Song of the Silvercades

by K S Nikakis

  ‘So she travelled from the forests alone?’ pursued Farid.

  Tierken shrugged, annoyed he’d neglected to ask.

  ‘You don’t seem to know much about your –’ said Farid lightly, breaking off as the door opened and Laryia appeared.

  Farid drained his mug and rose. ‘The Meeting Hall’s prepared and the Marken know of your return, Feailner,’ he said formally. ‘They’ll be in attendance at dawn.’

  ‘I thank you, Keeper,’ said Tierken, as Farid went out.

  ‘Is Kira sleeping?’ Tierken asked Laryia.

  ‘No,’ said Laryia, settling opposite, and selecting some redfruit. ‘She asked to be left alone to write.’

  ‘Write what?’

  ‘She didn’t say, just asked for paper and ink, and breeches and tunics. Tremen women seem to dress the same as Kessomi women.’

  ‘She’s not in the forests now – or Kessom – and will dress as Terak women do.’ Kira’s wilfulness showed no signs of abating, thought Tierken in irritation.

  ‘I’ll watch while you tell her that,’ said Laryia, smiling. ‘I’d forgotten how interesting it is to see gold eyes catch fire. Is it true the Shargh had her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How horrible,’ said Laryia. ‘What of her family? They must be frantic.’

  ‘They were murdered by the Shargh. After that, Kira went to Maraschin where she lived before the Shargh captured her.’

  ‘But this is terrible,’ cried Laryia. ‘Why didn’t you take her back to Maraschin? The scouts said you found her on the edge of The Westlans.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Tierken.

  ‘Then you should have taken her to Maraschin.’

  ‘You’re telling the Feailner what he should do, Lady Laryia?

  ‘I’m wondering if the gossips are right, my Lord.’

  ‘They’ve had you married to Farid at least a dozen times, Laryia, and me to every husbandless woman in Sarnia. I brought Kira north because she was under my protection and I was coming north.’

  ‘Is that the only reason?’ asked Laryia, watching for his reaction.

  Tierken rose and wandered to the window. He wondered whether it was the only reason too. The Domain was in darkness except for a dim sheen of lamplight from the Lehan Wing.

  ‘Kira’s safest here,’ he said, turning back. ‘The Shargh hunt her and the Tain have proven they can’t protect her. She’s only seventeen seasons, Laryia, and she’s seen a lot of death. I want her to be happy and safe, and this is the best place for both things.’

  ‘Is that what Kira wants, too?’

  ‘Kira needs time to settle, that’s all, and I want you to help her do that. Show her the city, and take her round Mid-market. Once her horsemanship is better, you can take her out on your favourite rides. I’m hoping you’ll be friends.’

  ‘I hope so too,’ said Laryia, yawning. ‘I bid you a good night Tierken,’ she said, and went to her rooms.

  Tierken remained, knowing he should be sleeping, but the sinews at the back of his neck were crawling as they did before every Feailmark. The records of the dues each dwelling paid were in order, the receipts from the traders who paid the Domain Guard complete, the tributes the stall-holders at Mid-market gave now fully recorded, and the lists and tabs all as they should be. All thanks to Farid.

  When Rosham had suggested his son for the role of Keeper of the Domain, Tierken’s first instinct had been to refuse; the last thing he wanted was Rosham’s spy reporting his every movement. But Farid had made it plain from the start that his loyalty would be to him as Feailner, and Tierken was confident that Farid never spoke of him outside the Domain, except in the most general terms.

  The Marken were only advisers, but their power had grown over the long seasons of Darid’s failing rule. Now that Tierken had the patrolmen behind him, he could dispense with their ‘advice’ altogether if he wished, but he was loath to cause discord. The Marken were linked to the powerful trading families of the city, and his rule would be smoother with their approval than without it. Poerin had taught him the value of patience, and of small victories, and while Tierken sat courteously through the Marken’s interminable discussions, and their thinly veiled complaints, there were fewer and fewer things he actually changed.

