Godless World 2 - Bloodheir

by Brian Ruckley

  "I have seen it. From across the water. Close enough. And Inurian told me of it; the castle in the sea, he called it."

  "Yes," murmured Orisian. "The castle in the sea." What made him imagine that this woman would care what place he called home? She was a creature of the forest and the hills, her heart as unmoved by castles and stone walls as anyone's could ever be. And she had been lover to a na'kyrim; a man as gentle and wise as any Orisian had ever known. There was nothing he could offer her that would compare with the memory of Inurian, or make good his absence. Still, he longed for her goodwill. He lacked the tools to secure it, but that did not blunt the desire.

  "I owe you a bow," he said to her.

  That made Ess'yr glance at him, a quick tip of her head sideways and up. He glimpsed her cheek, the thin line of her lips.

  "I should have thought of it sooner," he said. "You broke it saving me from the Horin-Gyre Bloodheir; broke it on his face. If you hadn't, I might not be here now. I would have got you another one in Kolkyre if I'd thought of it."

  He caught a grunt - possibly contemptuous - from Varryn's direction. Ess'yr's brother was walking a few paces behind them. It was easy to forget how acute a Kyrinin's hearing was. Ess'yr turned her eyes back to the road and the hood once more hid her face.

  "I do not need a Huanin bow," she said. "I will have another in time. It will be a Fox bow, made on Fox lands."

  "Or a White Owl bow, from a dead hand," said Varryn, just loud enough for Orisian to hear. He glanced back over his shoulder, unable to disguise his irritation. He did not want Varryn eavesdropping on every word he uttered to Ess'yr.

  "You'll have your chance for revenge soon," he said.

  "Not revenge," Ess'yr said. "Balance. The enemy have killed many Fox. Therefore many of the enemy must die."

  "I don't know if it works, that kind of balancing."

  "There is no other kind."

  Dusk came on quickly. Ravens were flocking in the darkening sky, tumbling around the peaks, plummeting in to ledges on the cliff faces. Their harsh cries carried a long way. The little river - now far below them - disappeared into the gloom that settled across the valley floor. Its voice, by turns hissing and chattering as it churned its way down out of the mountains, could still be heard, though. Somewhere high up on the other side of the valley, rocks came loose and tumbled, rattling, over scree.

  Orisian was starting to become concerned, fearing a night to be spent under the cold stars, when distant points of light came into view ahead. Bannain had assured them that they would reach shelter before nightfall, but only now was Orisian able to wholly believe it.

  The inn was like no other he had seen before. As they drew closer, he struggled to tell where the disordered, boulder-strewn mountainside ended and the building began. It was clear that the inn had once been a huge structure with workshops and stables and cottages built around and onto it. Most of them had collapsed into rubble and ruin, crumbling back into the rock of which they had been made. Amidst this wreckage, the inn itself still stood. Slate tiles had slipped off part of its roof, and lay in a grey pile at the roadside. Oil lamps burned in some of the windows; others were dark and shuttered.

  Torcaill, the man Taim Narran had assigned to lead Orisian's escort, brought them to a halt a little way short of the inn.

  "I'll send a few men in first, sire," he said to Orisian. "It will not take long."

  Orisian almost told him to forego such precautions. What possible danger could there be here, in this forgotten and abandoned place? But Torcaill took his responsibilities seriously, and Orisian had no wish to belittle that. He nodded in assent. Torcaill led half a dozen men on to the inn.

  "What's he up to?" Yvane asked. The na'kyrim had come up to stand beside Orisian's horse, her hand resting on its neck. The animal looked round at her, but found her uninteresting and hung its head in a vain search for grass.

  "Just having a look before we go in," Orisian said.

  Yvane grunted. "Does he fear some mountain goat waits within to stick you with its horns? No . . . wait, perhaps it's lurking under one of the beds, ready to nip at your ankles?"

  "You're in a lively mood," Orisian observed, looking down at her.

  "No, I'm not. I'm exhausted. It makes me light-headed, all this walking."

  "Ride, then. You've been offered a share of a horse's back more than once."

  "She's worried she'll fall off and crack her head," Rothe suggested, easing his horse past them.

