by John Gwynne
‘Why did it happen, though?’ said Gar, still frowning.
Brina shrugged. ‘Many people faint,’ she said, peering at Corban. ‘A shock, lack of food, water, air, many reasons.’
‘See, Cy. I’m fine. And you don’t need to be telling Mam or Da about this. There’s no need to worry them, is there?’
‘Well, I don’t know, Ban.’
‘Please, Cy. If it happens again, tell them. If it happens again, I’ll tell them. But it won’t.’
There’s no point you two having this conversation,’ said Gar. ‘I’ll be telling your mam and da, as soon as we’re home. And talking of home, you all need to make ready. King Brenin has concluded his council with the other rulers. He is leaving.’
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
VERADIS
‘And you are sure that you feel well, now?’ Veradis asked Nathair, not for the first time. When Nathair collapsed on the wall Veradis had thought he had been victim to some attack – poison, or elemental magic. It had only been his utter panic over Nathair that had stopped him stabbing Mandros, then and there. He was convinced that the King of Carnutan was behind it.
Nathair had been carried to Aquilus’ chambers and healers sent for. They had only just arrived when Nathair had woken, though. He had assured them that he was well and continued to do so every time that Veradis asked him, but he looked odd, somehow. Distracted.
‘I cannot believe I missed it,’ Nathair said, smiling. ‘All this time, waiting, and then I go and faint, just as the sun turns black.’ He shook his head. ‘Tell me again, Veradis. It did happen, didn’t it?’
‘Aye. Just as Halvor’s book said. Day became night. It was the strangest thing. It was not pitch dark, but close, and bitter cold, for a while.’
Nathair paced to a shuttered window, thrust it open and breathed deep of the cold air that came swirling in, rustling amongst parchments that littered tables and tall scroll shelves covering the walls of the room. Veradis stood in silence, watching the Prince.
Eventually Nathair turned. ‘So, it has happened.’
‘Aye.’ Looking out at the pale sky the whole episode felt like a vivid, freshly remembered dream. ‘What happens now?’
Nathair crossed the room, sat in a chair beside an inkhorn and scattered quills. ‘First, I think it is time that I spoke to my father, about who I am. It is time.’ There was something in Nathair’s tone that caught Veradis’ attention. Something resolute.
‘You are sure?’ Veradis asked. ‘Now is a good time?’
‘Yes. It must be. Time is running away.’ Nathair nodded to himself. ‘And after that, we take control of this war, Veradis. We stop waiting for things to happen. We do. I will not sit idly by and wait for Asroth’s Black Sun to grow strong. I will take the battle to him.’
Veradis rubbed his chin, itching his palm on the short, stubbly beard that he had been cultivating. ‘And how, exactly, will we do that?’
‘Finish what we have begun. Forge a warband the Banished Lands have never witnessed – an army, a fleet. Bring the weak to heel. I must have a firm grip on the land if I am to fulfil the task Elyon has set me.’ They fell silent as footsteps echoed in the corridor. The door opened and Aquilus entered, Meical behind him.
Nathair smiled at his father, but did not rise from his chair. Aquilus just stood and regarded his son a moment, looking weary beyond measure.
A silence fell.
‘Meical has returned to us.’
‘So I see,’ Nathair said. ‘A timely arrival.’ He looked at Meical. The tall, dark-haired man returned his gaze in silence.
‘Where have you been?’ Nathair asked him.
‘Tarbesh.’
Veradis felt his heart suddenly quicken in his chest, thudding against his ribs.
‘Rahim was full of praise for you,’ Aquilus said. ‘Though he was most surprised with your methods. Using giants and sorcerers to track the Shekam, using a fleet of ships to speed your journey. Using the Vin Thalun.’
Nathair looked away, eyes flitting across the rowed scrolls on the walls.
‘Have you nothing to say?’ Aquilus asked.
‘It was necessary.’
‘Necessary.’
‘Aye. Victory is what counted. I succeeded in the task you set me, Father. What matter the means?’
Aquilus quickly closed the gap between him and his son, slammed a clenched fist onto the table, tipping the inkhorn. A dark stain spread across the tabletop, ink dripping to the flagstoned floor.
‘You lied to me.’