  Glancing through the window, Tierken saw that the lamplight he’d noticed earlier actually came from Kira’s rooms. By Irid! She should be sleeping. He strode from the Meeting Hall, down the steps and along the balcony, knocking but barely pausing before entering her rooms. She was sleeping, at the table, face resting on her arms, ink-stained fingers still clutching her pen. He gazed at her face for a moment, bathed in the gentle glow of lamplight, and the sense of wonder he’d felt on the plain came back to him.

  Queen Kiraon and her sons Terak and Kasheron had had gold eyes, but there had been no others in the north till him. Yet in the south, growing to womanhood in the forests, there had been another – who bore Queen Kiraon’s name and who claimed to be the seed of her other son.

  It simply wasn’t possible, and over the coming weeks he must convince Kira of the fact. He leaned over and carefully extricated the pen from her grasp.

  Kira jerked awake immediately, cowering like a cornered fanchon before recognising him.

  ‘I’m sorry I startled you,’ said Tierken, feeling shocked himself. It was one thing to tell Laryia Kira’s family had been murdered, another to see such terror etched in her face. How little he really knew of what she thought and felt beneath the calm facade now reasserting itself.

  He glanced down at the neat writing in Onespeak and Terak. Not only did Kira wear Kessomi garb, she recorded her knowing like a good Kessomi Healer.

  ‘Why are you recording healing when you should be sleeping?’ he asked, his irritation returning.

  ‘My healing comes from those who went before me, so I must leave it for those who follow.’

  ‘There are no Healers in Sarnia, so you’re wasting your time,’ said Tierken.

  ‘I’m only wasting my time if you destroy my work,’ challenged Kira.

  ‘Of course I won’t destroy your work,’ he said with a shrug.

  Kira made no reply, staring down at her Writings.

  ‘Do you like your rooms?’ he asked, lightening his voice.

  ‘They’re big.’

  ‘And rather empty. You can choose some more things at Mid-market. You’re sure to see something you like there.’

  ‘There’s no need; I won’t be staying long,’ said Kira.

  ‘You’ve been here less than a day. Is it so awful?’

  ‘No, Laryia has been most kind – as you have. But while I delay here, the Shargh might still be murdering my people. Since you refuse aid, I must seek it from the Tain,’ said Kira.

  ‘The Tains might not aid you,’ pointed out Tierken.

  ‘Adris will be glad of the men Caledon brings from Allogrenia,’ said Kira.

  The Tallien again! ‘You trusted this man Caledon to go to your lands and ask for men?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he your lover?’

  ‘My lover?’ said Kira in surprise. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Are you so unworldly that you don’t understand why one man would ask you that question about another man?’

  Kira still hadn’t answered the question, but her breathing had quickened, mirroring the pulse of his own blood. The lamplight gilded her face and turned her hair to spun gold. He wanted to run his fingers through it and down the curve of her throat.

  ‘Do you want me, Kira?’ he asked softly.

  Kira coloured. ‘I want you to look at the ring I carry,’ she said.

  ‘Show me then,’ he said, realising he was going too fast for her.

  Kira took it from round her neck and handed it to him, holding her breath as he peered at it in the lamplight. Tierken could see that it was very old, the edges worn and with the dullness common in silver forged before the silverwrights had perfected their art. He handed it back.

  �
�The allogrenia and galloping horse is a common design in the north,’ he said. ‘You’ll see it on rings, necklets and bracelets at Mid-market.’

  ‘It’s not a common design in the south, Tierken,’ she said. ‘In my lands there has only ever been one ring, held by the Tremen Leader, and passed down from Kasheron himself.’

  Tierken froze. ‘Are you saying you’re the Tremen Leader?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But that’s not possible!’

  A girl of seventeen seasons, without Guard, far from home … By Irid! He didn’t want yet another complication.

  Her chin had come up and he pushed his hand through his hair. It was late and on the morrow he must match wits with Rosham again.

  ‘We’ll speak again after the Feailmark,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, I wish you pleasant dreams on your first night in my city.’

  45

  Caledon moved swiftly over the Dendora, clad in his darkest cape to shield him from Shargh eyes. He was near where Kira had come to his aid, but he’d seen no sign of the Shargh or their herd animals.

  A breeze woke and, as the trees swayed, a man stepped from the shadows. Caledon froze but the man had seen him, an arrow already set. Caledon thought of his knife, but as the man advanced, two more men emerged behind him. A knife was a poor weapon against one arrow and useless against many. Then the breeze strengthened and the cloud shredded.