  Yvane glared after the shieldman as he drew up in front of the inn and dismounted a little stiffly. He stretched, digging his fingers into the small of his back. The light falling from the windows was bright now, the surrounding mountains almost wholly lost in darkness. There were clouds enough to hide the moon. Orisian shivered and puffed out his cheeks. The muffled sound of boots thumping on stairs and floorboards came from the inn. Rothe stood in the doorway and peered inside. After a moment or two, he stepped back to allow Torcaill to emerge. The warrior waved.

  "Looks like you'll get a good night's rest, anyway," Orisian said to Yvane. "Plenty more walking tomorrow, I expect, so no doubt you'll need it."

  "Not so much," Yvane muttered dolefully. "Highfast's not far now."

  "You're not looking forward to it."

  The na'kyrim glanced up at him, and then away. It was a self-effacing, hesitant sort of movement; not what Orisian associated with Yvane at all. He almost felt sorry for her, but suspected that she would not welcome such a sentiment.

  "Not greatly," she acknowledged. "Too late for changing minds, though."

  The innkeeper who greeted them within was tall and thin, narrow eyes peering out from beneath bushy eyebrows. He gave no sign of pleasure at this unexpected glut of customers.

  "There's beds for an even dozen of you," he said in the thick, lethargic accent of the Peaks. "The rest'll be bedding down in the ruins. And I've not enough food for so many. Most'll be feeding yourselves, too."

  "That's fine," Orisian said, paying little attention. He went back outside, peered around in the darkness. He searched amongst the indistinct crowd of men and horses. He wanted to ask Ess'yr if she and Varryn would sleep inside. But the Kyrinin had already separated themselves from the others. They were slipping away, sinking into the night, moving into the thicket of broken walls and fallen roofs behind the inn. He stared after them even when the darkness had taken them from him.

  "Is there broth?"

  Orisian turned around. Old Hammarn was there, his hands clasped together.

  "Always good after a long journey," the na'kyrim said. "And before, too."

  "Come," Orisian smiled. "Let's go and see what we can find."

  They reached Highfast the next day, amidst sleet and gusting winds. The great fortress loomed out of the belligerent sky, stark and grey and hard. It stood on a pinnacle of rock, capping the peak with a carapace of battlements and turrets. The road swept up to it around the exposed haunches of another, loftier mountain, and then threw a side-branch across a narrow stone bridge to the gates.

  The wind roared at them and lashed them with waves of wet snow as they crossed that bridge. Orisian looked only briefly to the side. The dizzying drop and the dark rock slopes far below resolved him to lock his eyes upon the gates ahead. They were tall and narrow. Their wood was scarred and pitted and cracked; the skin of their iron banding was split and rusted. Above them, Highfast's fortifications soared. Walls and towers were crowded thickly onto their precarious perch, so that it seemed half a dozen castles had been crammed and folded into one.

  Bannain, riding at the head of the column with Torcaill, shouted something up at the turrets flanking the gate. The words were snatched away by the wind and Orisian did not hear them. There was no obvious response. Orisian pressed his chin into his chest and hunched his shoulders. He was wondering whether to dismount and put his horse between him and the wind when the gates opened. Torcaill led them in.

  They rode through a tunnel. A few men with lanterns baffled aga
inst the wind lined the way, watching the band of riders with clear suspicion and puzzlement. Hoofs rang on the smooth stone floor and the echoes raced back and forth along the passage like a peal of harsh, tuneless bells. There was another gate, creaking back on ancient hinges, and then they emerged into a small courtyard.

  It felt as if they were at the bottom of a great pit. On every side walls thrust up, climbing higher than anything made by men that Orisian had ever seen, save perhaps the Tower of Thrones itself. In places cliffs and boulders had been incorporated into the body of the castle, so that stonework flowed around outcroppings of the jagged pinnacle. There was a keep that seemed to have been built onto the face of a crag. No lights showed at its windows, despite the day's gloom. The rushing clouds above looked very distant.

  Orisian gazed around in wonder. He had not expected Highfast to be such a strange and massive beast. He had never seen, or heard of, its like. Except, perhaps, for Criagar Vyne. That ruined city in the Car Criagar must once have had something of the same bleak magnificence, the same deep-rooted defiance of mountain and elements. But Criagar Vyne was empty; defeated. People still lived here in Highfast, still sheltered in its towering protection.

