by S J Hartland
“Why do you have yellow hair?”
“What’s it to you? A quick poke doesn’t mean you can ask questions.”
He shrugged. “Curiosity. I’ve not seen a lass with pale hair in Telor before. You hear stories sometimes, nonsense I thought, that a few of the Seithin survived.”
She slapped his hand away. “Don’t you go saying that. Don’t you dare. You’ll get me arrested and killed and all. I’m not Seithin. That’s stupid.” She gulped in an outraged breath. “My father’s Venivan. A ship’s captain, my mother says.”
“Oh, a captain.”
“Yes, a captain.” She tilted her chin. “Lazy cow can’t remember his name, but he was Venivan, with yellow hair. So don’t you go causing trouble, saying I’m Seithin.”
Heath backed her up to the wall. “Cause trouble? But you’ve a weakness for men like me.”
“I’ve a weakness for men with coins in their pockets.”
Heath groped her breast, lazily aroused again. Ah well, he had a few more coins. From the moons, the night was not so old.
A bell tolled, its peal rippling silver in the clear, crisp darkness.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Get off me.”
“A bell in the middle of the night means something.”
The girl squirmed beneath his weight. Heath let her go and stepped back in one graceful movement. He held up a gold coin. “What’s happening?”
“Some poor fool’s about to die. You really don’t know? Where have you been? The ends of the earth?”
Something like that. “What poor fool?”
“Cultist probably. There, I told you.” The girl snatched the coin, backed up a step, then scuttled from the alley.
Heath followed. To his surprise, the black night awakened with nervous laughter and whispers as a stream of people hurried along the road beside the sea wall towards the docks. Some bristled with excitement. Others peered over shoulders with frightened expressions.
He pushed into the crowd, catching snatches of conversation as it carried him forward.
“Did they uncover another one?”
“What do you think? Why else summon everyone?”
The mob surged towards torches blazing upon jutting breakwaters in the stone-walled harbour then grumbled to a halt.
Squeezed shoulder-to-hip with men and women held back by a line of guardsmen, Heath could only stare as figures in sinister, purple robes appeared on a breakwater. Moonlight gleamed on white-painted faces.
Between the breakwater and the quayside where the expectant crowd waited, the tide lapped stone, a silver-streaked inky pool.
Hooded figures dragged a half-naked man onto the breakwater. Young, scrawny, with matted, black hair, he slumped in their grasp. Broken. Too exhausted to be afraid.
The bells stopped. In the taut silence, heavy with menace, cold slivered down Heath’s spine as though something unseen and ancient breathed on his neck as it swept past.
A figure stepped forward. Torch flames cast a woman’s silhouette upon the wall. As she addressed the crowd, Heath struggled to catch the words. Something about judgement. Gods.
A priestess then. He shrank back. Some called his gods cruel, but these Isles deities surely could frost even an Icelands winter.
The priestess lifted her voice. “An offence to our king, to our gods.”
“What offence? What did the wretch do?” he asked a man near him. The stranger shushed him with a disapproving frown.
“Accept this traitor, accept his life as our offering, oh gods who protect us and grant us life,” the priestess said. “May the Three always turn their faces towards us.”
She nodded. Hooded figures threw the young man down. A muttering ran through the jostling crowd as he sprawled on his hands and knees, dirty hair spilled across his face.
At a grinding sound, the mob hushed. Metal clinked and rattled. Heath used his height and swordsman’s bulk to force his way to the front of the human tangle as a stone slab rose from the water, its rusted chains creaking against the breakwater.
The prisoner scrambled back, clawing helplessly at the wall of robed captors, his mouth open in a noiseless scream. They grabbed his arms and pulled him towards the stone. The throng pressed close, straining to see.
Two robed priests leapt onto the wet stone. Their companions thrust the captive at them. They knocked him to his knees, then onto his back. He arched and kicked, but they pinned him with their bodies until iron fastened his wrists and ankles.
The priests returned to the breakwater, their sacrifice uselessly struggling in fetters. The priestess lifted long-sleeved arms; her chant lost in an excited babble and the roar of water.