  ‘Lord Caledon! Praise be to Meros!’ the man exclaimed.

  ‘Guard Archorn,’ said Caledon in relief.

  ‘We’ve been here ten days, and would have waited another two,’ said Archorn. Caledon could now see seven men behind him, all King’s Guard, despite their dark capes and breeches.

  ‘I’ve been much delayed,’ said Caledon.

  ‘With your leave, we’ll journey on to the Aurantia Cave this night,’ said Archorn. ‘We’ve seen no Shargh, but it’s best we quit their lands as soon as we can. Prince Adris is anxious for your return.’

  ‘By all means. But tell me, is the Lady Kira still in Maraschin?’

  ‘No, my Lord.’

  ‘Then Prince Adris provided her with an escort north?’ said Caledon, trying to hide his disappointment.

  ‘It’s best you speak with Prince Adris,’ said Archorn.

  Caledon gripped Archorn’s arm in alarm. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘The Lady Kira left to gather and was taken by the Shargh,’ said Archorn reluctantly.

  Something inside Caledon drained away, leaving him as empty as a husk. It was a long time before he could speak.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Almost a moon ago,’ said Archorn. ‘But there’s still hope.’

  Caledon looked at him numbly. ‘Dead horses were found near The Westlans,’ said Archorn softly.

  ‘Dead horses?’

  ‘The Lady Kira was taken by Weshargh and Cashgar Shargh on horses. Ashmiri horses. Two dead Ashmiri horses were found near The Westlans.’

  ‘How were they killed?’ asked Caledon.

  ‘By the time Prince Adris returned to Maraschin, and we set out on search, the wolves had been at them,’ said Archorn, glancing at the trees uneasily. ‘We need to start back, Lord Caledon. Prince Adris awaits.’

  Caledon remembered little of the journey. He knew he must have traversed the slip and slide of the path that had all but claimed his life, passed through the sida grove and slept the first night in the Aurantia Cave. It was more than likely they’d bivouacked near where he and Kira had sheltered from the storm. When they reached the rosarin groves he was aware that he’d once played the thumbelin for her there, and watched the flames light her face. But even the thunderous ride across the Grasslands to the Maraschin gates failed to rouse him from the darkness. Only when he stepped into the Crown Room and Adris’s haggard face swam into view, did he become fully aware of his surroundings.

  ‘I’d lost all hope of seeing you again, my friend,’ said Adris, embracing him. ‘Come, sit and eat. The scouts tell me you’re hurt.’

  ‘Old injuries,’ said Caledon, slumping into a chair.

  ‘How …’

  ‘A fall from Shardos,’ he said. ‘I was careless, Adris, as you were with Kira.’

  ‘Kira wanted to find a herb she said cured Shargh wounds,’ said Adris and explained Kira’s subterfuge and the Shargh attack.

  ‘Archorn said you found horses.’

  ‘What was left of them, but there was something else, something only I and Guard Leader Remas know about.’

  Adris retrieved something from one of the wall-chests and laid it on the table in front of Caledon. It was an arrow, the haft dark with blood.

  ‘I don’t see –’ started Caledon.

  ‘It is made from allogrenia.’

  ‘A Terak arrow,’ hissed Caledon, the mist abruptly clearing from his mind. ‘The Shargh were attacked by the Terak!’

  ‘The Shargh may have got Kira away,’ cautioned Adris. ‘If the Terak had rescued her, they would surely have brought her here.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Caledon, starting to feel relieved.

  ‘They were virtually within our bounds,’ said Adris, his voice hard-edged.

  ‘What do you know of the new Terak Feailner, Adris?’

  ‘He’s the old Feailner’s nephew and was raised in Kessom. Like most Kessomis, he’s a good horseman. He spends more time out of the city than in it and wasn’t favoured by Darid as his heir, but there was no one else,’ listed off Adris.

  ‘Do you know why he wasn’t favoured?’

  ‘Darid hoped for a son of his own.’

  ‘That may be so, but it’s not the main reason. Darid’s nephew carries the taint of something most Terak would prefer to forget – he has gold eyes.’