  A short man, rotund but wearing a warrior's jerkin and sword, came out from a doorway and conferred with Torcaill. They both turned and looked in Orisian's direction. He swung himself out of the saddle and walked forwards, Rothe following close behind.

  "I am Herraic Crenn dar Kilkry-Haig, sire," the short warrior said, dipping his head respectfully. "Captain of Highfast. It is an honour to have such visitors. I fear we're not well enough provisioned to offer you the hospitality you deserve."

  The man sounded nervous to Orisian. "We don't need much other than a fire and some food. We'll be moving on in a day or two."

  He ducked and winced as cold water, shed in fat droplets from some protrusion on the walls far above, spattered down onto the back of his neck.

  "Come, come," Herraic said quickly. "Let's get a roof over your head. My men will stable your horses and get your escort into the barracks. We've room enough for them, I think. Half my men are out chasing rumours of wights in the forest east of here. They'll likely not be back for days."

  Torcaill went to see to the settling of his men; Rothe, Ess'yr, Varryn and the two na'kyrim followed Orisian. The passageways through which Herraic and Bannain led them were narrow and rough-cut. They curved and twisted, rose and fell, in a way that left Orisian disorientated. And no matter how deep they went into the rock, there was still a breeze on his face; cold, wet air still stirred, tugging at the flames of the torches that Herraic and his men carried. The sound of the wind was distant but always present, a low tone at the edge of his hearing.

  They emerged in a gloomy, low-ceilinged chamber. There were slitted windows in the far wall, admitting a little muted daylight. Other than that, the only illumination was from a brazier in which charcoal glowed, throwing off so much heat that it was almost shocking after the long hours on the road. Orisian and the others clustered around, spreading their hands towards the brazier. Hammarn chuckled to himself in pleasure at the warmth. A pair of serving boys came with jugs of tepid wine to share out. Bannain the na'kyrim murmured something to Herraic and disappeared through a narrow portal without waiting for an answer. Herraic himself edged diffidently closer to Orisian.

  "You're here for the na'kyrim, are you, lord?"

  Orisian nodded.

  "There's no other reason for anyone to come, of course," the Captain of Highfast murmured. "Not to say that many come to see Cerys and the rest either, mind you. Is there . . . should I know what brings you?"

  Orisian hesitated. He had no real reason to be anything other than open with this man, yet found himself cautious. If whatever messengers Lheanor had sent ahead had been reticent, there was no need to undo that restraint. "Nothing of great consequence. I am heading for Kolglas, and wanted to speak with the na'kyrim here on my way. That's all."

  "Ah, yes. Of course. Well, we will offer what comfort we can."

  "I didn't mean to be a burden. There're not as many of you here as I expected."

  Herraic gave a soft, wry laugh. "Not many. The loneliest posting, this. The garrison's only two dozen here, sire. No need for any more. No one to man the walls against, you see."

  "It must be strange, so few of you in such a huge fortress."

  "Oh, it suits some better than others, that's true. It must have been quite a place, once. Filled with noise and bustle, hundreds of people. The road went from here all the way to Drandar, you know. The richest road in all the Kingship, some say. Enough wagons on it every day to carry all the wealth of a King. That's what I heard." He gave an almost apologetic smile, a little shrug. "Now . . . well, you see for yourself. There's no road, no riches. It's just where folk like me get washed up."

  "And the na'kyrim? How many of them?"

  The question clearly caught Herraic unawares, though he tried to hide it.

  "I couldn't say with certainty, sire. We see little of one another. They have the lower chambers, cut into the rock itself, and a few rooms high in the keep. Highfast is so large that . . . well, I meet with the Elect once or twice a month. Other than that . . ." He gave a faint shrug. His unease at the thought of those meetings with the Elect was evident.

  Orisian knew well enough, from Inurian's residence in Kolglas, that even sharing a roof for years was not enough to make some people comfortable with na'kyrim. No matter how self-evidently close the bonds between Inurian and Kennet, Orisian's father, had become, there had been those who never reconciled themselves to the presence of a na'kyrim in the castle.

