'I always do, don't I?'
'Do you want me to come with you?' Inurian asked him.
Orisian was tempted only for a moment. He shook his head resolutely. Whatever burdens there were, they were for him and his father to bear. He could not expect others to shoulder them on his behalf; not even Inurian, who he knew would willingly try.
He paused outside his father's room. This door, unlike that guarding Inurian's secrets, was old and grand, with patterns of flowing ivy carved into its panels. The torches that lined the spiral stairway had stained its timbers over the years so that to Orisian it had always seemed to project a glowering presence. He laid his hand flat upon the door, feeling its grain under his fingertips. The wood was cold.
A gust of chill air greeted him as he entered. A window was wide open. The room was gloomy, and the only sound was the shifting of the sea outside. His father lay in the great bed against the far wall. Kennet's grey-haired head rested on pillows; his arms lay limp across the bed cover. His eyes were closed. There were deep lines in his face as if his skin had folded in upon itself beneath the weight of sorrow, and heavy shadows lurked beneath his eyes. His visage had gathered at least another decade to itself in the last few years.
Anyara, Orisian's elder sister, was sitting by the bed and looked up as he came in. She was tired, he could see, and her long auburn locks were lifeless. She put a finger to her lips and mouthed, 'He's sleeping.'
Orisian hesitated, midway between door and bed. He could have left, absolved of some responsibility by his father's slumber. He went instead to close the window. Kennet stirred at the sound of his footsteps.
'Leave it.'
'I thought it was cold,' said Orisian. His father's eyes were red and empty.
'I prefer it.'
Orisian came to stand at Anyara's side.
'You've come back,' said Kennet.
'Barely an hour ago.'
Kennet grunted. Speaking seemed an effort for him. His eyelids fluttered, and closed. Anyara laid a soft hand on Orisian's arm and looked up at him. She squeezed gently.
'Croesan wished you well,' said Orisian. 'He wants you to visit him. I think he would like to show you how Anduran is growing.'
'Ah,' said Kennet without opening his eyes.
'Will you be well for the Winterbirth feast?' asked Orisian, the question sounding hasty and harsh even to his own ears. He did not know what he could say that would reach the father he remembered, and loved.
His father turned his head on the pillow to look at him. 'When is it?' he asked.
'Father, we were talking about it only this afternoon,' said Anyara. 'It's the day after tomorrow.
Remember? There will be acrobats and songs and stones. You remember?'
Kennet's gaze became unfocused, as if he was looking no longer upon the here and now but on memories more real to him than the present.
'Inurian told me that the acrobats are masterless men,' said Orisian, knowing from his own heart that remembrance of Winterbirths past could bring as much pain as warmth. It was often this way between the three of them: conversations skirted around dangerous territory. As much was unsaid as was said.
Knowing the pattern made it no easier to break.
Kennet sighed, which prompted a shallow, dry cough that shook him.
'The day after tomorrow,' he said after the coughing had subsided. 'Well, I must be there, I suppose.'
'Of course,' said Anyara. 'It will do you good.'
Kennet smiled at his daughter, and the sight of that weakened, shallow-rooted expression was almost enough to make Orisian turn away. 'Go with Orisian,' he said to her. 'You should not be always at my bedside. Have someone light some candles here, though. I do not want the darkness. Not yet.'
'He is no better,' said Orisian as he and Anyara made their way down the stairs. 'I had hoped he might be, by now.'
'Not much better,' agreed Anyara. 'But still, he will be there for Winterbirth. That's something. He did miss you, you know. It's good for him that you're back.'
Orisian hoped that might be true. His father's affliction touched upon painful places within him. In the months after the Fever had taken them, the absence of his mother and brother had been an aching, unbridgeable emptiness in Orisian's life. It was a wound that had not healed, but had at least become something he could bear. So too it had seemed with his father, for the first year: the sadness deep and immovable, yet accommodated as it had to be if life was to continue. The change had come with the first anniversary of their deaths. After that, these black moods had descended with growing frequency, shutting Kennet off from all around him.
