by Tom Lloyd
Then his hand started to tremble as something else drew his eye. He reached out to take the shield from Amanas. A crown hovered above the dragon’s head and as he saw that, foreboding sank into Isak’s stomach, as heavy as gold.
‘Careful, my Lord, the silver is still quite delicate,’ Amanas warned.
‘That’s solid silver? Then why—?’
The Keymaster held up a hand to suppress the question, then bent down and placed the green velvet in which the shield had been wrapped on the floor. He placed the shield face-up on the material, then stepped back.
Isak opened his mouth to speak, but before he could think of anything to say he felt a pulse of warmth come from the pile: magic ... He turned to Bahl. The old lord had also noticed; he fixed his stern gaze on the shield.
Without warning, the cloth underneath burst into flames. Isak flinched back in surprise, then stepped forward again as he felt no heat coming from the fire. The orange flames turned to green, all the while lasciviously caressing the lines of the shield. A furious cloud of magic grew up around the shield, swirling tighter and tighter as the green flames burned the velvet away to nothing. Isak suddenly realised that the magic was being drawn into the silver of the shield while a finger of energy wormed through the cracks in the flagstones and disappeared into the floor. And then it was over. Amanas was gone, the fire spent; only the shield, astonished faces and confusion remained.
‘Pick it up,’ Bahl commanded in a distant voice.
‘What? But-’
‘Do it.’
The Krann shrugged and touched his finger to the silver. An expression of wonder ran over his face as he stroked the mirror surface with the palm of his hand, then picked up the shield to show the room.
‘It’s cool, perfectly cool,’ he marvelled. Turning the shield over in his hands, Isak suddenly stopped and rapped his knuckles against the surface. ‘This can’t be silver, it’s too strong.’ He took each side of the shield in his hands and pushed together, gently at first, but then with all the enormous strength he could muster.
‘It’s far too strong to be silver,’ he repeated.
‘It’s silver.’ Bahl’s confirmation brought a frown from Isak. ‘Silver absorbs magic better than any other substance. That’s a gift from the Gods for you, and emerald is the colour of the Lady, Fate herself.’
Amanas had slipped out of the room long before anyone remembered to look for him. He was pleased, and returned to his wife with a satisfied smile on his face and a refusal to discuss what had happened earlier that evening. It was only when the Duke of Tirah paid them a visit the next day that she discovered why.
CHAPTER 8
‘I can’t do it. I can feel it there, but nothing’s happening.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing. Can’t you tell?’ Isak struggled to control his boredom. Running through the drills Kerin had devised for the last fortnight was dull enough; standing and staring at a wooden post for a whole hour was infinitely worse.
‘To me, it feels like you simply won’t relax and let go.’ Bahl’s voice was irritatingly calm and steady, as if the man was used to spending his days like this. They were out on the training ground. Nearby, a cavalry squadron was perfecting a variety of complicated formations. This one involved a wedge of soldiers of the Palace Guard who stood in the centre, flanked on either side by wheeling lines of light cavalry. The cavalry might not have been professional soldiers like the Ghosts but they were made to work hard for their annual stipend.
‘Why would I not let go? This isn’t exactly entertaining.’
Bahl’s eyes flashed. ‘Watch your tone, boy. Even if you did manage to use the magic inside you, I could still cut you down like a child. Do you think I’m trying to teach you conjuring tricks? Magic can turn the tide of the battle; you must be able to command it at will, or you’ll be as dead as your men on the field.’
Isak looked up at Bahl’s tone of voice and saw his hand tighten slightly. This was the first time it had contained even a trace of anger. He turned and bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry, my Lord, I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I don’t understand what I’m not doing.’
Bahl didn’t reply immediately and an awkward silence descended. When Bahl spoke again, his irritation was entirely absent. Isak knew he was in sore need of learning that particular skill.
‘Then we will have to get around the problem. I will ask the High Priest of Larat to come and see whether he can shed any light on the matter.’
‘Larat? No, not a chance—’
‘There will be no arguments about this,’ said Bahl firmly.