‘I did not lie. I withheld some of the details, true, but only for a time. I was going to tell you,’ Nathair said, a tremor creeping into his voice. ‘Father, consider the results; consider the possibilities . . .’
‘No,’ Aquilus said, voice controlled now. ‘You deceived me. You disobeyed me. I forbade your involvement with the Vin Thalun.’ The King seemed to falter and reached out a hand, steadying himself against the table.
‘Father, I . . . I am sorry. I did not mean to, I wish only to make you proud of me. All that I have done has been to win your favour . . .’ Nathair’s voice wavered suddenly, tears filling his eyes. He looked down to hide them.
‘My favour?’ said Aquilus. He shook his head. ‘You know what we face, Nathair, know what I seek to achieve. We must be ready for the Bright Star.’
Nathair straightened and took a breath to speak, but Aquilus continued.
‘How can I trust you? Allow you into my confidences?’ The King sighed. ‘Now, tell me the truth of what happened in Tarbesh. I must know it all, before we talk of what happens now.’
‘What do you mean, what happens now?’ Nathair said.
‘Do as I command,’ Aquilus growled, dangerously now. Nathair glowered at him a moment, then began to speak.
He told of their journey to Tarbesh, of Lykos and his fleet, of the information Alcyon and Calidus provided, though he took care to avoid any mention of Calidus’ name. He told of Rahim’s problems in finding the Shekam, of Calidus and Alcyon’s aid in finding the giants, of thwarting their sorcerous mist, of the battle. He told all except their journey to Telassar. That he mentioned not at all.
‘. . . so you see, Father, I have only ever had one goal, your goal, in mind: the defeat of Asroth and his Black Sun. I have just employed unusual means. Too often we are shackled by tradition, by ways of doing things. I say it is the results that matter. Sacrifices must be made for the greater good.’
‘I have heard that phrase before,’ Meical said, quietly, almost to himself. ‘A long time ago. No good came of it then, either.’
‘You speak out of turn,’ Nathair said coldly. ‘You are a counsellor. Speak when counsel is requested.’
Meical stared at the Prince, only the slight flaring of his nostrils revealing a hint of his anger.
‘Meical is more, much more, than a counsellor,’ Aquilus said.
‘More? What?’
‘I was hoping to talk to you of that,’ Aquilus said. ‘But not now, not after this. Truth and courage, Nathair, I have tried to teach you their value, have I not?’
Nathair just stared, dumbly.
‘Trust, Nathair,’ the King continued, both stern and sad. ‘Trust is vital between us. It is the mortar that protects us from Asroth’s schemes and deceit, that holds us together. And I no longer trust you. You – my only son.’
‘That is ridiculous, Father—’
‘Who was the Vin Thalun?’ Meical interrupted.
Nathair paused, frowned.
‘The one that guided you through Tarbesh, the giant’s companion. What was his name?’
Nathair shook his head. ‘It is of no import,’ he muttered.
‘What was his name?’ Aquilus said.
‘Calidus,’ Nathair breathed.
Aquilus froze, speechless. He looked at Meical, who for the first time looked more than concerned, scared even. Then Aquilus lunged forwards and grabbed Nathair, shaking him. ‘Do you know what you have done?’ he snarled into his son�
��s face. Before he knew it, Veradis was stepping forward, his sword half drawn. A hand clamped on his wrist, the grip like iron, spun him.
‘Hold, Prince’s man,’ Meical said.
Aquilus released Nathair, who stumbled back against the table, devastation on his face.
‘You would draw your sword on me?’Aquilus levelled at Veradis.
‘I . . . no, my King.’ He looked down, suddenly ashamed.
Meical released him. With a click he pushed his sword back tight into its scabbard.
Aquilus sighed, rubbed his eyes and walked to the open window. ‘Veradis,’ he said.
‘Yes, my King?’
‘I must speak soon with Mandros. Go, bring him to me.’
‘Is that wise?’ Veradis blurted. Mandros was the enemy, of that he was sure.
‘He has seen day turn to night, seen Halvor’s words proven true. He will be humbled, now, ready to join me.’
Not if he is a servant of Asroth, thought Veradis. Not if he seeks to prepare the way for the Black Sun. Veradis glanced at Nathair, saw the Prince nod.
