The mood was too merry, however, and the wine too abundant, for many to dwell on such concerns for long. One of the petitioners — Amelia Tirane, who tearfully begged that the forests be scoured for her missing husband, who had failed to return from a hunting trip - drew a subdued chorus of sympathy; the others gave more cause for amusement than sorrow. In the fifth and final case Marien, a widow of notoriously short temper and sharp tongue, asked Kennet to intercede in a dispute with her neighbours.
Ignoring the mounting hilarity in the hall, Kennet listened as she described the sleepless nights she had spent as a result of the noises coming from the adjoining cottage; noises, she declared with all the gravity of her years, that a man and wife were entitled to make, but not every night and not with such abandon that they kept others from rest.
Orisian did not hear whatever advice Inurian offered to Kennet. His father explained to Marien that however much he sympathised with her distress, he could not bring himself to interfere in the matter of a marriage bed. The widow returned to her seat exuding disgruntlement.
Only after the mirth had died down did Orisian, alone of all those in the hall, note the sad, weary expression that was on Inurian's face, and wonder what the na'kyrim had seen in Marien's heart to put it there.
The business of feasting resumed in earnest. Orisian drank deeply from his cup and it was refilled by one of the serving girls as soon as he set it down. He felt warm and happy. His father seemed at peace in a way he had not been for weeks, and for tonight at least the good humour of the moment was enough to keep memories of the past at arm's length. Orisian slouched in his chair, allowing a sense of contentment to settle over him.
Kennet leaned towards him.
'When we go to Kolkyre, we shall have a sword made for you, Orisian. They have the best weaponsmiths north of Vaymouth there, you know. My father had one made for me, in the year he became Thane.'
'I'd be proud to have it,' Orisian said, aware in a distant sort of way that the wine had rubbed the precision off his voice. 'Mind you, you might want to ask Rothe if I deserve it. I don't think I'm the best pupil he's ever had.'
Kennet dismissed the suggestion with a wry smile. 'If you think that man'd ever say a word against you, you've not got the measure of him yet. Anyway, he told me months ago that you'd be a fine swordsman one day. Once you stopped worrying about not being good enough.'
'I . . .' Orisian started to say. He was cut short by a flurry of activity at the far end of the hall. The acrobats had entered, and the cheers that greeted them made conversation impossible for the moment.
Like an exploding flock of great birds, they spread around the hall and immediately set balls and clubs flying in spectacular cascades. The guests whooped and clapped as the patterns the jugglers conjured into being grew ever more complex and intricate. The tempo rose inexorably. Two of them leapt up on to opposite tables and spun a flurry of clubs between them, across almost the whole breadth of the hall.
Others lit brands from the fire. The flames whipped through the air.
Orisian was impressed. This was not what came to mind when he thought of masterless folk. The lone hunters and traders who drifted into Lannis lands tended to be ragged and wild-looking, fitting the common image of the masterless as lost, bereft of the bonds a Blood bestowed. Whenever he had seen such folk, they had struck him as fragments of the wilderness itself come loose, ill at ease with the order of town or village. These acrobats were altogether different: strong, focused upon their art, exuding confidence.
One came to the fore. He carried small glass orbs in his hands; when he began to juggle them they glinted and flashed and became a shimmering arc of reflected firelight. At first faintly and then louder, there was a rapid clinking as he adjusted the flight of the globes so that they clipped one another on their way through the air. There were appreciative gasps from the watchers. Orisian almost laughed in pleasure, and glanced around at those beside him. Anyara and Kennet were as entranced as he, their eyes fixed upon the dancing, flickering spheres. Only Inurian wore a different expression. He too was watching intently, but puzzlement had scored thin furrows across his brow.
Orisian turned back to the show in time to watch as one of the orbs plunged towards the flagstones, only to be delicately caught upon the top of the juggler's soft hide boot even as the groans of disappointment started. He bowed amidst the acclamation that followed, then raised his arms for quiet. As the noise subsided he spoke in a soft, oddly accented voice that sounded somehow as if it did not fit in his mouth.