Orisian felt deep sorrow for his father, and a nagging guilt at his own inability to ease his pain. But he had other, less kind, feelings too and they brought with them a different kind of guilt. He sometimes had to battle against bursts of resentment at the strength of his father's attachment to the dead. It was an attachment so intense that it both robbed Kennet of any strength he might have shared with the living and seemed to overshadow — to dismiss — the grief and loss that were lodged in Orisian's own breast.
Often, when his father looked at him, Orisian had the sense that he was seeing, or perhaps longing to see, his dead brother Fariel; and Fariel had been so strong, so clever, so fast of hand and eye, that Orisian could never match the man he would now have been.
He and his sister went out into the courtyard. Night was coming on fast, and the temperature had fallen.
The clouds of earlier had dissipated, unveiling a sky in which countless faint stars were already glimmering. Soon, that moon would turn, and winter would be born. Brother and sister stood in the centre of the yard, gazing upward. Anyara soon lost interest.
'How was Anduran, then?' she asked, rubbing her arms against the cold.
'Thriving,' said Orisian. 'Uncle Croesan is full of plans.'
'As always.'
'He's built a great hall on the square and new barns near the castle. All the forests to the south are being cleared for farmsteads and grazing lands. Everyone is busy.'
"Well, it's not before time. The Fever's long gone,' said Anyara in a matter-of-fact tone, as if she had never been touched by it. Orisian had not forgotten how it felt, when his sister lay at the very brink of death, to think that he was going to lose her as well. Perhaps it had been easier, in a way, to pass those long, terrible days inside delirium than to watch it from without.
Anyara sniffed. 'It's cold out here. Are you hungry?'
'A little.'
Anyara pulled him along by the arm.
'Let's go to the kitchens, see what's cooking.'
'Anyara,' protested Orisian, 'we'll only get in trouble.'
'Old woman!' grinned his sister.
The kitchens filled most of the ground floor of the keep. They were, as always at this time in the evening, a hive of activity. Young boys carried pots and pans from table to stove and back again, while cooks chopped and stirred, pounded and chattered in a frenzy of organised chaos. A row of fat forest grouse were hanging from hooks along one of the roof beams. On one of the tables, a dozen loaves stood cooling, filling the air with their delicious aroma. At first no one seemed to notice that Orisian and Anyara had arrived. A moment later Etha the head cook was hobbling over, wiping her hands on her apron. She was a small, ageing woman, whose joints were seizing up and giving her a clumsy stride as time went by.
Her spirit, however, was uncowed by such assaults. She clapped Orisian on the arm with a crooked hand.
'Back at last,' she said. 'Just in time, too. It'll be a fine feast this year. Wouldn't do to miss it.'
'I wouldn't want to,' he said seriously, and waved at the black-feathered birds above their heads. 'Looks like we'll be eating well.'
'Yes, yes. And plenty more.'
She was interrupted by an angry shout from behind her. Anyara darted past, juggling a still-hot loaf of bread from hand to hand. One of the other cooks was waving a soup ladle after her, flicking thick drops of broth in all
directions.
'Why, that girl,' muttered Etha. 'Still acting the child.' She turned on Orisian and poked a stiff finger into his chest. 'And you, young man. A year or two younger, but no better excuse than she. You've not been back a day and already the pair of you acting like a brace of thieves!'
Orisian retreated, trying to look abashed. He found Anyara sitting outside, chuckling to herself and tearing off chunks of bread. He joined her, and they devoured half the loaf in silence. It was warm and comforting and tasted wonderful. They chatted for a while, almost shivering in the night air. They could have been children once more, teasing one another and whispering together as their breath formed little plumes of mist between them. Then one of the kitchen boys came out into the yard, banging a big copper pot with a spoon to signal that the night's meal was ready, and they joined the soldiers and stablehands, maids and servants filing into the common hall.
Beyond the walls, the tide had come in. The waves, dusted with moonlight, closed over the causeway, and the castle was alone on its isle of rock.