‘As you wish, my King.’
‘Meical – I would speak with my son. Privately.’
Meical looked between king and prince. ‘Come,’ he said to Veradis, and together they left the room, Aquilus and Nathair regarding one another in silence.
‘Your loyalty is admirable,’ Meical said as the two men walked away. Veradis said nothing. ‘Take more care that it is deserved, though.’
‘Do you speak ill of Nathair?’ Veradis stopped abruptly, turning to Meical.
‘I speak the truth as I see it,’ the tall man said.
‘He is the Prince of Tenebral, and a better man you will not find.’
Meical shrugged. ‘His decisions are questionable. The companions he chooses . . .’
‘Calidus is beyond doubt. It is you that concerns me.’
‘Me?’ Meical said contemptuously. ‘I live to serve Elyon, and his Bright Star.’
Veradis grunted. ‘Your Bright Star is here, you fool. On the top floor of this tower.’
Meical’s eyes narrowed. ‘You cannot think . . . Nathair?’
‘Ha,’ Veradis spat. ‘The truth has been before you all these years, yet you have failed to recognize it. I have an errand to run,’ he said, heading away to Mandros’ rooms. He did not look back until he reached Mandros’ door. When he did, Meical was gone.
The King of Carnutan was a large-boned man, once heavily muscled but now turning to fat, a belly pushing over a thick belt twined with silver.
Veradis informed him of the King of Aquilus’ request, and he came almost immediately, two warriors following. He still looked pale and shaken, as he had on the battlements, even after the sun had returned to normal. Not so mocking, now, Veradis thought.
Veradis led the way silently back up to the tower to Aquilus’ rooms, passing Orcus, his personal guard.
‘Your weapon,’ Veradis said to Mandros. There was no way he was going to allow this man within reach of Aquilus or Nathair with a sword at his hip. He was still half sure that Mandros had somehow been behind Nathair’s collapse at the wall.
The King scowled at him but unbelted his sword and gave it to Veradis.
Nathair opened the door to Veradis’ knocking. ‘Wait for me,’ the Prince said as Mandros entered the room, then the door clicked shut. Veradis was left standing in the hallway with Mandros’ two guards.
He leaned against a tapestried wall. It had been quite a day. He remembered Nathair’s face during the confrontation with Aquilus. The Prince had been devastated, had even shed tears. At least Aquilus was not like Veradis’ own father. Lamar would most likely have slapped him for such an unmanly display. Veradis felt a surge of sympathy for the Prince – so clearly driven by a need for his father’s recognition, his approval. He knew how that felt, had built walls against that pain long ago, but it was still always there, like a thorn in his flesh. He squeezed his temples. Everything had gotten so complicated.
The King’s door opened, Mandros bustling through it, still pale, looking more haggard, if anything. His hands shook as he took back his sword and belt from Veradis. He closed the door quickly behind him and hurried down the hallway, his two warriors walking fast to catch him.
As they disappeared down the stairwell Orcus looked at Veradis and frowned. The guard was right – something was wrong.
Veradis went to the study door, straining to listen. No voices, only silence, then a coughing. Panic welled up and he shouldered the door open.
Nathair lay against a thick table leg, propped on one elbow, blood staining his waist, pooling on the floor.
‘Ve— . . . Veradis,’ the Prince stuttered.
‘Orcus!’ Veradis yelled as he rushed to Nathair, kneeling. A knife hilt protruded from the Prince’s side, just below the ribs. Nathair plucked feebly at it, eyelids fluttering, face as pale as death.
‘Lie still,’ Veradis said.
Orcus surged into the room, stood frozen for a moment.
‘The King?’ he said.
Veradis just stared at him.
‘Where is Aquilus?’ Orcus shouted.
‘There . . .’ breathed Nathair, waving a hand.
In shadows beneath the open window a crumpled figure lay.
‘No,’ Veradis whispered.
Empty, lifeless eyes looked back at him.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CORBAN
‘What did you mean?’ asked Corban.
‘When? About what?’ Brina said, rolling her eyes.
‘At the feast, when you said “Circles within circles.” About Uthan and Kyla being betrothed.’
