by Tom Lloyd
‘And now it is time for us to give a helping hand, llumene, our favourite son; find us another priest for tonight’s entertainment.’
‘The show must go on, eh?’ Ilumene’s weathered face lit up with malicious mirth.
‘There will be an audience. The good folk of Scree are consumed by their hatred of everything around them; they have passed the point of no return now,’ said the minstrel, dismissing him with a gesture.
llumene ran lightly down the thick stone steps to the street below, past the Hound that Rojak now needed to help him get about. It was obvious to all concerned that what they sardonically called their theatrics was taking its toll on the minstrel, who was becoming increasingly brittle with every passing day.
Rojak looked down at the little finger of his left hand, inspecting his most recent injury. He’d scraped his hand when he’d lost his balance on the steps, and a good inch of papery skin had been shredded, revealing desiccated grey tissue that did not belong in a living man. As Scree failed, so did he - but the knowledge that this was one more victory he would steal from King Emin elicited a chuckle from his wasted throat. He winced and fumbled for the flask of brandy he carried at all times.
‘Now for the ill will I promised you,’ said Azaer, an icy breeze sliding gently over Rojak’s ear. ‘Send Flitter and Venn to the camp of the Second Army; tell its commanders who their mistress truly is.’
‘Will they be believed?’
‘Belief is a fickle creature. Those who believe do so because they wish to. Bane and Veren’s Staff could no more restrain themselves than King Emin could when he heard llumene had been seen, lronskin is the voice of reason in that camp. His unique affliction was punishment for offending Karkan. I’m sure he will be keen to follow his comrades to please the Gods.’
‘Should we not wait until we see Siala’s reaction to the Devoted?’
‘The Devoted are in no rush to fight; they have yet to decide who their enemy is. When they see the Circle’s mercenaries fighting each other, they will stand back and watch; as llumene so aptly said, their nature is that of jackals. The Second Army will march on the Greengate, as that is where the vampire’s troops are. Every other gate is already barricaded, so this will bottle them all up together. Let them squabble amongst themselves, and turn on each other just as their Gods do.’
‘Their weakness is our power,’ intoned Rojak.
‘Certainly, but let no one claim we are cruel; they shall be warned that their own flaws betray them.’
A new play for tonight?’
‘The last play. After tonight we will retire to the wings and the theatre will be no more. We shall have nothing more for them but our final curtain call.’
‘So which is it to be for our last performance, my Master?’
‘Twilight reigns, the gates are locked and within, the city burns. What could it be but “The Shadow Crucible”?’
‘Tell me again why we’re here?’ asked Morghien through gritted teeth. He strained to pull himself up to the next branch. The trip had been an arduous one, despite Mihn’s many talents, and for once Morghien was feeling his age.
‘The answer to that hasn’t changed,’ Mihn said softly from the branch above. His attention was occupied by the earthwork ramparts surrounding a hill less than a mile away. The smooth sweeps of dark slope were illuminated by paper lanterns of yellow and red.
Morghien gave a grunt and finally pulled himself up. Once he’d found his balance, the man of many spirits turned his head up to see Mihn, who was standing nonchalantly on a slim bough, his staff resting across his shoulders and his arms hooked over it.
Morghien knew better than try to keep up with a former Harlequin when it came to acrobatics so he made sure of his grip before speaking again.
‘I actually meant, why are we climbing this bloody tree?’
‘Ah, I apologise,’ said Mihn. ‘I’d assumed you were continuing the litany that started as we crossed the Green Sea, but now I realise it was a whole new complaint.’
‘Tsatach’s balls, I’m here as a favour to your master. I’ve got every right to complain if I want to,’ Morghien muttered.
‘I’m sure the magnanimous Lord Isak will be pleased you’re taking every opportunity to exercise your rights,’ Mihn said cheerily.
Morghien scowled at him. ‘Now we’re here, what can you see?’
‘Much of the estate, all nicely lit up for our benefit. It is Meqao’s Day today. Of all of Amavoq’s Aspects, Meqao - Hunter of the Silent Wood, as he’s known in these parts - is the most beloved by the Yeetatchen.’
