Rothe was standing close by, watching in silence. Orisian shivered.
“Can you tell me how to oppose him, then?” he asked Cerys.
“Only in part,” the Elect said. “Perhaps by warning you of the dangers, we can arm you against them in some small way. And there is Eshenna. Talk with her. She believes . . . I cannot say whether she is right or not, but she believes there is something that might be done; chinks in Aeglyss’s armour.”
Orisian nodded.
“You may find her more like the Inurian you remember,” Cerys observed as she led him back towards the stairwell. “She is not yet beset by fear, nor bereft of curiosity about the world. But remember that she is young, by our reckoning. Impetuous. And she remembers Aeglyss. Her thinking is coloured by that.”
Highfast sank into another winter twilight as if it was going home, returning to the stuff of which it was made. The gale subsided, clouds congregated and breathed a fine mist across the fortress. Darkness mustered around the turrets and battlements, drifted down the flanks of the towers, pooled in its deep courtyards. The last few crows called out as they descended invisibly out of the night sky towards their roost.
Orisian, Rothe and Yvane walked in silence through the labyrinth of sombre passageways. A torch-bearer lit their way, chasing the shadows ahead of them. In their wake, the dark swept back in, tumbling always at Orisian’s heels.
Their guide pushed open a door for them and stood to one side.
“I’ll wait out here, to light your way back,” he said.
Within, they found Eshenna alone in a long, narrow dormitory. She sat on one of the beds, hands resting in her lap. In the tinted light of a single oil lamp, she might almost pass for human, Orisian thought. She stood when he entered, nodded. She looked nervous. He gestured for her to sit down again. He and Yvane sat on the bed opposite her. Rothe waited near to the door.
Orisian did not know whether bringing Yvane had been wise, but he wanted her help in navigating these waters. There was too much here that was unfamiliar and unknown. Yvane was no replacement for Inurian, but she was the closest thing he had to an interpreter.
“You know Aeglyss?” he asked Eshenna, and she nodded gravely.
“I wake every morning with the taste of anger in my mouth, the sound of hatred ringing in my ears. If I close my eyes now, I can feel his bile seeping into my mind. I know Aeglyss. I know this is him.”
“Tell me who he is,” Orisian said.
“He was a savage child.” Eshenna spoke with feeling. “Not in deeds, so much, but in words, and in instincts. Spiteful. He suffered a great deal before he reached Dyrkyrnon. Many of us did, but most overcame those memories, or learned to live with them. He . . . treasured them, almost. He could not separate himself from what had happened to him, what had happened to his parents. The past weighed heavily on him.
“He told us that his father was a warrior of the Black Road, and that the White Owls killed him for loving a Kyrinin woman. His mother died, frozen or starved, on the northern edge of the marshes. She had fled from the clan with Aeglyss when they decided to kill him too. So he told the story, at least.”
“But he didn’t stay in Dyrkyrnon,” Orisian said.
“He did for some years, but he was cast out. He inflicted many small cruelties, and some not so small. A girl . . .” Eshenna winced at the memory. “One girl in particular, Aeglyss desired. She was cold to him, as many of us were, but her coldness pained him in a different way. Much sharper. He would not – could not, I suppose – accept it, or ignore it. It ate away at him. One day he was found, alone in the marsh, crouching by a pool, staring down into the water. He was watching the girl. She was in there, under the surface, on her back. Mouth open. Drowning, without struggling.
“They hauled her out, and managed to save her. Aeglyss never said anything about it, not a word. The girl claimed not to remember what had happened. Whether that was true or not, she was never happy again; she never slept well, or laughed without a shadow in her voice. Everyone knew Aeglyss had . . .
made it happen. Even then, the Shared had woken in him more strongly than some of us could understand. Everyone was afraid of what he might do, so they cast him out.”
“Would have spared us all some trouble if they’d just killed him,” muttered Yvane.
“I think there were some who wanted to. But he was sent away. No one in Dyrkyrnon ever heard of him again, as far as I know.”