III
GRYVAN OC HAIG, High Thane of the Haig Bloods, was roused from a shallow, fitful slumber by his footman's voice. He rolled over and shielded his eyes from the light of the oil lamp the man carried.
'A messenger, my lord,' said the footman, 'from the fort.'
Gryvan pressed finger and thumb into his eyes.
'What's the hour?' he asked.
'Three from dawn, my lord.'
The Thane of Thanes grunted and sat up. He moistened his lips, finding his mouth dry and stale from the wine he had drunk the night before.
'Fetch me some water,' he said.
His attendant turned and went out of the great tent. The light went with him. For a moment Gryvan sat with his eyes closed, listening to the heavy shifting of the canvas in the night breeze. He felt himself slipping back towards sleep. In the darkness he wrapped his sheet about him and rose, a little unsteadily, to his feet. He was standing thus when the footman returned, seeming more nervous than he had before; knowing, perhaps, that he would have done better to leave the lamp. He held out a tankard of water.
Gryvan drained it.
'Give me my cloak,' he said.
The footman hurried to gather the thick fur cape from where it lay by the High Thane's mattress. They were high in the mountains here in Dargannan-Haig lands, and the altitude lent the autumn nights a cold edge even this far south. Gryvan settled the cloak on his shoulders. He took its gold-trimmed edges in his hands and crossed his arms. A brief, involuntary shiver ran through him and he puffed out his cheeks.
Feeling clumsy, he hauled on his boots. Their leather was cold and stiff.
'So, where is this messenger?'
'He waits outside your council tent.'
'Light my way, then.'
Hann nodded and Gryvan followed him out on to the hillside.
The High Thane shivered again as if to shake off the weight of sleep. When he had been young, sleep had fallen easily from him. In his sixth decade it seemed to settle ever deeper into his bones. Cold nights far from the comforts of his court taxed him.
The small fires of his army dotted the rocky slopes around him. Faint voices rose here and there from amongst the host of tents. He glanced up at the dark outline of the besieged An Caman fort far above.
There were few lights there.
Outside the council tent, flanking the opening, two torches stood in tall metal holders, their flames snapping to and fro in the wind. Guards stood beside them, erect and alert though they were deep into their watches. Kale, Master of the High Thane's Shield, was there too, and a tall, dark-haired man who must be the messenger. Gryvan ignored them as he went inside. He settled himself into a high-backed wooden chair.
'Bring them in, then,' he said to his footman.
Kale was first to enter, looking gaunt in the flickering light. His features could have been cut from the granitic hills of Ayth-Haig. Behind him came the messenger: a young man, Gryvan could see now, perhaps no more than twenty-five. The red badge on his breast — a sword and spear crossed — marked him as a mercenary out of the Dornach Kingship.
Gryvan scratched his chin and yawned. The messenger stood before him, some uncertainty betraying itself in the darting movement of his eyes. Kale, as always, was a model of silent, still observation.
'So,' said Gryvan, 'you've brought me from my bed, when my old limbs crave rest. The urgency must be great, the import of your message truly overwhelming. Let me hear it.'
The mercenary ducked his head a fraction. 'I am Jain T'erin, captain of one hundred men of Dornach. I speak for them alone, and am here without the knowledge of the Dargannan men in the fort.'
'Dargannan-Haig,' corrected Gryvan smoothly. 'They owe me obeisance still, even if they have forgotten it.'
'As you say. They fight for their reasons, my men and I for ours. We have held the fort against you for three weeks, and might do so for another three, but it seems a needless fight. Your armies to the south seek the Dargannan-Haig Thane, and though he is kept from the coast for the time being, he may yet slip away across the water. You would no doubt prefer the men you have encamped here to join the hunt.
Our interests may both be served by an understanding?'
Gryvan raised his eyebrows. 'So you seek what? Safe passage back to your own lands? Or to exchange Dargannan-Haig gold for mine?'
Jain T'erin smiled slightly, the nervousness all but gone from him now.
'If I have your word on the safety of my men in what would follow, I will deliver the fort to you. After that, we would take service with you if that was your wish. Or return to our homeland.'