  Adris stared at him in amazement. ‘You think the Terak would have taken Kira north for that reason?’

  ‘If the Terak Feailner led the patrol, I’m certain of it.’

  ‘He still should have brought her here,’ protested Adris.

  ‘Perhaps the stars decided otherwise,’ murmured Caledon. ‘Perhaps they intended the two to come together after all.’

  ‘Or the Shargh to kill her.’

  Caledon looked up, noticing Adris’s weariness for the first time. ‘How goes it with the King?’ he asked.

  ‘The King has sunk into a sleep from which there is no awakening.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Caledon, rising and going to him. ‘My thoughts were of Kira.’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive, my friend,’ said Adris, gripping Caledon’s shoulder. ‘I hardly know what to feel myself. Part of me grieves, while another part feels only relief.’

  There was a silence, then Caledon said, ‘I need to go north.’

  ‘Yes, it’s time. If the Tain cannot send greetings from the Tain King, they must at least send them from the Tain Prince. Give me two days to prepare, Caledon, then you’ll go well protected. I don’t want to lose you as well.’

  Tarkenda made her way back to her sorcha, well pleased with her morning’s work. The idea that Arkendrin’s right to the chiefship depended on him leading the Shargh to glory in the north had taken root easily, fed by the excitement of the Weshargh Chief’s return, and helped by word of the Soushargh’s willingness to share in the triumph. Even those whose allegiances lay with the first-born chiefs had been caught up in it, the babblings of Orsendron’s blood-ties Ertheren and Irsmiron as shrill as those of Arken drin’s cronies.

  How short memories were and how little regarded were the tales – and lessons – of the past, thought Tarkenda, looking out over the Grounds. The recent rains had brought lush pastures, a surfeit of grahen eggs and plump silverjacks. The ebis were wellfleshed, their milk creamy, the cheeses ripe and flavoursome. Children shouted at play on the lower slope and people slept without fear in their sorchas.

  But it wasn’t enough for the Weshargh Chief Orbdargan, or the Soushargh Chief Yrshin, and it certainly wasn’t enough for Arkendrin. And though Arkendrin must be close to the Grounds
now, her fear was less. The thoughts of the Shargh warriors had turned north, away from the creature of the Last Telling, and such was the prize Orbdargan and Yrshin dangled like blackfish bait, the warriors’ thoughts were unlikely to turn back.

  It was deep in the night when Tarkenda was woken by a wailing that set her heart pounding.

  ‘Can it be … ?’ gasped Palansa, sitting up.

  Tarkenda shook her head. Her visions had shown fighting, and if Arkendrin were dead, there’d be none. Nor would the gold-eyed creature come to the Grounds as her dreams suggested. But someone had died, and Ormadon’s words came back to her: Arkendrin has a gift for losing the lives of those around him, not his own.

  Footsteps sounded and Tarkenda heaved herself up. The fact that the wailing was confined to the lower slope indicated Arkendrin still lived.

  ‘Chief-mother?’

  ‘Enter, Ormadon,’ said Tarkenda, pulling a jacket over her shirt.

  ‘What has happened?’ demanded Palansa.

  ‘Arkendrin and Irdodun have returned.’

  ‘But not Ermashin and Orthaken?’ asked Tarkenda.

  ‘And the gold-eyed creature?’ broke in Palansa. ‘Did they bring her?’

  ‘No, Chief-wife. They were attacked by Northerners.’

  ‘Praise be to the Sky Chiefs,’ said Palansa, shutting her eyes.

  ‘So the Northerners killed Ermashin and Orthaken and took the creature?’ asked Tarkenda.

  ‘They killed Ermashin and Orthaken. It’s unclear what’s become of the creature, but it’s likely they took her.’

  ‘What else have you heard?’

  ‘The Soushargh share their southern grazing with the Ashmiri, and the Ashmiri know what happens beyond the Braghans.’

  ‘And?’ said Tarkenda.

  ‘They claim the Chief of the Northerners has gold eyes too.’

  Tarkenda paled and collapsed onto a chair. No vision or dream had told her that! And then a more dreadful thought came to her.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Palansa, her gaze flicking between Ormadon’s blank face and Tarkenda’s stricken one.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ asked Tarkenda hoarsely.