“Until now, I imagine,” Yvane grunted. “I dare say he’s back on their minds now.”
Eshenna nodded. “They’ll not act against him, though, if they can help it. Dyrkyrnon’s like Highfast in that: they want no dealings with the wider world, in case it should decide to have dealings with them.”
“Well, I’ll act against him,” said Orisian. “Everyone tells me he’s a terrible danger, and I believe it, but no one’s told me yet what I can do about it. Cerys said you might.”
“Perhaps.” She glanced from Orisian to Yvane and back again. “There was a woman at Dyrkyrnon –
K’rina – who took Aeglyss as her ward, when he first came there. She raised him, and loved him despite all his faults. For some of our kind, you know, our childlessness is a great sorrow. So it was for K’rina.
She took Aeglyss as her child. It broke her heart when he was cast out.”
She hesitated.
“And . . . ?” Orisian prompted her.
“I know K’rina well. I cared for her, for a time, after Aeglyss left. Now, she is moving. She has left Dyrkyrnon, Thane. She is going to Aeglyss.”
“You’re certain of that?” Yvane asked quietly.
“It is part of my waking into the Shared. I can sometimes follow the trails left in it by the passage of familiar minds, sometimes trace the outline of distant thoughts. Just as I know, without doubt, that it is Aeglyss whose stench now fouls everything, so I know that K’rina has heard his cry, and will go to him.
And he seeks her; longs for her.”
Eshenna’s confidence was forceful, and convincing, but it still left Orisian uncertain. He glanced at Yvane, whose expression was grave and thoughtful.
Eshenna leaned forwards a little. “It’s a slender hope, but better than no hope at all. The last time I sought her, I could not draw near, so violent were the powers churning about her. She is important. To Aeglyss certainly, perhaps therefore to us. So I thought . . .”
Her voice trailed away. She was watching Orisian expectantly, hopefully.
“What is it you’re suggesting, then?” he asked her. “That we take her?”
“Yes. She was the only one who could ever talk to him. When he was enraged, she could calm him. She could scold him without earning his hatred. She was the only one – the only one alive – whom he ever loved, as far as I know. He needs her. So take her, and hold her. Make her our ally, not his. Use her against him.”
Orisian stared down at the floor. There were dark stains in the seams between the flat stones: mould, or some kind of rot. The stones themselves had a dull gleam, polished by the usage of centuries. He longed for certainty, for clarity. He longed for the lost days when his choices bore consequences of no more weight than parchment. And he longed for the time before this bitter, cruel strand entered his thoughts; the strand that wondered if this woman K’rina could be used to hurt Aeglyss. He looked at Yvane. She was watching Eshenna, but clearly sensed Orisian’s gaze.
“Perhaps,” she breathed, reluctant and heavy-hearted. “There is no na’kyrim in the world, that I know of, who could match what Aeglyss is becoming. None who could force his submission. You need more subtle weapons to oppose him, I think. Perhaps, if he remembers this woman . . . if he is vulnerable to her . . . she might be a wedge to open up some crack in him.” She shrugged. “If you hold something precious to your enemy, it gives you some power over him. Isn’t that the way these things work?”
Orisian stood up and went to the shuttered window. He could hear the night breezes rubbing themselves over the rock of
Highfast. Putting a hand against the ancient wood of the shutters, he could feel the cold of the darkness without.
“Where is she?” he asked without looking round. “Do you know?”
“Less than two days away, I think,” Eshenna said. “East of here, a little south. He’ll have her soon, if nothing is done.”
“Close, then,” said Orisian softly. He was not sure, but he thought he could hear rain falling.
“Yes. I believe so.”
Orisian turned about and regarded the two na’kyrim women.
“You would come, if I went to find this woman? Both of you? I would need you, Eshenna, to find her.”
“Of course.” He could see her eagerness, even though she kept it on a short leash. As Cerys had said, this one was not yet afraid, not yet finished with the world outside.
“I suppose so,” muttered Yvane. “Not much to keep me here. Hammarn’ll stay, though. He likes it.