‘But what about the light in my dream?’
‘I said no arguments. The High Priest is a good man and understands the nature of magic as well as any. If I ask the College of Magic, they will try to turn it to their advantage; the Temple of Larat is poor, so they will be glad to receive our favour.’
‘But-’
‘Enough. It’s lucky for you I am not Atro. He was not so forgiving when questioned.’
‘Luck? I don’t know whether I believe in that any more.’ Isak looked up and stretched his shoulders, flexing muscles that were aching from uncomfortable nights and daily weapons practice. He caught Tila’s eye and smiled. She was sitting off to one side, so bundled up against the chill of the wind that only her eyes were visible.
The girl had been reserved around him for the first week, jumping at any sudden movement, but the familiarity of Isak’s company soon began to wear away at her resolve not to forget the death of Sir Dirass. Isak had even made her laugh - the first time it had happened he was not sure who had been more surprised, but it was not the only time he had brought a smile to her lips.
‘How did you manage?’
‘Hmm?’
‘With Atro - how did you manage to live around such a bastard?’
‘I kept quiet and ignored what he did. I wasn’t like you when I came to the palace; I had joined the Guard as a child, as soon as my family could get rid of me. I was twenty-four when the Tyrant of Mustet appeared at the barbican gate and announced I was Chosen of Nartis. While I had no interest in being Atro’s tool, I didn’t care that he was destroying our tribe either. I was more like General Lahk than you.’
Isak nodded. He’d seen the stern-faced white-eye stamping around the palace, but the general had offered neither friendship nor conversation. The guards said Lahk had been taken to the Temple of Nartis by Bahl twenty years back. Lahk was the only white-eye other than Bahl to have reached a position of some power, but Nartis had rejected him as Krann. His body had been scarred with lightning, and it was whispered in the barracks that his soul had been burnt out too, for the general cared for nothing but serving his lord.
‘Until you met Ineh?’
A flicker of pain ran across Bahl’s brow, but he just nodded sadly. ‘Ineh.’ He savoured the name as he said it, as though it left a sweet taste on his lips. Isak was desperate to ask more, but he was nervous of going too far.
‘Are they right in what they say?’
‘Which is?’
‘That it’s better to have loved and lost?’
Bahl gave a short, bitter laugh. There was no humour in his eyes when he answered, ‘You really are a strange one. I can’t think of that occurring to any other white-eye. No, it doesn’t matter; just be careful not to pry too far. Is it better? Perhaps, I felt more alive then; she gave me a reason to be more human. Atro was a tumour in the belly of this tribe, but it was only when I met Ineh that I cared. Only then did I bother to notice the hurt he was causing. To live with such loss I would not wish on any man, but to live without the joy that came before ... if a man can stand before the Gods and choose not to have known the one he has lost, he never truly loved her.’
‘I’m sorry.’ The words sounded absurd, worthless, and Isak almost winced as he said them. Bahl didn’t reply, other than for a tired sigh. For a minute he looked like a sad old man, then the blank visage reasserted itself, burying all em
otion deep inside once more.
‘Don’t be sorry. Regrets are no use to a Lord of the Farlan - which reminds me, Lesarl tells me you have a problem with keeping your own counsel during meetings. That’s another skill you could happily study.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean what you called the Marshal of Quetek. However apparent it was, that observation cost Lesarl severely.’
‘Well, the man was being paid enough already, and he was demanding that Lesarl help him arrange a marriage. He was practically drooling at the thought.’
‘The girl’s a maid in the palace, no? I’ve seen her. You’d probably drool yourself.’
‘The girl’s fourteen summers! The Marshal of Quetek is over sixty, with a grown heir already. He’s in no need of another wife.’
‘But he will have one, whether you like it or not. And if you did somehow manage to stop him, he would no doubt force his maids into his bed and turn them out of the house when he tires of them. If he marries, there is some constraint on his behaviour - and the girl is going to be married anyway. To wed an old marshal means she’ll soon be a widow of property. Next time, think before you start to moralise to your elders.’