The stone rumbled into the sea.
With morbid anticipation, even an exhilarated fascination, Heath wondered at the young man’s likely terror as he disappeared beneath the water.
He should feel something else. Shouldn’t he? Compassion. Disquiet. Horror, perhaps.
A hush fell. The crowd stilled like a stalking beast. Waiting.
A woman near Heath swiped a tear from her cheek, saw him staring, took a startled breath and disappeared into the mob. This time, unexpectedly, pity stabbed. Did she know the sacrificed man? A brother? A lover? Husband?
He tried to follow her with his eyes, but the crowd sighed as a grinding split the quiet. With a mighty splash, the stone broke above waves. The manacles lay open, the young man gone.
Not as dramatic as the deaths Heath delivered his gods in the fire halls. But curious.
“Praise the gods.” The priestess’ voice lifted. “They accept the sacrifice.”
A ripple tore through onlookers. Relief. Excitement. Everyone spoke and laughed at once.
A stranger slapped his back. “Cultists. It’s too quick a death.”
More talk of cultists. What were they? Why did they deserve this?
“It’s a trick,” Heath said. “A mechanism releases the chains, so the body disappears. The tide does the rest.”
The man sneered. “You don’t know what you say, stranger. But best not say it too loud.”
Heath peered into swirling, murky waters. Even if the tide carried the body off, it must float. No, he no longer liked this at all. Nor anything about these vicious Isles gods.
With heavy footsteps, he returned to the inn, wondering at his coldness. Was this what he had become after years fighting to survive in the arena? A man unable to feel even shame at his lack of sympathy, his hardness.
When he stepped into the room, he froze in surprise.
Like the sacrifice upon the stone, Pairas lay on floorboards, ringed by burning candles.
Judith stood over him, holding a cup. Blood smeared her brow.
“You can’t kill him now,” she said.
Heath tore the cup from her. Blood spilled on his wrists, dripped to the floor. He considered Pairas. Smears patterned his naked chest, but no wound marked him.
Judith thrust out a gashed arm. “It’s my blood.”
“What is this? What have you done?”
“A protection spell. Myranthe told me how. She knows what you’re like.”
Heath snorted a sigh. A restlessness crept back into his bones, a weariness of spirit.
“A protection spell,” he repeated dully. “Against me?”
Judith held up a knife. “I used your knife for the spell. Myranthe said to take an object that’s worn close to your body. It means you can’t kill him now.”
Heath snatched at his missing blade, then let his hands fall to his side. “Judith, please understand. He must die. We can’t leave ends untied.”
“Whatever you do to him, my spell means it rebounds against me.”
He stared at her beloved face, enlivened by determination. How dare she take the side of some fool warrior from a gods-forsaken rock in the middle of nowhere against him. Him.
“Why him? Tell me that, Judith? You’ve never cared before.”
“He reminds me of someone,” she said, h
er eyes hazing with memory.
“Where does this leave us, Judith? How can I trust you after this?”
Her expression softened. She took his hands. “You can always trust me, Heath. How can you ask that? After everything that’s happened. It’s only this one thing.”
Heath snatched his hands away. Only this one thing. He dug fingers into his aching temples. “I don’t have time for this. If Aric Caelan is in Dal-Kanu, then you and I must follow.”
“And we will. But first let this man go. It can do no harm.”
He sighed. “Very well, nag. I’ll leave him outside the city gates. Alive. I swear it.”
Judith threw her arms around him. “Thank you.”
He smiled at her. But alarm cut through him like sharpened steel. Heath Damadar, a lord of the Ice, fire dancer and spy, knew he—they—just made their first mistake.
Aric
Aric Caelan split the line of riders and carriages advancing slowly towards the river crossing, his gloved hand instinctive on the reins, his thoughts snagged on one thing.
His outriders. Where were his outriders? He had sent them into the forests beyond the forge and into the glare of noon. Now the light pearled towards dusk.
“Skull top. Talk to me.” His sister Azenor leaned from the saddle to torment a man with a bald, shiny head. “My swaggering brother says he’s too busy.”
