by Tom Lloyd
With a start Isak realised their dismay was not at the task facing them, but shame that their own people could turn on each other in
such a way, and against the will of the God.
Insurrection was nothing new, but plotting the downfall of the entire nation was a completely different matter. Their tribe had remained strong by relying on its own – an arrogant and xenophobic Way of life, possibly, but one that had kept them whole nonetheless.
'Thank you,' he said quietly. 'Now I understand what's at stake, of course I'll be part of it – I'll do anything you need.'
Expressions faded to acceptance and resolve. The next few hours saw each man writing a painfully long list while outside, winter tightened its grip on the mountains they called home.
A discreet knock came at the dining room door. Amanas raised an eyebrow at his wife, but from her expression Jelana knew nothing about it. The Keymaster frequently spent all day in the Heraldic Library, or at official functions. Dinner was their time: they would eat together and undisturbed every night unless it almost was a matter of life or death. As absentminded as Amanas was, he knew his wife felt strongly about this. He actively dissuaded visitors at the best of times; the evenings were sacrosanct.
The butler entered, casting an apprehensive look at his mistress before saying, 'Sir, I apologise for interrupting, but you have a visitor who demands to see you urgently.'
Amanas didn't have time to reply before a voice came from the open doorway and a man stepped into the dining room. 'My apologies, dear lady,' he declared, bowing low and kissing her theatrically on the hand. The man was tall and slim, with a distinguished touch of grey in his hair, dressed fashionably, if on the young side. 'I'm afraid the matter could not wait. I must drag your husband away for a while.'
Jelana Amanas gave a curt nod of the head and rose, patting her husband on the shoulder on her way past. She said not a word to the newcomer. When she had left, the man took her seat and leaned forward, fingers interlocked, as he studied Amanas with a predatory expression that reminded the Keymaster of the Chief Steward.
'So, Amanas, how is life in the Heraldic Library?'
'As it always is, Dancer. You have interrupted my dinner for a good reason, I hope?'
The man called Dancer chuckled at the use of that name. He was one of Lesarl's personal advisors, a member of the Chief Steward's very personal coterie. Few knew that name for him; it was reserved for business done well away from the public eye.
'You have a set of files here that my employer asked you to prepare a few years ago; you have not destroyed them?'
'Files?' Amanas asked. For a moment he had no idea what Dancer was talking about, then he realised. The Malich affair? Yes, I still have them, though I resent the Chief Steward using me as his personal blackmailer. Why do you need them? Surely we're no longer in danger of civil war now that Malich is dead.'
'I have just received a message from the army in Lomin. Duke Lomin is dead.'
'Murdered?' Amanas asked, aghast.
'By elves, not by Farlan hand. The problem is his son, Scion Lomin. He has taken the name of Duke Certinse.' Dancer's eyes narrowed. The Certinse family now directly controls a suzerainty, a dukedom, the Knights of the Temples and it may soon control the Cardinal branch of the cult of Nartis.'
Amanas sighed and heaved himself to his feet. From the sideboard he picked up an oil lamp and used it to gesture towards the door. 'Well then, you'd better come with me. We have a long night ahead of us.'
CHAPTER 19
Isak's horse almost sagged with fatigue. The snowflakes turning to water as they landed on the cloth covering weighed down the poor beast even further as it laboured on through the dirty sludge that passed for the forest highway. The local suzerains employed roadmen to maintain these routes, but several thousand horsemen coming through in the depths of winter made it impossible to tell whether those duties had been neglected or not. Since they were in Amah, a rich and prosperous suzerainty, it was likely there was someone sadly shaking his head as the troops passed, wondering how he'd ever get his road back into top condition.
'Remind me why we need to do this,' Isak muttered, eyes fixed on a single snowflake that was precariously balanced on the rise of a seam.
'Because wintering in Lomin would be as inconvenient as it would be fraught with complications.' Vesna's reply sounded mechanical: he was quite as bored and cold as the Krann, and he had answered this question half a dozen times already. 'Quite aside from the fact that you'd probably end up fighting Duke Certinse, Lomin is eight hundred miles from Perlir. With life as it is, that's too far. Duke Sempes hasn't caused trouble for quite a while and the Chief Steward is probably mad with suspicion by now.'