Found his home, I think.”
Orisian was already making for the door. “I need to talk to Herraic. I’ll send word, Eshenna, when I know what is to happen.”
Orisian’s mind was in turmoil as he followed his torch-bearing guide. Rothe, striding along at his side, looked worried.
“You mean to chase after this woman, then?” the shieldman asked.
“Maybe. If Aeglyss wants her . . . needs her, even. Maybe.”
“The battle might be done, before we reach Kolglas,” Rothe muttered. He sounded disappointed; worried.
“It might. But this need only take us a handful of days. What if they’re right, Rothe? What if Aeglyss is really our greatest enemy?” Orisian came to an abrupt halt and turned, taking hold of Rothe’s arms, staring into the big man’s face. “Inurian feared him. Yvane, all of them here. They all say the same. And I never knew Inurian to be wrong about someone, Rothe. Never.”
He wanted – needed – Rothe’s support. It was, in fact, almost approval that he sought here. No Thane should require such a thing from a shieldman, but perhaps he could seek it from a true friend, one he trusted more than anyone else.
“I’m no use to Taim Narran, no use to anyone, on a battlefield, Rothe. Do you understand? He’s what our Blood needs there. But I’m here, and this is something I can do. Something that might be important.
More important, even.”
Rothe did not look wholly convinced. But he nodded, just once, and that was enough.
They found Herraic deep in conversation with two of his men, outside their barracks. The portly Captain of Highfast had the jittery air of a man besieged by events. He drew Orisian aside as soon as they walked up.
“Thane, Thane. Good. I hoped to speak with you this evening. Some surprising news, I’ve had.”
“In a moment,” Orisian said. “Will you answer me a question first?”
“Of course.”
“You told me when I arrived here that half your men had gone eastwards. Rumours of Kyrinin, you said?”
Herraic nodded, clearly puzzled that the activities of his tiny garrison should be of interest to a Thane.
“Yes, sire. There’re a handful of woodsmen and hunters in the forests to the east of the Peaks. Word came from one or two of them that there had been signs of wights moving. A couple of trappers have even gone missing, supposedly.” He shrugged. “Not seen White Owls on our borders for many years.
Still, people said there were warbands moving south. I’d’ve thought there would have been more trouble reported if it was true, but It seemed best to look into it, foolish though it sounds.”
“Warbands,” Orisian repeated.
“It will turn out to be nothing, sire. I’m sure of it.”
“No,” Orisian murmured. “I don’t think it will. I think Eshenna’s right. It’s K’rina. They’re coming for her. Why would he want her so badly?”
Herraic looked puzzled. He spread his hands, displaying his incomprehension. Orisian ignored the gesture.
“I think we’ll be leaving you, Captain.” He turned to Rothe. “Find Torcaill. Get everyone ready.”
The shieldman went without hesitation, and without demur. Herraic stared in confusion after him. There was something rather plaintive in his expression, Orisian thought.
“You will?” the Captain said. “Oh. I don’t suppose . . . I’ve had word, you see. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about: can’t say I understand how or why, but the Shadowhand – sorry, the Haig Chancellor
– is on his way.”
Orisian’s heart sank. His mind went blank, leaving him to stare dumbly at the Captain of Highfast.
“Injured,” Herraic continued. He was clasping his hands, squeezing them together nervously. He had angled his head a little, widened his eyes, like a supplicant seeking some favour. “Quite gravely injured, it would seem. I’m not sure what happened: some boy loosed a crossbow bolt at him, from the sound of it.
Unfortunately, the Chancellor’s guards killed the child, so we’ll likely never know why. But could he have been coming to see you, sire? That’s what I wondered. I thought perhaps . . .”
“No,” said Orisian firmly. “Mordyn Jerain has no business with me that I know of. You must forgive me, Captain, but I cannot stay. I have duties elsewhere. I leave tonight. As soon as our horses can be readied.”