With an indulgent chuckle, Aric fell in beside Azenor and the Isles captain.
“I’m bored, Cass,” Azenor said. “Tell me a story about Isles kings of old, sorceresses, warriors and magic. The bloodier the better.”
“The woman’s a witch,” Cass said. “She can’t see me but always knows I’m there.”
“She smells you.” Just like he smelt something amiss, could taste it, metallic as blood on his tongue. Where were his scouts?
“These mud berries?” His captain scooped pear-shaped, purple fruit into his mouth and chewed aloud. “Try some, my prince. Put hairs on your chest.”
“Hairs on my chest? You still think I’m a boy, you old fool?” Aric thrust a gloved hand over his nose. “You’ve been eating them since this morning and your breath reeks, Cass. The stench will fling me from the saddle.”
“You’re one to complain, Aric,” Azenor said. “You doused yourself in Venivan perfume. It can’t be for the king, so maybe you intend to charm the women of Dal-Kanu.”
Her tone whipped with mischief—as it often did. Yet Aric sensed veiled unease beneath.
Because she must wed? Surely not. Azenor Caelan was every bit an Isles woman, fearless, hot-tempered. Quick to laugh, quick to love, quick to scorn.
He remembered a singer at his father’s castle in Tide’s End on a summer’s eve, the heavy air drenched with brine and sweat. The man weaved flattering words about Azenor while warriors dazed by wine and rich food in their bellies slumped at tables complaining about the heat.
Daring be our sweet lass of the Isles
And lovely be her face and smiles.
The fool singer left out the verse about her “daring, lovely tongue,” though, and “its daring, lovely sting.” Especially on a long journey to the city of kings when our sweet lass of the Isles sought to pass the time with teasing jabs.
Cass sniffed. “Venivan scent. Every fashionable Isles man wears it these days. Load of nonsense if you ask me. Women like the smell of sweat on a man, not perfume.”
Aric swiped at his moist brow. “I’m bound to charm every woman in Dal-Kanu, then.”
“Lord Charming, King of the Land of Sweat,” Azenor said. “Women at Tide’s End have another name for you. Shall I tell you?”
“Only if you want your hair mussed.”
Cass laughed. “My wife told me that name. It’s oddly flattering.”
Aric summoned a mock glare of disapproval. “One more word, Cass, and you stay with Azenor in Dal-Kanu. The city stinks of rotting cabbage, I’m told. At least until you and your berries get there.”
“Not that we’ll ever reach Dal-Kanu.” Azenor swatted a black curl. “How much farther?”
“What? In a hurry to wed?”
His sister lowered lids over eyes as untamed and dark as a mountain cat’s. Black pearls, the singer said. Black lances more like.
She thrust out a palm. “I want berries, Cass.”
“To pelt at Aric?” He shook his head. “I’m too old for this. I won’t miss you and your brother bickering when you’re wed, lass. I’m keen for a bit of peace.”
“I don’t bicker. He’s just a big-headed, swaggering, sweet-scented lack wit.”
“Now that wounds me,” Aric said. “The sweet bit, I mean. The rest is fair.”
A bird took to the air with beating wings and a screeched protest. Aric stole a look ahead. A shrill wind rattled branches of reedy, silver-barked trees along the river.
The road led through rustling grassland towards darkling shadows. Yellow wildflowers dipped and waved, their sickly sweet scent mingling with pungent earth, sweat and horseflesh.
An ambush seemed unlikely this deep in the false king’s lands. Still—a crow circled clumped trees. The light stripped away fast. The stillness crept thick and ugly.
He leaned to Cass. “Those outriders?”
“Not returned. But no telling how far ahead they tracked.”
“Maybe something got them,” Azenor said with morbid delight. “Pairas told me outlaws roam these roads. Packs of them. Like wolves.”
There it was again. That undercurrent. Not fear exactly. More nervous expectation.
“They won’t attack so many armed men. Besides.” He punched her arm. “Your sharp tongue will wound wolf’s heads better than any edged blade.”
