by Tom Lloyd
Isak shook his head. ‘He was doing something that would have made the tribe more secure. I can tell you no more of it.’
‘Of course. What I can tell you is that we were cheered by news of your exploits arriving with the death notice.’
‘My exploits? The battle in Narkang?’
‘Exactly. Folk are calling you Isak Stormcaller; they say that you wield a power Lord Bahl never did.’
‘Bahl rode the storm in his own way.’ Isak grimaced and waggled his pure white fingers in Dupres’ face. ‘But he didn’t pay the price I had to.’
‘So that’s true?’ Dupres asked in astonishment. ‘You really were touched by Nartis when you called the storm?’
‘Not exactly. That was the day Bahl died - Nartis was close to me that day, his hand on my shoulder. If it hadn’t been for that, I wouldn’t have survived when I called the storm myself. To call such power requires a bargain of sorts, I’m told. The magic almost killed me, and it stripped all colour from my arm. The mage I spoke to said that if I had died, it would have continued until all colour was lost from my body - or perhaps that it would have continued draining colour until I was dead; the jury was out on that detail.’
‘Magic,’ Dupres shivered. ‘I’m glad I’m not so blessed.’ He scratched at the red embroidering on his sleeve, a band of grapevines that encircled the left-hand sleeve. The right sleeve bore a variety of fruits hanging from branches. It prompted Isak to wonder whether Dupres had to serve wine with one hand and food with the other. He vaguely remembered Tila saying something like that, but the details were lost to him.
‘Magic has its advantages,’ Isak pointed out, vaguely feeling as though he should defend it, but without knowing quite why. ‘If you’re not giving in to your own base desires, the price you pay is worthwhile.’
Dupres grimaced. ‘Still. Paying prices you cannot guess at, consorting with daemons - I’d rather not. I know its uses, and that you have such power relieves many fears. To know our armies are still led by a powerful man is reassuring in troubling times, but I’m deeply glad it’s not me having to do it.’
Isak grunted. ‘But what if my every act seems to make times more troubled?’
Dupres didn’t have any answer to that and the pair fell into silence. Isak’s gaze drifted the length of the table. There was nothing left of the meal aside from piled platters of fruit. Men were leaning on the table, now, debating the ramifications of executing Duke Certinse. The room was lit mainly by four brass candle-wheels hanging from the balcony where Isak watched. The iron chain holding one was tantalisingly within reach; Isak could see in his mind the white droplets of wax falling, if he only reached out and gave the chain a twist. His hand actually twitched towards it before he remembered himself and stopped.
‘Look at my faithful subjects,’ Isak muttered, swinging his goblet towards them. The remaining wine slopped up, but fell back into the cup rather than dripping down the cleavage of the woman beneath. Isak shared a relieved grin with Dupres and continued, ‘They all sit there talking happily, despite their master having disappeared from the room. Surely one of them should he wondering if I’ve fallen into the privy by now.’
Perhaps they give you more credit than that,’ the steward replied, warming to the irreverent conversation, ‘or they are secretly concerned, but etiquette restrains them from voicing their concerns.’
Isak nodded with mock gloom. ‘More than once over the last year I’ve suspected that tradition will be the death of me.’
At the table below Tila’s voice cut though the wider conversation. ‘But that encourages Lord Isak to bypass the rule of law. Surely the examples of Lord Atro and Lord Bahl demonstrate the need for constant restraint, rather than encouraging a lord to exercise religious authority.’
‘Perhaps, my dear,’ replied the countess, an indulgent tone in her voice. Isak could just imagine Tila’s expression. ‘But I do not feel it is appropriate for dirty laundry to be done in public’
‘Dirty laundry, my Lady, is done by servants,’ Vesna joined, ‘as I believe you were at pains to point out. But, while he will be surprised by its source, I’m sure Chief Steward Lesarl will be glad of your endorsement that he need not bother with legal technicalities; it does take up such a large proportion of his time.’
‘Hah, now he is one I would like to see publicly hung!’ the countess exclaimed, ‘and from what I hear, Lord Isak shares that opinion.’