Brina shot him a look. ‘Your ears are as honed as your talent for questions.’
‘Thank you,’ Corban smiled.
‘It was not a compliment. I meant,’ she began slowly, choosing her words carefully, ‘that things are not as simple as they appear.’
‘What does that—’
‘Ah,’ Brina snapped, holding a finger up. ‘I was going to explain, but if you insist on filling every moment that I pause for breath with a fresh question, then this conversation will end now.’
Corban clamped his mouth shut with an effort of will.
‘Specifically what I meant,’ she carried on, ‘is that Gethin is forging his own links with the Kingdom of Narvon. Uthan is King Owain’s heir – so he will be King of Narvon himself one day, if he does not get himself killed first, and Kyla will be his queen. This is something that King Brenin may not be too pleased about. The brothers Gethin and Evnis are ambitious. They seek to elevate themselves and their kin within the kingdom, and beyond, it would seem. Evnis has been manoeuvring for Vonn to be betrothed to Princess Edana for years.’
Corban grunted. For some reason he did not like that thought at all.
Brina raised an eyebrow. ‘Imagine that, Evnis’ son married to a queen, Gethin’s daughter married to a king. Not a great leap for their blood to be sitting on two thrones, eh?’
Corban nodded slowly.
‘People are such selfish little creatures,’ Brina sighed. ‘Always seeking to further their own position, no matter how small or petty.’
‘Not all are like that,’ Corban said, feeling somehow offended.
‘No? Well, maybe you are right. But look about you, Corban. Once you are aware of the particular shape and stink of human greed you will not fail to recognize an abundance of such behaviour. It can be quite depressing.’
‘People see what they want to see,’ Corban proclaimed, feeling almost wise.
Brina looked at him sharply. ‘And where did you hear that particular gem of wisdom? Heb?’
‘Aye,’ Corban admitted begrudgingly. Brina just huffed and looked ahead.
They were on the journey home to Dun Carreg, Badun three days behind them now. A cold wind had blown down from the north on Midwinter’s Day, and had not left, freezing the land, ice crystals in the snow sparkling around them. It was so cold that Corban’s ears ached.
He was still in awe of all that he had seen at Badun. The duel between Tull and Morcant had taken his breath away, leaving him feeling both sick and elated, and then Midwinter’s Day had come.
He wished he had seen more of it, from what Cywen had told him it had been amazing – and it was embarrassing that he had fainted. He was not looking forward to Rafe getting hold of that information. Somehow, though, he felt different, stronger. He had strange flashes of memory, as if something significant had happened to him, however unlikely it seemed.
He didn’t know what had occurred between King Brenin and the other rulers – although Rhin had left soon after the sun had returned to normal. And now they were bound for Dun Carreg early the next day, the mysterious couple that had begged King Brenin’s Sanctuary travelling with them.
Their journey back to Dun Carreg was uneventful, and Gwenith grabbed him and Cywen before they had even fully entered their kitchen, the smells of home assailing them. She hugged them long and hard, Thannon stepping in and wrapping his broad arms about them all, then she insisted on hearing every detail of their journey. ‘Welcome home,’ his mam said when they had finally finished. ‘No more journeying for a while, I hope.’ She hugged them both again.
Frost-stiffened grass crunched under his feet as Corban followed Halion to the edge of the sparring court.
‘Shield-work, Corban, is not all about defence,’ Halion said, gesturing at two men facing up to spar on the stone. ‘Watch a while, and you will learn more than I can teach you with words.’
Conall was on the court, dark hair pulled tight at his neck and a grin on his face, shield and wooden sword held ready. He faced Marrock, who was taller, leaner, the scar on his face looking red and livid against his pale skin. The huntsman also held a shield and practice sword. They nodded to each other and Conall instantly lunged forwards, Marrock retreating hastily.
‘You see,’ Halion said quietly, ‘how my brother uses his shield? Not just to block Marrock’s blade. He seeks to knock him off balance, to open his guard.’
Corban nodded. As he watched, Conall caught a downswing on his shield, pushed up and back, shoving his shield’s boss at Marrock’s face. The huntsman jumped back, swinging his own shield into Conall’s side as the warrior surged forwards, unsteadying him.