‘I wasn’t moralising. I just didn’t like the man. Why should I hold my tongue?’
‘And that’s what you should learn.’
Isak frowned. ‘Perhaps I should, but I’ve no desire to. I’ve spent my whole life biting things back, keeping quiet when I’m in the right and taking every insult I get from men I could break in half. People might still hate me, but at least now they’re going to have to be careful about it.’
For a moment Bahl looked concerned, as though he had just been reminded of a deeply troubling conversation, then he muttered, ‘Fine, just don’t try to make any more enemies - those will come fast enough without you adding to them. Now go and clear your mind for when the priest comes. The calmer you are, the easier it will be for both of you.’
‘Isak, it’s time.’
Isak didn’t reply, but raised a hand to acknowledge Tila’s words. He was sat on a cushion in the palace shrine, high under the eaves of the palace. There were scenes of Nartis hunting on every wall, and the ceiling represented a night sky. The many pillars in the room were painted like trees, each one reaching up and spreading branches into the ceiling to meet the sky.
This room was an oasis of solitude, far from the bustle of the palace, and one that only the rich could afford. Even in Isak’s formal chambers, luxurious open rooms on the second floor, there was always noise: the tramp of servants, guards and palace residents shook the corridors, while from outside came the pounding of hooves and constant shouted orders from the training ground.
Up here, where few were permitted to go, Isak could enjoy his own company in what little free time he had. When not training or shadowing Lesarl through innumerable meetings, he was struggling through a library of dusty texts, learning to be both politician and religious figure. He was floundering under the sheer weight of both.
His thoughts turned to the man who would be waiting for him downstairs. Lesarl had taught him never to rush to meet anyone but an old friend. Even for Lord Bahl, Lesarl would calmly find a break in his work and walk to where he was required, retaining his composure at all times. When it was urgent, Bahl didn’t have the patience to send a servant.
Even though it had been only two weeks, Isak could already appreciate the advantages. He couldn’t claim to like Lesarl, but his respect for the Chief Steward was growing daily. The man could infuriate with a smile and a gentle handshake. Isak had learned to his cost the price of becoming annoyed and leaving himself open to goading. Lesarl now owned a valuable manor in Anvee: an object lesson, Lord Bahl said, in agreeing to anything - particularly a wager - while angry.
Lesarl strode around with an aura of almost palpable confidence that made men defer to him almost as much as they did Lord Bahl. Isak recognised that regal presence was something else he should cultivate.
‘Tila, did you learn the story of Amavoq’s Cup when you were younger?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Why?’
‘Because I didn’t. I hardly know any of the old tales. There’s a picture of it over there on the wall - I’d seen it on a temple wall before, but never thought to ask. Earlier today I saw Lesarl send off a carriage loaded with as much gold as it could carry, to be sent all the way to Merlat, all because of that bloody cup.’
‘Well, Amavoq’s Cup was only the origin of the dispute with the Yeetatchen. Quite a lot more has happened in the meantime.’
‘But the point is I didn’t have a clue, and when I asked I looked like a fucking idiot—’
‘Isak!’
He turned at her shocked voice, then realised what was wrong. ‘Oh don’t worry, Nartis isn’t listening.’
Tila was blushing furiously at his words. ‘Isak, you can’t say such things, especially in a temple! What if anyone heard? Even a Krann can be charged with impiety, and the Gods—’
‘Stop worrying; you’re the only one to hear. I think I’m bound closely enough to Nartis to feel his presence in one of his shrines. As for impiety, how would they enforce it? I’m apparently a senior figure in the Cult of Nartis, and Lord Bahl is the official head. I would assume a charge of impiety against me would require, at the very least, his signature. Even if it doesn’t, am I going to be dragged by a few elderly priests to the courts?’
‘What about the dark monks?’
‘The who? Something else I’m supposed to know? Is there anything else?’
‘I ... I don’t really know, but there’s not much I can tell you about the dark monks; no one really knows a lot, other than that they’re called the Brethren of the Sacred Teachings and people say that they seek out and assassinate heretics throughout the Land.’