'Have we reached Danva yet?'
'Soon. The next village we come to should be flying red banners.'
'Why red?' Now Isak looked a little more interested. 'Surely it should be white if they're mourning their suzerain?' He looked at his bondsman, who looked significantly more noble than his master ~ Isak's heavy fleeces were stained with mud after an ignominious spill from his horse when the hunter had stumbled and fallen badly. At least they'd had a decent meal out of it – the break had been too bad for the horse to be of any further use and the Farlan were a practical people. Horses were the lifeblood of their nation, valued by all, but they were a tool. Isak had heard the Yeetatchen treated their horses like family, but the Farlan were much more sensible.
'No, my Lord, they fly the red when the suzerain dies in battle. I thought everyone knew that.' Vesna looked puzzled. 'Where were you born?'
'On the road to the Circle City. My mother went into labour just as they sighted Blackfang, I'm told. That's where she's buried, at the foot of a willow by the road.' There was a tinge of pain in Isak's voice. Like all white-eyes, he knew exactly why his mother died.
‘I’m sorry-'
'Long in the past,' replied Isak, shaking himself free of the memory. 'I might not remember her, but at least I've seen where she was buried – that route was my life for ten years. Three trips every two years, and I had to sneak off to visit her grave and get a whipping when I returned.'
'Your father hates you that much?' Vesna sounded like he couldn't believe a parent would act that way, but Isak had seen men worse than his father. At least Horman had a reason to hate his son. Some men did worse, for no cause other than that they had been born vicious.
'Father never forgave the loss of my mother. He named me to mock Kasi Farlan – maybe he hoped the Gods would take me young because of that. Without Carel to keep me in check I'd probably have hung as a result of our combined tempers.'
'I've heard you speak of Carel before; who is he?' the count asked.
'Carel – Sergeant Betyn Carelfolden,' Isak said. 'He taught me eve-rything I know, not just how to fight, but to rein in my temper, to think before reacting – it may not look like it, but I could have been much worse!' He laughed, then explained, 'Carel was a Ghost, so he was fair. He didn't despise me just because I was a white-eye, and he didn't hate me for killing my mother like my father did.' He smiled, remembering. 'He's probably the reason my father and I didn't end up killing each other.'
'Why don't you send for him, this Carelfolden, if he's your friend. Vesna asked curiously.
Isak shrugged. He'd thought of doing just that from time to time, but somehow he'd never actually done anything about it – he wasn’t sure why that was. Carel's smile and gruff voice composed almost the
entirety of Isak's good childhood memories. He was the one who had
urged Isak to be more than just a white-eye, who'd borne in silence
the brunt of a young man's frustration as it boiled over. Carel was almost the only person Isak gave a damn about, and the only person he
wanted to be proud of him. Still something held him back.
'My Lord? Would it not be good to have another man you could trust? One whose opinion is worthwhile? If he was a Ghost, then he'll
be trustworthy and capa
ble, and will already know that the life of the
nobility is often less than noble. You'll need men of your own, men
who are loyal to you before anyone else.'
'Are you saying I can't trust whoever Bahl does?'
Vesna shook his head. 'Not at all. But the Chief Steward is the servant of the Lord of the Farlan, no matter who that is. Suzerains like Tori or Tehran, or Swordmaster Kerin, they're devoted to Lord Bahl himself: they're friends as well as vassals. I'm not saying they're a danger to you, not at all, but you have to recognise that you now wield great political power in your own right. But you're only one man, and a young one at that. I'm loyal to Lord Bahl, and Nartis of course, but my bond is specifically to you, Suzerain Anvee. My point is: Lord Bahl has his own people to worry about his interests, and friends to act as confidants.'
