zhia hurried across into the shade of the high-pillared porch, her thick shawl pulled low over her face to hide her from the scorching afternoon sun. Her coachman, Panro - who doubled as guard and servant, and once, on a particularly dull day in Narkang, lover - closed the coach door and climbed back up on the seat. He wouldn’t bother going far; it was unlikely the Red Palace would see any more visitors during the short time Zhia intended to stay. Scree waited drowsily for evening, when the sun’s ferocity would lessen; shops and stalls were shut up and even the most diligent of tradesfolk sought some shady corner or dark hallway. Zhia couldn’t help smiling; the unusual summer heat had proved an unexpected bonus. In Scree everyone would be sleeping during the day, so her nocturnal life was less likely to draw notice.
Zhia paused and savoured the light breeze that greeted her through the tall panelled doors, scented with sweet roses and orange trees from somewhere within. A man dressed in a dark brown livery stood waiting for her, his head bowed. No member of the White Circle would come and greet Zhia; the custom was for visitors to be presented once they had made themselves presentable. This was particularly useful for Zhia, for any errant ray of sun would blacken and burn her skin.
‘Mistress Siala has been informed of my arrival?’ she asked, snapping her fingers at the liveried man. Her Fysthrall dialect and mannerisms were impeccable.
‘Yes, Mistress Ostia.’ The man kept his head bowed as he spoke. ‘I am to escort you to her office immediately.’
But why? thought Zhia. She leads the White Circle now the rest of the leadership is dead, I made sure of that. Does she simply want an account of their failure? Or did she know that the Fysthrall queen carried the Skull of Paths with her? I think I was sensible to leave that in the carriage; she wouldn’t think to search that, but she might well have a mage up there with her.
The servant was waiting patiently for a reply. When she did finally jab a finger towards the inside of the palace he bowed low and moved to lead the way. As she followed him down the hall, she saw the red theme continued inside as well. Outside, the painted pillars, window frames and doors were distinctive, even arresting, especially when seen from a distance. Within, the colours looked garish and crass, and incongruous with the elegant furnishings, which were far too sophisticated for anyone local, especially the duke Siala had recently deposed. Siala was apparently from Tor Salan, but until she met the woman there was no way of telling if the sophistication was hers. Zhia hoped so; the rest of the Circle had hardly taxed her brain, and an intelligent adversary would make her stay in Scree infinitely more entertaining.
