'It would make little difference if she did run away and hide,' said Rothe. 'At this rate we'll all be ice before we find her, anyway.'
'The boy and the girl will not die here. I have sworn.'
'You have sworn?' snapped Rothe in incredulity. 'You have sworn? My life is pledged to Orisian.
Neither he nor Anyara have any need of the protection of woodwights to...'
'Enough, enough,' said Orisian, spreading his arms out. 'I am sure Ess'yr does not mean any insult, Rothe. And, Ess'yr, I don't know what it is you think you have..'
He saw that neither of the Kyrinin were paying him any heed. As one, their heads had lifted and their faces become fixed masks of concentration.
'What is it?' Anyara asked, but Varryn silenced her with a fierce look. Beneath the fine web of tattoos there was a grim, intense expression. Ess'yr laid a hand upon her brother's arm.
'Sound,' she whispered.
Rothe shifted into a crouch, grasping the hilt of his sword. Orisian fumbled for the blade at his belt, hampered by numb and clumsy fingers.
'Where?' hissed Rothe.
'Coming,' was Ess'yr's hushed reply.
Anyara shifted on to the balls of her feet. Varryn half-turned and his fingers flashed a terse message to his sister. Ess'yr gave a grunt of assent, and picked up her spear. Varryn began to rise. Even as he came to his feet, he was crouching again, hissing through his teeth.
A figure emerged from behind the crumbled remains of a wall. It was a woman, cloaked in hides, her face all but hidden by a fur hood. She halted and cast her eyes over them.
'You are noisy,' she said. Her voice was rough and harsh, as if the mountain frosts had got into it and cracked it just as they had the rocks of this lost city. Still, as soon as he heard her speak Orisian detected the residue of that lilting tone Inurian had. Na'kyrim, he thought.
Ess'yr said something cautiously in her own tongue. The woman gave a terse reply.
'Yvane,' Ess'yr said, and her usually level voice held a hint of relief.
'Noisy and stupid, to be camped out here in weather like this,' Yvane said, switching out of the Kyrinin tongue once more with ease.
'Inurian told us to come here,' said Orisian. 'He said you would help us.'
The old na'kyrim fixed him with a glare that made him fear for a moment that they had made a terrible mistake in coming here. Then she turned on her heel and strode away.
'Come then,' she snapped as she went. 'I can give you food and fire. But do not presume it is anything other than an offer of brief shelter for those in need.'
III
NYVE, FIRST OF the Battle Inkall, had only one ear. Where the other should have been there was a sprawling scar with a hole at its centre. Every Inkallim knew the story. When Nyve was young, freshly admitted to the lowest ranks of the Battle, he had been one of five tasked with guarding a group of Lore Inkallim walking from Kan Dredar to Effen, a remote town in Wyn-Gyre lands. Deep in the broken lands east of Effen they had come across a large band of Tarbain hunters: wild Tarbains, of a tribe then unyoked by the Gyre Bloods, unsaved by the true creed. Ignorant perhaps of what kind of warriors they faced, the Tarbains attacked. They had many hunting dogs with them, and Nyve lost his ear to one of those before he broke its back. Only Nyve and two of the Lore Inkallim survived, the bodies of more than a score of Tarbains heaped up around them.
They went on to Effen and there Nyve gathered fifty men of the town. He was young, but he was one of the Children of the Hundred and he had a fire burning in his eyes; no one dared to refuse him. He brought them to the scene of the battle, and followed the tracks of the Tarbain hunters back to their source. On the second evening, they found the village. They burned it and Nyve himself decapitated the skull-crowned chieftain and sent his head back to Effen. Then he returned, alone, to Kan Dredar.
Nyve was fifty-five now, and walked with a stoop. His fingers had gnarled with age, the joints swollen and locked. It had been some years since he could hold a sword, yet no one had tried to depose him as First. The mind housed within that faltering body was unblunted. Theor, First of the Lore, liked Nyve. He trusted him. They had risen together through the ranks of their respective Inkalls, and been installed as Firsts within a few months of each other.
They shared a bowl of fermented milk in Nyve's chambers. It was narqan, a Tarbain drink adopted long ago by some of the northern Bloods; it had been the traditional liquor of the Battle Inkall for a hundred years. The First of the Battle had to hold his cup between his crippled knuckles. He set it down with practised precision and licked his lips as he watched Theor draining his own cup.