The downcast expression that settled upon Herraic’s face at that made Orisian feel a twinge of guilt. The poor man’s quiet, settled world was being shaken to bits. But it would take more than that to induce Orisian to wait placidly for Mordyn Jerain to appear. Whatever freedom of action Orisian had won for himself by leaving Kolkyre was unlikely to survive the Shadowhand’s presence.
He went quickly, wholly possessed now by the desire to be gone from this place. As he walked, he heard some of Herraic’s warriors talking excitedly in the doorway of their kitchens.
“The Shadowhand’s coming,” one was saying, his voice all awe and trepidation. “The Shadowhand’s coming.”
XI
Sirian’s Dyke was a changed village. The last time Wain had been here, she had witnessed the destruction by Shraeve and her Inkallim of the great dam that gave the place its name. Parts of that dam still stood, but they were now only pointless reminders of the hubris of a long-dead Thane. The Glas Water, the marshy lake the dam had retained in order to drown Kan Avor, was gone. The river now flowed unimpeded. Its banks were indistinct: huge expanses of waterlogged mud and debris laid down in the flood of the dam’s breaking.
The village itself had lost its purpose in the moment of the dam’s ruin. Its people had, for years, been employed in the maintenance of the dyke and in serving the needs of travellers on the road from Anduran to Glasbridge. The dyke was gone, and there were no travellers on the road, only warriors. Bereft of purpose, Sirian’s Dyke was now bereft too of its inhabitants. Not a single man, woman or child of the Lannis Blood remained. Those who had not been killed when the Black Road first overran the village, or had not fled of their own accord, had been dispersed: the adults pressed into service in Anduran or Glasbridge, the children most likely seized by the Inkallim and sent north.
In place of the original villagers, Sirian’s Dyke now housed a few Inkallim and the dozens of eager followers they had gathered to themselves. They were only passing through, making for the battle everyone knew was imminent, at Glasbridge or beyond. Fiallic was taking the bulk of the army along the southern side of the valley, intending to fall upon the flank or rear of any force that marched against Glasbridge. Those, like Wain, who had chosen to follow the road down the river’s northern bank faced a more trying journey. Beyond Sirian’s Dyke, she knew, the way through the flood-wrecked landscape would be difficult. But it would take her back to Kanin’s side, and that was where she meant to stand and fight. It had, too, the advantage of keeping Aeglyss and his Kyrinin away from the great mass of the faithful, and from the wrath of Temegrin the Eagle.
Satisfied that her horse was suitably settled for the night, Wain backed out of the stall, slapping the b
east’s haunches as she went. The gesture was part irritation and part grudging respect for the animal’s obstinacy; it had been stubborn and obstreperous all day. It looked back at her with what she suspected was contempt.
In the yard outside, her warriors were making arrangements for their own horses, tying them to a long rope stretched along the side of the stable block. Beyond them, out in the damp dusk where the village gave way to open fields and copses, Wain could see the indistinct shapes of the White Owls, pitching their own camp. Aeglyss would be with them. His mood had been foul ever since Anduran, his presence so brooding and surly that it had unsettled everyone, including Wain. He had not uttered a single word to her – or to anyone, as far as she could tell – for more than a day. Sometimes when she looked at the halfbreed, she felt as though she was looking upon the greatest hope for their cause. Sometimes she was only afraid.
The inn was already crowded. Thirty or forty commoners of the Gaven-Gyre Blood had taken it over.
Wain had her warriors turn them out. She meant to shut herself away in a room, and sleep for as long as her restless mind and body would permit. Such was her hope, but nothing came of it. Her thoughts were too turbulent to submit to slumber. She lay in the darkness with her eyes open for a while, then rose and pulled on her boots and jerkin and leggings, and went out into the yard.
It was a still night, and quiet, but it spoke to her of a change in the weather. She had grown up in Castle Hakkan, where every winter brought intensive tuition in the art of reading the air and the wind and the sky. Snow was coming, she thought. That would be a good thing. No one chose to fight in this season willingly, but if it must be done, it would surely favour the cause of the Black Road. The enemy they were to face could not know winter quite as intimately as did the Gyre Bloods.
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