‘He’s the one with the antlers and the huge-‘
‘No, that’s Bohreq, the Herdfather. I thought you’d had an education?’ Mihn scratched at his ankle absentmindedly for a moment, before feeling the bandage on it and withdrawing his hand. Two days back he’d been bitten by a hunting hound on the loose, and though the wound was minor, he’d bound it to keep it clean. ‘Meqao has the head of a silver-furred wolf and carries a spear in one hand, a brass bell in the other.’
‘Brass bell? What damned use is that to a hunter?’
Mihn looked down and Morghien thought he could see the man’s eyes glint in the gloom. ‘I would be happy to recount the full saga of “Meqao and the Lady of the Bluebells” - of course, it will require a gong, a bell and a jug of water, and three hours of your close attention.’ He smiled.
‘Perhaps later then?’ Morghien sighed. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to get in to Lord Ajel’s home if we dressed you as a Harlequin and got you to recite the saga?’ He’d not meant it seriously, but he realised he’d overstepped the mark when Mihn tensed. The cool evening grew frosty.
‘Don’t suggest that again,’ Mihn said eventually, his voice tight and quiet.
‘I am truly sorry,’ Morghien began. ‘I didn’t mean-‘
‘I know, but best the conversation goes no further.’ After a moment of quiet, Mihn said, ‘That is how we’ll get in: if we run along the ditch bounding the meadow until we reach that dip, we’ll come up behind those trees hung with lanterns.’
‘Lanterns? Can you see if it’s a sacred grove dedicated to Amavoq, or an Aspect that lives on the hill?’
‘Not from here, no. You think an Aspect would notice you?’
Morghien gave a low whistle. ‘Hard to tell, but last night Xeliath told me Lord Ajel has made a local Aspect of the hill protector of the compound.’
‘So it will probably object when we take Lord Ajel’s daughter from her bed chamber?’ Mihn wondered.
‘I hope not. She doesn’t know the details of the bargain her father made. I’m hoping the Aspect will only notice if Xeliath is being taken against her will; she’s determined to leave on her own two feet. Her father wants her present at the feast, but she’s sure if she misbehaves she’ll be taken back to her room and given something to make her sleep.’
‘So we’ll have to carry her out?’ Mihn said.
‘No, Xeliath’s a cunning little minx, even touched by the Gods as she is in the waking world. She’s been behaving herself of late and they’ve been letting her take her own medicine. She says they know now she’s not a prophet, so they’re not afraid she’ll get loose and hurt someone. Tonight she’ll be awake enough for our purposes. She says the festival’s important to the Yeetatchen, so security should be lax, and that’s good for us.’
‘Assuming we even get there.’
‘Have faith, my friend,’ Morghien said with a snort of amusement. ‘As long as I keep out of that sacred grove I doubt we’ll be noticed.’
Mihn peered down, eyebrows raised. ‘No complaint? Well in that case, let us join in the festivities.’
The compound occupied a small hill, the highest ground in the area. It stood at the southern end of the Silent Wood, the expanse of forest that belted the island, and a sheer-edged gorge made it virtually impenetrable for potential invaders from the east. It had been hard enough for Mihn and Morghien, and they had neither horses to lead nor an army to feed, and
they had Xeliath to give them the lie of the land. All Yeetatchen, noble-born or not, were taught to scout, so her description had been far better than Mihn had expected.
The Yeetatchen compound was not defended by walls, but by earthen channels. There was little stone; the buildings set into the hillside were built of wood, and several had trees jutting through their roofs.
The only problem they encountered making their way down the ditches was the eight inches of water at the bottom, which constantly threatened to betray them to the patrolling guards, no matter how adept they were at travelling quietly.
At the end of the first of the long, dark ditches, Morghien touched his companion on the arm, stopping him from starting on the ten yards of open ground between them and the next bit of cover.
‘I have a better idea,’ Morghien whispered. He mouthed something Mihn didn’t catch and, as he finished speaking, he gave a deep sigh and closed his eyes, quietly expelling the air from his lungs. Mihn watched as a tiny wisp of fog escaped Morghien’s pursed lips and quested out a little, as though tasting the wind - then a figure stepped out from Morghien’s body and turned its head to Mihn, who gasped in shock and backed up to the side of the ditch.