'That was well done,' Nyve said as Theor swallowed the last of it. 'You drink it like one of the Battle.
Better than you used to, at least.'
Theor gave a friendly grimace. He had little liking for narqan, but he was the guest here and was prepared to observe the customs of his host.
'It does a man good to overcome his dislikes,' chuckled Nyve.
'I am grateful, as ever, for the opportunity to improve myself. How are your joints?'
Nyve regarded his hands as though they belonged to someone else. 'They're never at their best at this time of year. I think the wet and cold get into them, though no one seems to believe me; as if I'm not the best judge of it. Who's to say what my own bones are doing better than I am?'
A serving boy came to remove the empty vessels. Nyve watched as he walked away. 'That one's second cousin to Lakkan oc Gaven-Gyre, you know. Or third, is it? His name's Calum. I think there's a certain family resemblance, don't you?'
'Poisonous ambition and arrogance are not often visible to the eye. They always think it'll do them good to have one of their own inside,' smiled Theor. 'They do like to think there are some bonds even we cannot cut.'
'Indeed. His parents were horrified when he told them he wanted to enter training, I believe. Lakkan insisted they let him follow his hope — because he wants his eyes and ears here, of course, rather than out of any concern for the boy's desires. He shows some promise. He might even live to join the Battle.'
'You keep him close, I am sure.'
'Certainly. I wouldn't want Lakkan to worry. And I sleep a little easier myself, knowing what he's about.
Just in case, you understand.'
The clash of arms rose from outside: candidates training in the yard. Nyve cocked his head to listen, contentment passing across his face like the track of a fond memory moving beneath the surface.
'Has there been any word from the south?' Theor asked.
'Nothing new, since the victory at Grive. I'd thought it would have come to an end by now. The Book's been far kinder to Kanin than I would have guessed.'
'His faith gives him strength.'
'That and the White Owls. By Shraeve's account, they'd all likely be dead if that halfbreed hadn't turned up with hundreds of woodwights at his back. Makes you wonder if we shouldn't have taken a closer look at the na'kyrim when he was in Hakkan, while all of this was being planned.'
Theor nodded. The same notion had occurred to him when he heard the last reports from the Glas valley. 'We thought we'd seen all we needed to see. The Hunt watched him closely. He spoke in his sleep, brooded alone; their judgement was that there was little to him but bitterness and the desires of a child. If he can get the White Owls running around at his beck and call they may have underestimated him, though.'
'They may. Fate seems to be smiling upon Kanin's adventure in a number of ways. I think Shraeve is starting to believe a great deal might be possible.'
'Yes. That was how I understood her last message, too.' Theor allowed his tone of voice to convey his meaning.
'You doubt her judgement?' Nyve asked.
'Do you?'
The First of the Battle smiled. His teeth were yellowed and worn. 'Perhaps I should send for more narqan, old friend, if you want to discuss Battle business.'
Theor raised his hands in mock horror. 'There is no need for threats,' he said.
'Shra
eve has served well since she came to us,' Nyve said. 'It would have taken more strength than I've left in this carcass to hold her back once she got wind of what Horin-Gyre was attempting. She's never been one to take the smoothest path, but she's proved her mettle. Her Road is one bounded by endeavour, and by strife. So be it.'
'So be it,' Theor echoed with a nod. He knew Nyve could have put an end to Shraeve's ideas of going south, and of taking Kolglas, with a single, soft-spoken word. But there had been good reasons to give her free rein: it was many years since the Battle Inkall had tested itself against the old enemies beyond the Stone Vale, and Nyve had wanted a loyal pair of eyes to report on events and on the strange alliance Horin-Gyre had forged with the White Owls.
'Still,' sighed Nyve, 'good fortune may be lapping at Kanin's ankles so far, but he'll need to be carried off his feet by a great flood of it if he's to press his advance much further.'
'The High Thane certainly seems to think so. I spoke with him at Angain's interment. He was no more forthcoming than is his wont, but it's plain enough he doesn't mean to exert himself in Horin-Gyre's support.'
Nyve rubbed at the scar on the side of his head with a knuckle.