'We need more space than this hall can offer. Please join us outside, for it is not so cold, the night is still young and the best tricks are yet to come.'
With this he spun about, and led the rest of the company trotting out through the hall's main door. At once, people leapt to their feet to follow, upsetting more than a few tankards and platters in their haste.
Inurian rose more slowly. He was frowning, almost wincing, as if afflicted by a sharp headache.
'What's the matter?' asked Orisian.
The na'kyrim blinked and smiled, plucked out of distraction by the question.
'I feel a little . . . odd,' he said. 'I am not sure: something . . . out of place. Perhaps the granting of boons taxed me.'
'Come on,' said Orisian, taking his friend's arm and feeling sharply in that moment the strength of his affection for the na'kyrim. 'Let's not miss the rest of the show.'
'No,' said Inurian, 'let's not.' But there was still more concern than enthusiasm in his voice.
The crowd spilled out into the courtyard, their misting breath and excited voices filling the confined space.
Atop the southern corner of the castle's walls, two warriors stood watch. The circular tower they looked out from was open to the elements, but they could shelter from the night breeze by ducking down behind the battlements and warming their hands at a small brazier. The flames did not help their night sight, but at Winterbirth it was more important to have light and heat than to worry overmuch about such things.
A while ago, a serving girl had brought them bread and thick, fatty slices of beef from the kitchen. The emptied tray lay on the stone floor. The men were content enough. They were well fed and it was not as cold as it might have been. From down below in the courtyard they heard the shouts and cheers of the crowd as the celebration moved out from the great hall. They did not pay much attention to it. Their watch was over the shores of the bay south of Kolglas, though there was little to see save the dark, looming outline of forested slopes.
The sound of the trapdoor creaking open snapped their eyes away from the coastline. A figure emerged from the darkened stairwell beneath. It was one of the performers: a woman dressed in leather boots and breeches and a dark hide jacket.
'What are you doing here?' demanded one of the watchmen, his hand going by reflex towards his polearm where it leaned against the battlements.
The newcomer smiled thinly.
'I have brought the show to you,' she said in a deep voice.
There were already glass spheres in her hands, appearing as if formed from the substance of the night air. In a second she was weaving the orbs in a sinuous pattern. They caught the yellow flamelight of the brazier and worked it into glinting arcs. The guards' objections faded as their eyes followed the extraordinary dance of light.
The juggler took a step closer to them. 'Watch with care,' she said softly.
'Very clever,' one of the men said, 'but still . . .'
She darted forwards, her arms flashing out. The tiny blades she had slipped from her jacket cuffs sliced across the throats of the two men. Her glass juggling balls fell to the ground and shattered. The watchmen slumped to the ground, their eyes wide, reaching to staunch the blood that erupted from their necks. She followed them down, kneeling and punching both knives home beneath the angle of their jawbones. The men died all but silently.
The juggler rose cautiously. She checked around the castle walls for any sign of alarm. There was no
hint of movement: Kolglas kept only a skeleton guard on this night, and those unlucky enough to have drawn the duty had their eyes turned outwards and their ears filled with the cheers and applause from the courtyard. The woman moved to the brazier, stepping over the spreading slick of blood. She produced leather gloves from inside her jacket and pulled them on. Without hesitation, she reached into the heart of the brazier and lifted out a double handful of red-hot charcoal. She cast a final quick glance around.
Satisfied that she remained unobserved, she leaned over the battlements and opened her hands. A scatter of yellow and orange motes fell away from the tower, tumbling and fading and vanishing into the water and rocks below.
The woman crossed to the trapdoor, slipped into the body of the turret and set off down the spiralling stairway that would bring her out once more into the courtyard.
South of Kolglas, the road followed the rocky shoreline. A few hundred yards beyond the town's edge, scrub and trees pressed close, squeezing the track between them and the sea. The darkness was intense.