The figure was female; he could see that in the smoky lines of her face and the long, flowing hair that merged with the curve of her back. From her waist down she was less distinct, though the tendrils of fog that connected her to Morghien were almost tangible. Mihn felt the colour rise to his face as he realised the figure was entirely naked, but she appeared not to notice his embarrassment. He recognised her now: Seliasei, an Aspect of Vasle, the first and strongest of Morghien’s spirits.
Seliasei scrutinised Mihn for a few moments, her expression blank, then stepped forward and bent down to place her hand in the ditch water.
‘Vasle is God of Rivers,’ Mihn murmured to himself. He began to see Morghien’s plan. These ditches are connected, he thought, and if they all have water in, Seliasei will be able to lead us safely past any guards.
Morghien was still standing with his eyes closed, as if in a trance. Mihn hoped he’d be able to wake Morghien if anyone did come.
Apparently satisfied with whatever she felt in the water, Seliasei straightened and drifted forward. Mihn saw the hint of legs walking, but her movement was too graceful and ethereal to be human. As Seliasei moved out from the darkness and into the faint light, she dissipated until she was little more than a suggestion in the air. Mihn thought the guards, whose night sight had probably been ruined by the lanterns that adorned the whole compound - and who would probably have sneaked a drink or two to celebrate Meqao’s Day - would dismiss anything they saw as fancy. Even if they didn’t, were they really going to run to their commander claiming they had seen a ghost?
Mihn watched Seliasei as the Aspect, followed closely by Morghien, made her way around the earthwork and disappeared from view, then he shook himself and followed them until they reached a corner of the compound that was, according to Xeliath’s description, in easy reach of her bedroom.
Less than a hundred yards away stood a great circle of tents where the household were celebrating Meqao’s Day. Mihn could hear voices raised, haunting and beautiful in the cool summer air. He smiled slightly, remembering how much he had enjoyed feast days as a child. Without thinking, his lips began to move and silently join in. The song the Yeetatchen were singing was one of the oldest known, written before the Great War, when Amavoq and her Aspects regularly walked among the Yeetatchen people. The rapturous silence that greeted the singers at its close tugged at his heart.
‘Well, lad,’ Morghien said at last, ‘up you climb.’ He gestured to the fat creeper entwined around the oak-bough wall.
Mihn gave the creeper an experimental tug. It seemed sound. ‘I hope she’s right about being able to make it out of here by herself,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t fancy having to lower a white-eye down on my rope.’ He checked again for servants or guards, then began to climb. There were plenty of handholds and within half a minute he’d slipped a knife up between the shutters and opened the catch.
He looked down at Morghien, barely seen in the shadow of the wall, who nodded. Mihn pushed open the window and slid over the window sill onto a large rug. He looked around, cataloguing the spartan room. There was an ornately carved bed, with posts carved like bent branches, leading up to a canopy of leaves above, and a massive chest along the wall opposite the bed.
The only personal details Mihn could see were a silver-backed hairbrush on the chest and a stuffed horse, a child’s toy, on the foot of the bed. Mihn took a step towards it; the small horse looked old and well loved. No doubt Xeliath kept it still because she could no longer ride in real life, something any Yeetatchen would mourn.
A sound came from the bed, hoarse and strained, as if the voice was rarely used. Mihn thought perhaps it was his name being spoken, but he couldn’t be sure. He took a step closer, still not able to make out who was under the dark blankets. He was afraid to speak in case they had made a mistake and he was in the wrong room.
The person in the bed moved and suddenly a soft light spread out over the blanket. Mihn froze; he’d spent enough time around Isak to know this wasn’t lamplight.
‘Xeliath?’ he whispered. The light grew, mapping out the lines of her body under the blanket.
‘You are Mihn?’ she croaked, her hand twitching as she struggled to prop herself up. He strained to hear the musical notes of the Yeetatchen dialect, but she sounded more like a withered old woman than a girl in her prime. He tried to reply, but the words caught in his throat for a moment as he studied the ruin of her face in the magical light. Her short-cropped hair exposed her left side, and the damaged flesh, the slack muscles underneath trembling occasionally, on the brink of spasm. The eyelid drooping over her left eye hid the tiny pupil, and made the bright white iris of her right eye all the more startling.