'Still itches,' he muttered. 'You'd think by now...' He let the thought drift away unexpressed, and regarded Theor expectantly. They both knew, in the way of old colleagues, that the time had come for the crux of the conversation.
'It concerns me,' said Theor almost casually, 'that all our gentle efforts to reaffirm the bonds between the Gyre Blood and the Inkallim have borne such meagre fruit, these last few years.'
A sound at the door betrayed the return of the serving boy Calum, bearing a tray of food.
'Not now,' Nyve said without looking around. Once they were alone again he pursed his lips. 'Do I take it that you feel ungentle efforts are required?' he asked softly.
Theor gave a slight shrug. 'Perhaps I am growing suspicious, downcast, in the autumn of my years. Or too enamoured of times past; when Ragnor's father ruled he barely decided the colour of his bedding without consulting us.'
'That's true. In truth, it was wearisome, but it served us all well.'
'Of course,' said Theor, speaking a little more firmly now. 'The creed requires a strong hand to sustain it, a strong pillar to uphold the roof beneath which all may shelter. It needs the Gyre Blood. Perhaps Ragnor forgets, as his father never did, that the Gyre Blood needs the creed, too.'
'You doubt his fervour,' Nyve stated.
'I fear the possibility of his . . . distraction. However much his father loathed Horin-Gyre, he would have been a great deal more interested in Kanin's achievements than Ragnor seems to be. He is more preoccupied with juggling the loyalties of the other Bloods, with securing his power and control. It's not the first time it has happened. It is the nature of rulers to adopt ruling itself as their purpose; look at Gryvan oc Haig. But for us it must be different. The High Thane of Gyre cannot exist merely to be High Thane of Gyre. He must be both warrior and guardian of the Black Road , above all.'
'Still rather fiery, even if in the autumn of your years,' smiled Nyve.
'I am Master of the Lore. I could hardly be otherwise.'
Nyve nodded. 'I detect a proposal looming on the horizon,' he said.
'Ragnor's inactivity puzzles me. Greatly. He gives every sign of preferring to see the Horin-Gyre Blood extinguished than the return of his own Blood to its rightful place in Kan Avor. Imagine it: for the first time in more than a hundred years we have an army of the Black Road winning battles south of the Stone Vale and the High Thane of Gyre is at best indifferent. No matter how sceptical he was at the beginning, Kanin's successes should at least have attracted Ragnor's interest.'
'Strange times, I agree.'
'Too strange to be all they appear. I desire to know the mind of our High Thane, and there may be a chink in his armour of reticence. He was not the only one I spoke with when Angain was being consigned to the catacombs. When we were alone, standing over her husband's corpse, Vana told me that she has a prisoner: one of the High Thane's messengers, caught as he tried to cross out of Horin-Gyre lands.'
Nyve raised his grizzled eyebrows. However long he had known Theor, it was evident that the Lorekeeper could still surprise him.
'The Horin-Gyre Blood is seizing the High Thane's messengers?'
'Only this one. He made them suspicious. Where, they — and I – wonder, was he going? What need has Ragnor to send word beyond the borders of the Black Road ? The man would not say, and the message he bore is in a cipher Vana's people cannot read.'
'It goes beyond strange and into perilous for one of the Bloods to be imprisoning Gyre couriers,' the First of the Battle said. 'And for us to know of it and not - I assume this is what you propose — not make Ragnor aware of the fact.'
'We are Inkallim. The creed comes first, always. Before all other considerations. If the creed is threatened, we must know of it. Vana has the same concerns, but cannot get to the truth of it. She offered to pass the messenger and his message to us. To the Hunt.'
'Have you talked to Avenn about this?' Nyve asked. He sounded doubtful. Neither of them needed to say that whatever his mission had been, the messenger would not survive the attentions of the Hunt Inkall.
Theor shook his head. 'I will never do so, unless I have your agreement to it. You know that.'
'I need some more narqan,' Nyve said. He rapped on the table at his side. 'Where's that boy when I need him?'
He looked thoughtfully at Theor. 'You will allow me to think on this,' he said.
'For as long as you wish,' Theor replied.
Nyve's smile returned. But for his ugly scar, he looked like a jovial old man immersed in a life of ease.