  "You might want to give some thought to the lodging of those Kyrinin you brought with you, sire," Herraic whispered, leaning close to Orisian. "It would be best if they took shelter amongst the na'kyrim while you're here. There might be some . . . well, some unrest amongst my men if we quarter them with the garrison."

  Orisian looked across to Ess'yr and Varryn. They were both watching the Captain of Highfast. Ess'yr's face was as placid, as calm, as always, but he could not help wondering whether somewhere beneath that fair exterior, lit orange by the radiant charcoal, anger and resentment lurked. She and her brother had saved his life more than once, yet still met with nothing but suspicion and hostility wherever they went in his company. Perhaps they expected nothing more; perhaps it was only Orisian who felt wounded on their behalf by such things.

  "I don't think you could whisper quietly enough to keep what you say from their ears, you know," he murmured to Herraic.

  The stocky warrior glanced in the direction of the two Kyrinin. They stared back. The tattoos on Varryn's face had a savage look to them in that light.

  "No," Herraic muttered, nodding to Orisian. "No, of course. Still, you might want to think on it."

  "I will."

  Bannain reappeared in the doorway.

  "Come, Thane," the na'kyrim said. "The hidden Highfast awaits you."

  VIII

  They went deeper, along narrow, rough-hewn passageways, down dark stairwells. There was a door, massive and thick, that took them into a wider corridor where there were oil lamps and a paved floor. And then Orisian saw something that brought him to a halt: a child. She was running towards them, smiling. She came on light, quick feet, arms outstretched and trailing the fine sleeves of an old, faded dress. A na'kyrim child; a pale, almost luminous presence amidst the shadows and weight of the fortress.

  Orisian stopped so abruptly that Yvane walked into his back. She grunted in irritation and looked over his shoulder.

  "What's the matter?" she demanded.

  "Nothing. It's just . . . I've never seen one before."

  "One? The child? Ha! Did you imagine we sprang into being already haggard and aged?"

  Orisian shook his head. He watched the young girl. She had wrapped her arms around Bannain's thigh and grinned up at him as he ran a hand over her hair.

  "It's not surprising she's the first you've seen,"
Yvane said, more gentle now. "Too many walls between Huanin and Kyrinin these days. Half the babies that do get themselves born are probably killed as soon as they've drawn breath, still wrapped in their swaddling cloths. That's the world we've all made for ourselves. That's why, whatever its faults, I'd not unmake Highfast. There's few enough places that girl could find safety: here, Koldihrve, Dyrkyrnon, one or two others."

  "How many children are there here?"

  "I don't know. When I left? Only three or four. We're a rare breed, and growing rarer."

  The girl walked with them to the end of the corridor. She held Bannain's hand. He halted outside a door and knelt to whisper something to her. She laughed and nodded, and then darted into the room beyond when Bannain held the door open for her.

  "Our herald will announce our arrival," he said with a smile.

  Within, half a dozen na'kyrim were waiting. All were dressed alike in plain robes; all had the same still, erect posture. The little girl had run to the side of a woman who wore a crude, thick iron chain around her neck. The child spoke a few soft and excited words, then moved to stand apart, an expression of shy anticipation on her face. The woman took in Orisian and his motley companions with a single sweeping gaze. Orisian drew breath to speak, but she settled her cold attention upon Bannain.

  "You left alone," she said, "yet return with a multitude."

  To Orisian's ears, her tone was level, impassive. It appeared that Bannain detected more pointed sentiments, for his shoulders sagged a little and he stepped forwards with none of the brashness that Orisian had come to expect of him.

  "It seemed wise, Elect. It seemed prudent."

  "Prudent," the Elect repeated. Her eyes were on Orisian now. "You are the Thane of the Lannis-Haig Blood?"

  "Yes." His voice came out with less authority than he would have liked. "I was told I might find good counsel here," he went on with what he hoped was more firmness, "but if we are not welcome, we will not trouble you. There are other places I should be."

  "You are not unwelcome," the woman said, though her tone hardly lent credence to the words. She signalled Bannain to stand amongst the little group of na'kyrim gathered around her, and he obeyed without hesitation. "I am Cerys, Elect of the Council of Highfast. You, Thane, I now know. And Yvane, of course. Who else has Bannain brought with him?"