“Ha, ha. A perfumed jester. What a prize.”
“Prize what, little one? Prize fool?” Aric said. That’s what his elder brother Gendrick called him. Though he usually added the word “reckless.”
Aric turned to Cass. “Pass the word. We wait at the ford.”
“Yes, best be careful.” His captain spurred his horse forward.
Azenor pouted prettily. “More delays. You fuss like an old hen, Aric. So we won’t reach Dal-Kanu tonight?”
“Impatient to be queen, little one? So you can order me about?”
“It’s beyond me why your head doesn’t burst with conceit. It’s not about you, dullard. You’re not exiled to Dal-Kanu.”
“Marrying a king, albeit a false one, is hardly exile.”
“You sweet-scented liar. Pairas told me what you said: that I should elope with some penniless, unwashed Mountains goat rather than wed this scheming brute, Cathmor.”
Pairas again. A name she should fast forget. “Azenor, don’t talk of Pairas to the false king.” The less Cathmor, knew about that—he sought the safest word—relationship, the better.
His sister’s knuckles whitened about the reins.
“I lost my sight, Aric, not my wits. Nor am I a child.”
No, hardly a child. A strong-willed young woman with a wicked sense of irreverence. He almost pitied his cousin. Almost. The false king was a power-greedy deceiver.
“Still, best curb that tongue before we reach Dal-Kanu. What’s acceptable in the Isles is treason in Dal-Kanu. A wrong word and you and I both end up in the king’s head house.”
“Or our heads will.” Azenor laughed. “Or rather, just yours. Mine must remain attached to my body or the king will find it hard to wed and bed me.”
Gods take her. Now she grew amused. Aric released a long breath. The king filled his infamous tower with rotting heads in the war. Isles warriors captured, tortured and executed. He pushed the thought aside.
“At least my head will smell sweet as it rots. Don’t worry, Cathmor won’t dare arrest me now.”
“But he hates you, Aric.”
“It’s as well then, what with my duties in Tide’s End, I won’t be in Dal-Kanu much, attracting the King’s ire once you’re wed.”
“Yes, just as well.” Her eyes were too bright.
Aric grasped her hand. “Azenor. It won’t be so bad—”
She yanked her hand away. “I am not a child with a head full of romance, Aric. I’ll do my duty and marry Cathmor. You’ll do your duty and make me.”
He would indeed do his duty. And even pretend to like it.
A crow screeched. Its caw sank into his gut with unease. Aric tilted his head, following the scavenger’s languid circling. Did something lie dead in the trees?
They had passed a ragged skeleton in a crow cage near Dal-Breen that morning, a starved outlaw left as a warning to those who defied the false king’s sheriffs. Azenor had complained about the stench. He’d told her it was a dead horse.
“Duty, though, is hot and dull.” Azenor yawned. “I’m fed up with riding.”
He seized his chance to bait her, just as he always did. “You should travel in the carriage with your women. You’re a mere girl and hardly up to riding so far.”
She swung her head his way, black eyes blazing like sunlight striking his sword. Lances, he thought again. “I can outlast you in the saddle, you blustering blaggard. You’re not the only one with Caelan blood.”
“Blustering blaggard. I like it. It’s better than big-headed lack wit. No sting in that.”
“Blustering lack-witted, big-headed, scented jester. Go away.”
“Scented jester? How your cruel words cut me.”
“What? Still there?” Azenor flicked a hand.
“Very well, Your Soon-To-Be-Majesty. I’m off. But you’ll miss me—and my sweet scent.”
Aric signalled to a man to watch her and urged his horse on. Something lay in those trees. A dead fox? Or a dead man?
We’re not in the Isles any more. Not among friends. An old expression but true.
He took a breath to shout to Cass riding ahead. Words choked in his throat. What was that? An awareness, nameless and indistinct, tingled at his neck.
Pulling hard on the reins, he listened. The wind drummed like hoof beats, carrying the river’s muddy scents and gurgling murmur. Isles banners flapped. Fading sunlight retreated behind gathering clouds. Dusk fell quickly, menacingly.