'It's a long time since there've been such events as these in flow. It's almost enough to make a man feel young again.'
Theor left by a discreet side door, out of sight of the training yards and weaponsmiths. He followed a colonnaded walkway to the rear of the Battle's compound and passed through a gate in the outer wall.
His litter-bearers were waiting there for him; until winter tightened its grip, the tracks across the hillside to the Lore sanctum would remain muddy and unfit for the First's feet.
The little snow that had fallen in the night was almost gone, but the air had the heavy taste of more to come. As he rocked along, Theor could see over the trees on the lower slopes to Kan Dredar. Ragnor oc Gyre's city was a brown and black sprawl across the flat ground, an almost formless jumble of wooden shacks milling around the few stone buildings: the city guard's barracks, the market hall, the High Thane's stronghold. The scene was a peaceful one. Cities always looked best from a distance in Theor's experience; closer inspection tended to reveal grime and greed. Buzzards and kites were patrolling over the city as they always did. Theor noted how the birds spaced themselves out, dividing Kan Dredar between them, each circumscribing its patch of back streets with leisurely circles.
A pale shape by the side of the trail caught his eye. It was a small bundle wrapped in a sheet. Theor caught a glimpse of grey, blotched skin; a baby, then. When a weak or crippled child was born, some families would put it out like this, in the woods or on the hillsides, to test its fate. It was a practice the High Thanes of Gyre had outlawed long ago - every potential warrior was too precious to be risked, when only ten thousand had made the journey into the north - but for some of the commonfolk it was a stubborn reflection of their faith. Most likely the mother would return in a day or two, and if the Last God's Book had spared the child it would be taken back into the family and cared for as best they could.
This baby's Road had run its course, though.
Theor was carried on in his litter. Care would be needed in pursuing his doubts about Ragnor oc Gyre.
Above all, he must carry Nyve and Avenn with him. The Lore was senior and superior to the Battle and the Hunt, but that did not mean they would blindly follow his lead; unity amongst the Inkallim mattered if the Gyre Blood was faltering in the for
ce of its will. At such times - and they had come once or twice before in the century and a half of the Black Road 's exile beyond the Tan Dihrin - the Inkallim were the ones who must hold things together.
They had covered two thirds of the way back to the halls of the Lore when his escort slowed. The sound of feet running through the slushy mud came from behind them.
'What is it?' Theor asked with an air of disinterest.
'A boy is coming,' said one of his litter-bearers. 'A Battle candidate, from the look of him.'
Theor waited, folding his hands into his armpits against the cold.
He recognised the message-bearer at once: it was Lakkan oc Gaven-Gyre's cousin, Calum. The message was straight from Nyve's own chambers, then. The boy was out of breath, his cheeks glowing and his clothes spattered with mud. His excitement was obvious.
'First,' he said, 'First, Master Nyve sent me. He told me to catch you on the path, if I could.'
'You have triumphed then, young man.'
'He said you should be the one to carry the news back to the Lore.'
'Did he?'
'A messenger bird came just as you left. Anduran has fallen, First. Town and castle are in Horin-Gyre hands.'
Theor was meticulous in suppressing any sign of the surprise that he felt.
'And Master Nyve said I should say . . .' Calum frowned, recovering the words, 'I should say that he will think on matters more quickly now.' He seemed pleased to have accurately recalled the phrase. 'It is a great day, is it not, First? The Last God's Book smiles upon us.'
'It does indeed,' Theor replied. 'You may tell your master that I share his delight. See if you can't make the return journey even more swiftly than the outward one.'
Calum gave a shallow bow and sprang away. Theor watched him go. He saw the boy slip and sprawl to the ground. Mud blossomed languidly into the air. Calum leapt up, undeterred, and bounded on down the path, shaking sodden earth from his hair as he went. As he resumed his own progress, Theor puzzled over the unexpected news. Events were moving more quickly, and more dramatically, than he had imagined likely. Nyve was right: there would have to be a decision soon. And he would have to remember to compliment Nyve on his still sharp sense of humour. It was a pleasing touch to have one of the Gaven-Gyre elite rushing through the woods to deliver word of Horin-Gyre glory. Lakkan would be spitting bile into his jewelled goblet if he knew.
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