The town itself was out of sight, hidden by a low knoll, its presence betrayed only by the glow of its bonfires tingeing the sky. The castle offshore was marked by the light spilling from its windows. There was no sound save the slapping of gentle waves upon the shore, the slight shifting of autumn's last few leaves in the breeze and the low murmur of celebration that drifted across the water from the castle.
A great stag came out into the open and walked a short way down the track. It paused and lifted its heavy-antlered head, testing the night air for scents. Tension came at once into its frame, and it looked uneasily at the forest. It bounded down the track a distance before plunging back amongst the trees and disappearing.
There was no movement for long minutes. Then, out across the water, a shower of tiny lights fell from the near corner of the castle's battlements like failing fireflies. They were there for no more than two heartbeats, faint, and then they were gone, leaving only a rapidly fading afterimage in the eyes of those who had been watching for them. The undergrowth shivered and they emerged on to the roadway.
Darker shapes amidst the shadows of the night, they moved across the track in silence: warriors, men and women, with swords strapped across their backs. One by one they came to the shore, waded into the chill water for a few strides and then struck out with powerful, measured strokes. In a few moments thirty of them had crossed from forest to sea and were swimming out towards the castle's looming form.
They were virtually invisible in the darkness, but in any case the only guards upon the walls who might have seen their approach lay dead beside a brazier atop the corner tower.
They came out of the water crouching, moving across the jumble of rocks to sink into the deepest dark at the foot of the castle's walls. In single file they began to make their way along the wall, pressing themselves against its cold stone, sure-footed on the wet, uneven surface. At the next corner they paused. A single man eased his way out on his belly over the shell-crusted rocks to look towards the castle's closed gate. The tide was falling fast now, and here and there the rough surface of the causeway broke the water between castle and shore. The town was awash with torches and the light of bonfires.
There was no one at the water's edge. The scout slipped back to join his companions, free his sword from its bindings and wait in the shadow of the ancient castle.
In the courtyard of Castle Kolglas, all was fire and movement. The audience was crowded along the front of the keep and around to the stables, shouting and cheering to encourage the acrobats to ever greater feats. Kennet himself stood at the top of the short stairway leading up to the keep's main entrance. Orisian stood before him, and felt his father's hands resting upon his shoulders. There was pleasure in that sensation.
The throng of people was boisterous as they jostled good-heartedly for position. From the steps Orisian could see clear over their heads to the broad flame-lit space where the acrobats tumbled. They spun across the cobblestones, flinging burning brands from one to another. The two long poles he had seen them carrying into the castle were brought to the centre of the yard, and men held them upright while a woman scampered barefoot up each one. At the top of the poles, the women tensed themselves for a moment, then in the same instant sprang free, twisting as they passed each other in mid-leap. The poles swayed violently as they landed but they clung on with ease, and acknowledged the roar of approval that rose up from the crowd.
Orisian heard his father give a short cry of wonder.
'A fine show, is it not?' Kennet shouted in his ear, squeezing his shoulders.
Orisian nodded vigorously. Anyara, who was at his side, glanced at him and smiled, and he felt a lightening of his heart. This, at last, was a Winterbirth to savour.
Torches were tossed up to the women atop the poles, who threw them back and forth at reckless speed. When they were done they let the brands fall, to be caught by men below. As some of those on the ground launched themselves into another spate of dazzling tumbling, the men supporting the poles hoisted them off the ground, taking their full weight upon their clasped hands. Their faces taut with effort and concentration, they moved, step by cautious step, towards the gatehouse.
'What are they doing?' asked Inurian, coming up to Orisian's side. Idrin sat on the na'kyrim's shoulder, his head cocked to one side as he blinked at Orisian.
'I don't know,' Orisian said, keeping his eyes on the spectacle.
'Something is wrong,' muttered Inurian.
One of the acrobats was hoisting a great barrel above his head now, his face rigid with effort. Orisian dragged his gaze away to look at Inurian.
'What?' he asked.