‘The Chief Steward is loyal to his tribe,’ Vesna said firmly, stamping firmly on any such rumours. ‘Lesarl will serve Lord Isak as well as he did Lord Bahl, and he will continue to do the Farlan a great service. Now that Duke Certinse is under guard and his uncle dead, you should be more concerned about enemies from abroad rather than anyone within the tribe.’
‘And who poses a greater threat than that sadistic megalomaniac, who will no doubt be spending every waking hour devising ways to bypass your noble lord?’
‘The White Circle is the most immediate. They proved themselves to be our enemies in Narkang, and while their leader may be dead, the organisation is not. You heard tonight that Siala has been quickest to act; there can be no confusion as to why she has taken direct control over Scree. Without that city under her control she cannot be sure of winning the war in Tor Milist - indeed, resolving that conflict must be her first priority, to free up her troops. With Scree and Tor Milist under her control, she will not be challenged for leadership of the Circle, and that will give her the powerbase to mount a strong resistance against any action we might take.’
‘Your assessment sounds right,’ Suzerain Foleh said. The portly old man had always been, by his own admission, more a merchant than a soldier and he was happy to concede authority in the military field to the hero of the tribe, despite Vesna being his social inferior. ‘But I have heard the Circle is plagued by infighting, lacking any sort of controlling structure. Wouldn’t any attempt to create a kingdom from those three city-states just as easily provoke an internal struggle that would become as drawn-out as the war in Tor Milist itself?’
‘Surely the first step to defeating your enemy is to know what he wants,’ the Countess of Lehm interrupted. She directed an enquiring look up and down the table, and asked the assembled men of politics and war, ‘We still do not know what the White Circle’s ultimate goal is. Should we not be directing our efforts towards that, before we go as far as invading Scree?’
She was greeted with silence. The question of the White Circle’s motivation was long-standing, and the only people sitting at the table able to answer had kept their own counsel. Isak watched their faces carefully. He knew more than most, and even he still hadn’t made up his mind what to do.
‘For the moment we should consider Siala’s goal to be a three-city state,’ Vesna said cautiously. ‘If we prevent that, we block the pursuit of any further ambition, at least for the time being; their position is precarious and their priority is now survival.’
‘I think that’s my cue,’ Isak muttered as he straightened up and raised his voice. ‘I’m glad you think that is the priority,’ he called down to Vesna, ‘because you’re going to be the one to do that.’
Everyone looked up in surprise, Suzerain Foleh blanching at hearing a voice echoing down from the servants’ station. He peered up past the candles, not quite believing Isak was really standing up there.
‘My Lord? What are you doing up there?’
‘Enjoying a drink with your excellent steward.’ Isak raised his goblet and gestured back at the way he’d come. ‘I found a stairway and wondered where it led, nothing more.’ He tried not to beam at the astonished faces gaping up at him, but he did find it terribly entertaining to see the band’s finest completely speechless.
‘What am I going to be doing, my Lord?’ Vesna asked. He knew Isak well enough not to have been too surprised by the white-eye’s actions.
‘The lull in Tor Mihst will not last long, and we need to ensure Priata Leferna does not defeat the duke. The answer should be o
bvious enough.’
‘You want to aid Duke Vrerr?’ Tila demanded, too infuriated to remember the formal niceties. No one seemed to notice. Isak guessed from their faces that most of them were still trying to work out why a duke would voluntarily share a drink with a steward.
‘If the alternative is a coalition of united White Circle cities on our southern border, why not?’
‘Duke Vrerr is a cruel despot who has abused his people for years,’ she protested, ‘and prolonging the war means more will die of famine. You know they cannot feed themselves as it is.’
‘Would you prefer me to kill him? We could conquer the city, expand our borders a little?’
‘Of course not.’ Tila faltered briefly. ‘But you do know how Vrerr governs? By torture, murder, destroying entire villages at the slightest provocation. He doesn’t even bother to control his soldiers; half of them are mercenaries, little more than regiments of bandits.’