‘I - yes, I’m Mihn,’ he said before realising that he’d spoken in his original tongue, a language he’d not used aloud in years. He repeated the words in Yeetatchen and saw the beginnings of a smile.
‘He didn’t say you’d be handsome.’
Mihn looked down, caught between embarrassment and amusement. ‘Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.’ A floorboard outside the room creaked and the latch clicked, and Mihn covered the ground in two quick steps to reach the person entering. He smashed an elbow into the person’s head, a boy, he saw, who dropped like a stone. Mihn caught him just before he clattered to the floor and eased him quietly to the ground, then closed and bolted the door against further interruptions.
Xeliath grunted in effort as she tried to get up, but Mihn ignored her while he checked out the servant boy. He was out cold, but hadn’t suffered any lasting damage. Mihn pulled a length of rope from around his waist and a cloth from around his arm and soon had the youth bound and gagged. Then he took the boy’s small knife from his belt and shoved him under the bed.
‘Are you finished now?’ Xeliath asked.
‘Not quite.’ He worked the chest onto the rug, then dragged it to the door. Like that it wouldn’t be enough to stop a determined man, but Mihn was inventive: he jammed the servant’s knife and one of his own spare blades between the floorboards right up against the chest so it was wedged tight up against the door - it wouldn’t hold forever, but it would give them a few precious minutes. He chuckled to himself. Close inspection of his knife would show its local origin, courtesy of the merchant who had unwittingly provided it a few days before. A little bit of luck and a few hot tempers should send the chase in entirely the wrong direction.
Xeliath had succeeded in pushing back the blankets. Laid out next to her was a man’s riding jerkin and trousers. ‘You’ll have to help me dress myself,’ she said, her voice a little stronger than it had been at first. She pulled feebly at the cotton shift she wore. ‘I can’t manage alone.’
‘My Lady-‘ he began, before his heart melted. She’s a white-eye who’s been crippled, he reminded himself.
She’ll have been stronger than any normal man under her father’s command until her destiny was linked with lsak’s; this must be doubly painful. ‘I understand, my Lady.’
He went about the task as gently as time permitted, and Xeliath never made a sound, even though her pain was written on her face. Her right side looked perfect, but her left arm was curled in on itself, the tight fist bent around something hard and smooth, pushing the knuckles against her bony hip. The arm was the most damaged part of her body, as if whatever had happened had started in her fist, then spread. Her leg was not badly affected, but it was wasted from underuse, the veins showing clearly through the dry, flaky skin. She stared intently at the pattern of oak and elm leaves carved into the canopy, enduring the manhandling with her lips pinched together.
When Mihn had finished, he sat her up to slip on her boots and lace them up.
At last she looked Mihn directly in the eye. ‘What is he like?’ she asked softly.
‘Lord Isak?’ Mihn was surprised by the question. ‘Don’t you know?’
‘I know what he looks like in his dreams,’ she whispered, ‘but sadly, dreams are only that. They tell me nothing of who he is.’
Mihn helped her upright and let her take her weight. After a little unsteadiness, she looked able to walk. ‘Lord Isak is a young man trying to be a good lord,’ he said after a moment. ‘He’s trying to understand what’s been done to his life.’
‘He fights it, though.’
‘That’s only natural, isn’t it? As a white-eye?’
‘It is in his blood to do so, but it is not always the answer. He may need others to show him that.’
Mihn hesitated, disturbed by the direction of her thoughts. ‘Let’s get you out of here so you can tell him yourself.’ He guided her towards the window, opened the shutter a little and peered out. The area around looked empty of armed men. ‘Can you climb?’
‘I’ll manage.’
‘Are you sure?’ Mihn looked at her sceptically until Xeliath took his hand with her good one. Her fingers, shaking a little as he had helped her out of bed, now clamped around his wrist and began to crush it. After a few moments, Mihn gave a gasp of pain and she released him.