Isak held up a hand to stop the count, already convinced. He didn't want to think too hard about the political situation right now: all the secret agendas and wheelings and dealings were still a mystery; he was having a hard enough time remembering who could be trusted and now much now without adding a whole new layer of intrigue. 'You're right, you're absolutely right. I'll send for Carel – don't ever call him Carelfolden; he saves that for formal occasions only. Can you send a messenger for me? Probably best to leave it at the Hood and Cape in the Golden Tower district.' He didn't add 'before I change my mind', though the words were lurking at the back of his throat.
He sighed. Carel had truly made him what he was – he recalled as if it Were yesterday, his fifteenth birthday, when, after yet another brawl with the other boys of the wagon-train, Carel had taken him aside, dismissing Isak's whining complaints with one sentence: You have to act as more than the colour of your eyes. Those words imprinted themselves on to Isak's heart, and when worry or anger clouded his thoughts, he tried to cling to that conversation to help him come to his senses… but now he had the memory of his behaviour in the battle. His disadvantages might not be obvious, but Isak knew they were there, and that he had to overcome them.
Bringing Carel to the palace was the sensible course. His mantra whenever Isak's fiery temper got the better of his brain was more soldiers' wisdom: You're not perfect, life isn't perfect. There are more important things to be pissed off about, so save your temper for a real problem.
'I'll do so immediately,' said Vesna, relieved. 'He'll be good for you to have around. If Carel knew you in your previous life, he'll give his opinion to the man, not the title.'
And is that what I'm afraid of? Isak wondered. Do I want Carel to continually tell me I'm wrong? Do I want to be the errant child all my life? He turned back to the road ahead, and to the same view they had had for the past two weeks. Only the Palace Guard and one legion of light cavalry were returning with them, and to the casual observer it looked as though every Ghost held the reins of a spare horse. A fog of gloom surrounded them: their losses had been severe, both on the field and in the days following as men succumbed to their wounds. When they arrived home in Tirah, the citizens would have to tread softly for a few weeks.
'And to what do you give your opinion, the man or the title?' There was an edge to Isak's voice that he'd not intended. Uneasy nights as growing pains racked his body coupled with the relentless days of travel were making him irritable and restless. His newly developed muscles were crying out for exercise beyond hacking chunks from unfortunate trees that he passed by. With Bahl in a similar mood – albeit for different reasons – Isak fought extra hard to keep control of his temper, but there was always a trace of pent-up anger when he spoke.
'To both, my Lord.' Vesna's reply was assured and immediate.
'Both?' Isak laughed, a little bitterly. 'You're remarkably honest, especially when compared to your peers. They watch me like a wolf that's just arrived in camp.'
'That's because they are not from Anvee; they are not your bondsmen. You have no reason to trust them; they have no need to earn your trust.'
'And you do?'
Vesna smiled and nodded. 'As my liege and holder of my bond, you could destroy me with a few words. You are also one of the most powerful men in the tribe, so as your star ascends, so will mine. That
means I speak to your title in part, but not all. If I'm going to tie elf so closely to your cause, I might as well try to like you; I can always fall back on being owned by you if that doesn't work.'
In spite of his mood, Vesna's words made Isak laugh out loud. He did like the man, for his confidence as much as his honesty. All he needed was a reason to trust him, and this one sounded as good as any. Bahl certainly seemed to approve; Isak was quite sure he'd have made any disapprobation clear if he thought Count Vesna to be a danger. Isak had been glad of his presence over the last week or two: he was proving to be a useful man to have around.
He made a decision and turned to face his bondsman. 'In that case, Vesna, I would be grateful if you would not forget that I have a real name. It might not be impressive, I might not like it all that much, and it might have been given as an insult, but it's mine. Isak is who I am. If you're to be a friend of mine, you had better remember that.' 'I will, my Lord. Thank you.'
Isak turned sharply, in case he was being mocked, but found only a broad smile on Vesna's face. 'Unfortunately, I suspect I have more enemies than friends,' he said, quietly. 'I don't pretend to understand why I was made Krann, or why I was given these gifts. I'm far from being a Saviour-'
'Perhaps it is something you have to become, rather than be born into?' Vesna didn't sound particularly enthusiastic.