‘But there is nothing I can do about him unless I depose him. At the moment the only alternative is the commander of the White Circle forces, Priata Leferna, and she is certainly not acceptable. Thus, esteemed ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we can hope that Duke Vrerr is competent enough to resist the challenge, or we can lend some assistance. I am fully aware that the people of the city would actually be better off under White Circle control, but that would not last if they subsequently find themselves at war with us.’ And this is what it is to be Lord of the Farlan, Isak thought sadly. I know exactly what sort of man Duke Vrerr is, and I have to ignore it for my own selfish ends.
‘Count Vesna, you will lead a division of cavalry into Tor Milisi lands. I don’t want Vrerr’s troops supplied with horses or weapons, but I do want you to do what you can to damage Leferna’s position there.. Consider yourself in charge of a mercenary company.
‘Anything that results from prolonging the war is, I’m afraid, not our problem. It is a means to an end, and the suffering it causes is necessary. Full intervention in the war will result in a puppet government in Tor Milist under my control, and history shows that whenever we’ve done something like that in the past, it’s been a bad idea in the long run.’
‘Hardly a comfort to those who’ll die,’ Suzerain Foleh pointed out. There was no accusation in his voice; he knew the realities well enough.
‘No comfort at all, but there’ll he no gratitude if the Ghosts parade all the way down the Alder March either. We can’t solve their problems for them; once the White Circle threat is dealt with, we’ll look at the whole situation again, but we need to find a way that doesn’t turn unhappy peace into terrible civil war.’
Thus speaks a king, came a sudden voice in Isak’s head. The white-eye stopped dead; that was as clear as he’d ever heard the dead spirit in his mind. The normal echo of self-pity and overwhelming loss was absent as Aryn Bwr said, Compassion and morals have no place in a king’s deeds.
Says the one who rebelled against his own Gods? Isak thought with scorn. Come then, advise me.
You are a poor copy of one who was never our equal, snarled the last king. My war was beyond your comprehension. You beg for advice? Very well, regrets are for fools; action is what makes a king great. Failure to act is cowardice - and that is something history will hate you for.
The anger in Aryn Bwr’s voice was palpable. Isak turned abruptly away from the balcony and headed for the stair. Suddenly the small rooom above the hall felt enclosed and stifling.
I never wanted to make choices like this, he thought miserably. A carelessly announced decision and I condemn how many thousands to death? This is no way to live.
Come now, mocked the dead soul, a white-eye thirsts for power, does he not? The fire of magic in your veins; the fury of the storm at your snow-white fingertips: it’s given to you for a reason.
Isak looked down at his hand. He was marked forever by what he’d done in Narkang, using the power of his God to slaughter hundreds of Fysthall soldiers and mercenaries as they breached the wall of King Emin’s palace, but the change was only skin-deep.
‘That is how I was born to be. It doesn’t have to be who I am,’ he murmured to himself.
You deny your own nature? That is a path to ruin, to pretend you are something you are not. I have seen it a hundred times. It will leave you as empty inside as you fear to become, because of the decisions you are forced to make.
‘At least that would be my choice,’ Isak said. ‘I would have chosen who I was; what more can anyone ask?’
It is the hard choices that make a king.
‘It is the hard choices that make a man. That will do for me.’
CHAPTER 12
Trying to resist the urge to loosen the stiff collar of his dress uniform, Major Jachen Ansayl strode off down the corridor with as much dignity as he could muster. The old uniform still fitted, but it had been years since he’d had to put it on, and it had never been comfortable. Today it seemed to catch at every small movement, as though it no longer considered him worthy to wear it. The embossed buttons had scratched his fingertips and the collar squeezed his throat, leaving him breathless whenever he stood less than perfectly straight.
He shouldn’t have worn it - half of the men here would take it as an insult - yet he had nothing else. Five years’ exile up a mountain didn’t do much for a man’s wardrobe. Jachen ran his hand through his chestnut hair, tugging at the tangles. The cheap soap at his lodgings had not helped much in making him look something approaching presentable. He couldn’t really afford private lodgings, but the alternative was the barracks here at the palace, and he didn’t think that would he wise.