'Igryn's judgement was ever poor. He cannot even buy loyalty, it seems.' Gryvan regarded the messenger for a moment. 'You are young to lead a warrior band. Old enough, at least, to see how this battle must fall out, and old enough to try to bring your men safe out of it. There is some courage in venturing out to stand before me, I suppose.'
The High Thane closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he fixed T'erin with a cold glare, his face now stern.
'I will tell you my answer,' said Gryvan. 'You took the coin of my enemy and your men stand alongside his behind walls I have sworn to bring down. Igryn oc Dargannan-Haig mistook himself when he disavowed his oath to me and sought to set aside the obligations his Blood owes mine. He kept for himself taxes that are rightfully mine, for no better reason than greed. He gives sanctuary to pirates and brigands who prey upon the merchants of Vaymouth and Tal Dyre, and the goods they have stolen find their way into his treasury. And when I demand recompense, he imprisons my Steward and denies my authority. The gold Igryn has bought you and your warriors with is mine, little whore-soldier.
'Whatever cave or hovel he is hiding in, my armies will have him soon and he will learn the price of betrayal. As will all who stand against me. Not one stone of the fort above us here will stand. Not one of those within its walls will see another dawn after I have torn them down, and you will be brought before me with your hands struck off and your eyes put out. I will gut you myself and send your head back to your kingling in Dornach.'
'But . . .' stammered T'erin, 'I will give you An Caman. You need spend no more of your people's blood upon it . . .'
Gryvan laughed harshly.
'You think a High Thane is so feeble a thing, so fearful or soft, that the sight of blood would concern him? Has Dornach forgotten so easily the mettle of the True Bloods? If I have to swim through the spilled blood of my own men to do it, I will see every living thing within those walls dead and laid out at my feet. Go back and tell your people they can expect nothing from me but a swift journey to the Sleeping Dark.'
The mercenary held out his hands and started to speak. Before he could do so, Kale seized his arms and pushed him from the tent. The High Thane sighed and sank a little deeper into his chair as his bodyguard returned. He sent the footman away with a flick of his wrist.
Gryvan beckoned Kale closer and the
warrior stepped forwards, inclining his head a touch that he might hear the Thane's soft-spoken words.
'Our friend from Dornach is unfortunate to find himself in a more tightly woven web than he knew. In other times his would have been a welcome offer, but Dargannan is not the only Blood with lessons to learn. I am not done with Kilkry and Lannis. I will see their strength spent and broken on these slopes yet.'
'That strength is all but gone, my lord,' said Kale. 'They sent two thousand men apiece to campaign with you. Less than half that number could now take the field.'
'Still, that is more than I will send back to them. They may conceal them better than Igryn, but their instincts are still those of rebels.'
The Thane pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes.
'Ah, Kale,' he said, 'my bones are too old for plotting in the depth of the night. I long to be back in Vaymouth. It's been too long this time.'
'Your bones are not so old,' said his bodyguard unsmilingly, 'and to be always plotting is the fate of the Thane of all the Bloods. Igryn is almost finished. He cannot hide forever. We could be back in Vaymouth in a month, I think.'
Gryvan yawned, putting his hand to Kale's shoulder for a moment.
'No doubt,' he said. 'Well, I'll not sleep again now I've been woken. Slumber's an unreliable companion as the years go by: irresistible when you're in its embrace, then irrecoverable when you're parted from it for a while. Send for our loyal northern captains, and have someone bring me clothes more fitting to receive them in.'
Kale gave a shallow bow as he backed away, then turned and passed out into the night.
Taim Narran dar Lannis-Haig, captain of Castle Anduran, was ushered into the council tent by Kale.
The two exchanged a loveless glance. Close behind him came Roaric nan Kilkry-Haig, the younger son of Lheanor, Thane of the Kilkry Blood. Gryvan awaited them on his wooden throne, now wearing a fine ceremonial cape and with his sheathed sword across his knees. On either side of him stood Shield guards, resplendent in formal dress as they stared ahead.
'A cold night to be making plans,' said Gryvan, 'but war makes harsh demands upon us all.'
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