'Me? Not in this lifetime!' replied Isak with a bitter laugh. 'But it doesn't matter what I think. Within a few hours of being Chosen, two men I'd never met tried their best to kill me. That's too much of a coincidence for me.'
Vesna looked surprised. 'I heard about the training ground, but I met Sir Dirass Certinse several times. I can't see him offering to be assassin for anyone – and his family would hardly have wanted him to do it that way if they'd been involved.'
I know, which makes me think there's someone watching from the shadows. They both looked like rabid dogs, like they were not themselves.'
Vesna made a choked sound and his face paled. 'That sounds like the sort of magic necromancers play with.'
Let's not get too excited. Half the Land is worried about what I might be – either Aryn Bwr returned to life, or an obstacle to his rise. How many of them would think it better I just died?'
'True enough. If you weren't Farlan, I'm sure the Chief Steward would have your murder planned already. Anything else that might make sense of all this?'
Isak hesitated. There were some things he didn't mean to tell anyone, not until he understood them himself- he had no idea what was significant or not. The Gods didn't work in obvious ways; the Age of Fulfilment was just that, an Age. It could last centuries. Still he found himself saying, ‘There is one thing. A voice.'
'A voice?'
'I hear it in my dreams sometimes, a girl's voice. I think she's calling me, but I can't understand her.'
'Looking for you? I doubt that would impress Lady Tila.' He winked.
'Tila? You've never even met her!'
'You forget that soldiers gossip worse than washerwomen.' Vesna laughed. 'From what I hear, your pretty little maid's taken quite a fancy to you.'
Then you're as bad as the rest of them,' he growled. 'In case you hadn't noticed, I'm a white-eye. She isn't.'
'She might not mind what you are, not all do.'
'And not all have parents expecting to marry their daughters off well, and expecting children. I may well live long enough to fight beside your great-grandson, but I'll never have one of my own.'
'I'm sorry, my Lord- Isak. I didn't mean to offend.'
Isak gave a sigh and stretched his arms up into the air, then rolled his shoulders forward and back, attempting to work the stiffness from them. 'I know, and I'm not, really, but Tila's nothing to do with all this, so let's keep her out of it. As for the girl in my dreams,
I feel I recognise her, and yet I don't.'
'What are you going to do?'
'What can I do? It's just another mystery about me that I can't do anything about. Maybe it's just designed to drive me insane wondering about it. But I will find out one day, there's no doubt about that, and all I can do is be ready for whatever's waiting.'
The following weeks saw the army getting ever smaller as knights and hurscals slipped away in small groups to their own holdings. The rest of the troops searched the horizon for the peaks of Tirah's towers as the miles passed away beneath their tramping feet. When they reached
Fordan, the sombre mood deepened. The new suzerain, a greying man of forty summers, had struggled into his father's armour despite a deep wound in his shoulder. Now he walked before the coffin, leading the cortege home.
That evening, the suzerain crammed as many as possible into the manor's great hall and spoke for a few minutes with dignified grief about those they had lost. As a last gesture to his beloved father, he ordered up the contents of their cellars, and barrels of beer and wine were rolled out for the endless toasts to the regiments who'd fought and the men who'd died. Everyone knew the late Suzerain Fordan would have hugely approved of having a hundred drunken soldiers as his memorial.
Isak sat back from it all, feeling out of place, though he'd been as much a part of the battle as any of them. A pang of guilt ran through him as he saw a tear in the new suzerain's eye as he raised a glass to his father's memory. That was something Isak would never be able to do – not even if his father managed some great feat of heroism. Isak doubted he'd feel much at all when Herman died.
His hands tightened into fists as part of him cried shame. Rising abruptly, he slipped away from the increasingly drunken mourners, following a servant's directions to a tight spiral staircase that led away from the hall. He told himself he didn't belong there, belting out marching songs, and stepped out on to a high terrace overlooking the fields. The crisp quiet of evening, with the hunter's moon dropping behind the distant pines, was a better place to remember the dead.