'I don't know. I can't focus. There's something about these people . . . but I can't reach it.'
The crow launched itself from Inurian's shoulder and flapped up, a fragment of darkness ascending into the black canopy of the night.
'Oh, don't worry so,' laughed Anyara. 'Enjoy the show!'
Inurian grunted and shook his head slightly. Orisian's mood dimmed. Inurian could feel the texture of the thoughts in a man's head. There was no one Orisian trusted more, and if the na'kyrim was troubled there must be some reason for it.
A chorus of gasps snapped his eyes momentarily back to the acrobats. He was just in time to see the two women spring from the poles and vault over the battlements on to the top of the gate-house. A guard had come to the edge there, to see what was happening. One of the women seemed to crash into him and they both fell back out of sight. It was clumsy, out of place. Orisian half-turned to say something to his father.
The men who had been holding the poles aloft suddenly released them and they toppled, at first slowly and then very fast, towards the spectators, who cried out in alarm and began struggling to get out of the way. The man raising the barrel in the centre of the courtyard gave a great cry and flung it down. It smashed on to the cobblestones, splintering apart. Short swords spilled out between the broken staves.
Two of the acrobats were throwing burning torches, arcing them into the crowd. Everyone was shouting, and there were screams of shock.
'What is this?' Orisian heard his father say in a puzzled, uncomprehending voice.
The poles crashed down to the ground. A dark shape came tumbling from the top of the gatehouse, thumping on to the cobblestones. It was the guard. In a flash of torchlight, Orisian glimpsed the unnatural angle of his neck and his open, lifeless eyes. The men who had dropped the poles were at the gate now, lifting its great bar and pulling it open. The swords that had been concealed in the barrel were being snatched up by male and female acrobats alike. They turned upon those who moments ago had been acclaiming them. In an instant, the courtyard was filled with chaos and battle.
The warriors outside the walls rose from their hiding place at the sound of the gate creaking open. They bounded forwards. In the same moment a rider came splashing out on the causeway from the town: a young man, thrashing at his horse's hindquarters.
'Awake the castle!' he was crying, 'awake the castle! Wights attacking the town! A White Owl raid!'
As his fellows poured through the open gate to join the melee inside, one man turned and crouched to meet the rider. He reached up over his shoulder and smoothly brought his sword out of its sheath. The messenger came on without slowing, still crying the alarm. In the second before he would have been trampled, the warrior stepped aside and slashed across the horse's front legs. The impact sent the sword spinning out of his hands, but the animal screamed and crashed down, throwing its rider. The young man tried to get up. His arm had been broken in the fall and it would not take his weight. The warrior slipped a knife out of his boot and cut the man's throat. Ignoring the writhing horse's screams, he retrieved his sword and walked through the castle's gateway, blades held loosely on either side.
Within, all was tumult. The folk who had gathered to celebrate Winterbirth were scattering, struggling over one another in a vain attempt to find safety. Those who had been acrobats joined with the warriors now spilling in through the gate and moved purposefully through the panicking throng. They paid little heed to the townsfolk and castle staff, hacking at them as they might undergrowth that obstructed a forest path. Their quarry was the fighting men of Castle Kolglas.
Here and there amongst the crowd, blades clashed. It was an unequal fight. The warriors of Lannis-Haig were more numerous, but they were unprepared and half of them were at least part-drunk. Even when they came to blows with their enemy, it was like fighting shadows. The invaders were as fast as thought, each swordstroke flung against them finding nothing but air or being met by a deflecting sweep that flowed seamlessly into a killing thrust.
Orisian's disbelieving eyes followed a warrior as he hacked one of Kennet's shieldmen down. The man's heavy shirt had been torn asunder in the fighting, and hung in tatters. Beneath the beads of seawater still clinging to that taut back, Orisian saw a dark, menacing shape stretched across his shoulder blades and spine. A tattoo: the image of a raven, its wings widespread. Orisian's mind went numb at that sight, and what it meant.
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