‘Wonderful! Religious fanatics and assassins; what a sensible combination. Still, there are none in earshot, so I’m still safe.’ He eased himself up off the cushion, wondering idly what myth was behind the lack of seats in any temple dedicated to Nartis. No explanations came to mind and he dismissed it quickly. He had kept Lord Bahl waiting quite long enough.
He adjusted his long robe, dark blue like those worn by all monks of Nartis. His was distinguished by the dragon brooch pinned on his chest. Nobles were expected to wear their crest in some form at all times, and now he knew that, Isak had begun to notice the subtle embroidered patches and jewellery men in the palace wore. Tila was getting more made for him, a number fitting to his high station. He wouldn’t have bothered, except for the way Tila said ‘your high station’ had made it impossible for the wagon-brat in him to refuse.
He ran a hand over his shorn head and smiled at the thought of what Carel would say if he could see him now. He loved being able to walk into any shop he liked and be fussed over like a prince, although Tila’s efforts to convert him to fashion were floundering. Every day another outfit arrived for his consideration, though he preferred the simplicity of the formal robes that were spurned by most of the nobility of his age. They preferred a gaudier look bedecked with ornamentation. But in all of this, he had managed to keep his scar hidden. He still wasn’t quite sure why it mattered, but now he was shadowed by servants and guards he felt he wanted to keep some things secret from the rest of the palace.
As Isak descended the main staircase, he felt a flicker of trepidation in his stomach. Beside him, Tila’s shoes scuffed on the stone steps as she kept up with him. In deference to the high priest, she wore a white scarf over her head, wrapping it around the single plait that ran down her back. As they reached the top of the stair, Tila asked whether any of the charms in her hair were showing.
Isak suspected that he didn’t know the reason for that tradition either, but at least he understood that she didn’t want to wear another God’s rune so obviously in front of a high priest, even though adults could wear as many charms as they wanted. Tila had inherited four antique pieces from her grandmother that she loved.
‘Lord Isak,’ called the guardsman at the foot of the stair, ‘you’re expected. This way.’ He pointed to his left towards the Great Hall where the last door before the entrance to the hall was open. Swordmaster Kerin stood in the doorway looking uncomfortable in his formal uniform, a dress version of the Palace Guard’s black and white livery. The Swordmaster bowed as Isak approached, which made Isak frown in surprise - only that morning Kerin had been screaming curses at him out on the training field.
‘Inside,’ he muttered. ‘Relax and do what you’re told, even if you don’t feel like it. The man’s going to look inside your mind; it’s dangerous, so don’t fight him or decide to “try something” yourself, understand?’
Isak nodded and Kerin backed away through the door to let the Krann pass into the ducal audience chamber, a room fifteen yards long and empty of furniture except for the Lord of the Farlan’s ceremonial seat. The room was seldom used these days as most suits and requests went through Lesarl. The Chief Steward maintained offices at both Tirah Palace and Cold Halls, once a palace, now the city administrators’ offices, on the north side of Irienn Square. He had been known to make people queue outside in bad weather, just to ensure their business was sufficiently important. His personal suite of offices commanded a fine view of the square below.
Inside, the cluster of men stopped talking and turned. Lord Bahl, in formal attire and wearing a silver circlet on his hooded head, was seated on the massive ducal throne. Beside him, on a more temporary seat, was the high priest. The flashes of purple and yellow on his dark blue robe marked him as a follower of Larat. There was another priest in similar robes standing beside the high priest’s chair.
Despite Isak’s misgivings, the man - Afger Wetlen, so Tila had told him - looked a far cry from the conniving devotee of Larat he’d been expecting. The high priest was a bony old man with a sickly complexion and rheumy eyes. He seemed to be having difficulty enough remaining upright in his seat, let alone pursuing the schemes of a duplicitous God. The sharp-eyed priest supporting his master’s elbow was a different matter, but Isak reminded himself that most people looked that way at a white-eye, so there was no point reading anything into it.