Following the servant’s directions, he found himself standing before an unassuming door. He had enough sense of direction to recognising that he’d been sent around the back of the Tower of Semar, the remotest part of the palace; it appeared he was being kept out of everyone’s way while he waited for Swordmaster Kerin’s summons. After the hostile faces in the Great Hall he could see the sense in that.
Jachen sighed. ‘What am I doing here?’ he wondered aloud. ‘Has Kerin found a new way he can punish me?’
Once they’d seen great potential in him; the Swordmaster Hinwll had recommended his promotion. Personally, Jachen had never been so sure.
He opened the door and stepped inside, sniffing dust and polish, antique wood and lamp oil, the faint mustiness of a room regularly aired but not lived in. It reminded him of the Temple of Amavoq, where he’d gone to pray and consider his choices before being transferred to the rangers - not that there had been much of a choice, in truth, but Jachen had never been one to take the easy road. Obstinacy and stupidity tended to get in the way.
Shutting the door behind him, Jachen hesitated. A single slit window far above head height on the opposite wall cast a shaft of light to the centre of the room, illuminating tall mahogany pews that were so dark they could have served in Death’s temples. They also lined the walls on his left and right. On the far side was a massive oak table with a carved top, under which the wood curved inwards and down to thick root-like feet, giving the impression that the table had been hewn from a single great tree. The style was archaically intricate, too overblown for modern tastes - no doubt why it was in here, left only to the admiring eyes of those being kept out of the way.
As his eyes adjusted to the weak light, Jachen stiffened. Peering over the backs of the central pews he saw he was not alone. A bulky figure was squatting on the floor, shrouded by the dark tent of a cape that spread around him.
‘Forgive me,’ Jachen said. ‘I hadn’t realised anyone was in here.’
If the man heard, he made no sign. He was crouched between the far end of the table and the pews, head bowed low. His hair, though not particularly long, was tied up in a top-knot. A soldier then, Jachen thought, and from his size, a white-eye, perhaps one of the Guard.
‘I’ve been ordered to wait in here. I’ll not disturb whatever you’re doing-ah, what are you doing?’
Playing hide-and-seek, of co
urse.’ The reply was a low rumble, suggesting massive pair of lungs.
The major licked his lips and gave his uniform another tug before asking, ‘Hide-and-seek?’
‘Hide and-seek,’ confirmed the figure, head still stooped as if in prayer ‘What of it!’
‘I … Nothing. It’s just a little unusual. I was not expecting you to say that.’
‘Much of what I do confounds prediction.’
‘Who are you? Who in damnation are you?’
Jachen bit back his response. Just keep your mouth shut. If Kerin’s going to give you another chance, don’t blow it by starting a fight before you’ve even reached the man’s office.
‘My name is Jachen Ansayl,’ he replied, adding defensively, ‘Major Jachen Ansayl.’
‘Ansayl, eh? Bastard, are you?’
‘That’s rich, coming from a white-eye.’ Damn. The name Ansayl marked him as a bastard (or grandson of a bastard, in Jachen’s case) of the Sayl suzerainty north of Tirah. He’d grown used to the jibes, learning through bitter experience that it was better to meet them with a joke than a scowl. Either was a bad idea here.
The white-eye gave a throaty chuckle that sounded like the grating of a tomb’s door to Jachen. He raised his head and looked straight at Jachen, his disconcerting eyes shining out of the gloom like Arian’s cruel light on Silvernight. Jachen had never liked white-eyes, despite years of soldiering alongside them; he had never been able to get used to the dark malevolence they all exuded. Even those who weren’t violent drunkards unnerved him.
This man was younger than Jachen had first thought. His features were sharp, calculating. A faint prickle of foreboding ran down Jachen’s spine. The white-eye emitted a long sigh, as though only now emerging from whatever trance he’d been in, and flicked aside his cloak. A lump appeared in Jachen’s throat as he saw the fine clothes his heart sank further when he saw the naked silver blade that lay across the white-eye’s lap, glowing faintly in the shadows.
