‘I’m trying to calm them,’ he said, ‘but they’re spooked bad and the Kyrgs aren’t exactly helping.’
All around them, Kyrgs were stabbing at the creatures with spears, or swiping at them with flaming brands. Kastara couldn’t blame them. The scrittal attack had been ferocious and many of the Kyrgs had bitemarks on their arms and faces. At last the scrittals scattered and began to retreat back into the darkness.
‘You can let down your shield,’ said Findar. Her brother walked slowly through the settlement, scrittals turning away in response to his commands. Someone grabbed Kastara’s arm. It was Lungrid, accompanied by a group of hunters.
‘They have your mother,’ she said. ‘Come.’
Kastara hurried after Lungrid. The snow was fresh and their prey hadn’t bothered to cover their tracks. Lungrid and her fellows weaved rapidly through the blackthorn and Kastara began to fall behind. A pair of high-pitched screams rent the night and the Kyrgs stopped dead. A thunderous beating of vast, membranous wings sent air whistling through the blackthorns. Migaradons. Lungrid pulled back her arm but her spear was ripped from her grasp, as were those of her fellow hunters. The spears performed an elegant loop in the air and darted towards their defenceless owners. Kastara quickly sent out her bubble and the weapons crashed harmlessly against it. But the distraction had been enough. Findar arrived as the cries of the migaradons were fading. Kastara reached out with her mind, searching desperately for Anara. She felt a fleeting connection, but it quickly faded out of range.
‘Findar, can you call them back?’ she pleaded.
‘They’re too far away,’ her brother replied, breathing heavily. ‘I’m sorry, Kas. She’s gone.’
Chapter Sixty-two
Zastra reached the base of the Warrior Mountain and realised she was lost. She had taken a different route down to avoid the treacherous ice cliff, instead following the natural contours of the mountain. Towards the bottom, another snow storm had blown up, blurring the boundaries between ground and sky. She had used gravity alone to guide her as she slipped and slid down the steep slopes, trusting to luck that she wouldn’t fall into a crevasse or plunge over a cliff face. Hunger gnawed at her stomach and the skin on her face was raw. She tried to lick her cracked lips, but her mouth was so dry that her tongue stuck to her cheeks. She turned on the spot, hoping to find some shadow or other clue that might tell her which way was north or south.
A distant cry broke across the white landscape. Was it real, or had she imagined it? She had heard nothing but her own breathing for days. The sound came again and she ploughed towards it. Two shapes loomed out of the whiteness, their heads impossibly large. She wondered what strange creatures they might be until they came closer and she realised they were Krygs wearing thick fur hoods. One dragged a sled.
‘You survived,’ said a Kyrginite warrior with a black cheek. Tholgrad. Zastra instinctively reached for her spear, but her frozen fingers closed round empty air. She must have lost it somewhere but she hadn’t even noticed it was gone. The second Kyrg swung the sledge towards her. It was Voghal.
‘Get on,’ she said. ‘We’ll take you back.’
‘How… how did you find me?’ Zastra’s voice cracked with disuse.
‘The Warrior often spits out his acolytes here. Most are in a bad way. We have been waiting.’
‘We scented you,’ Tholgrad said with a grimace as Zastra sank wordlessly onto the sled, her only wish to lie down somewhere warm and safe.
It seemed only a moment later that Voghal roused her. They were back at the small rondavel where she had meditated before her journey. A fire crackled in the grate. Lungrid sat beside it, wearing a dark robe embroidered with hunting scenes. Three large candles flickered, brightening the interior of the rondavel and giving off a heady floral scent. Probably to mask mine, Zastra thought, sniffing tentatively at her armpit. Next to the candles stood a pot of dark green ink and a large needle, very like the one she had taken from the dead Kyrg. Lungrid offered Zastra a mug of steaming chala and a small plate of food.
‘Try to eat slowly,’ she said, as Zastra tugged off her frozen mittens and gulped the chala down so quickly it burned the back of her throat. Slowly, life flooded back to her frozen core.
‘What did you find at the top of the Warrior?’ Lungrid asked. Zastra reached inside her coat and pulled out the leather pouch. Lungrid opened it and drew forth a circle of plaited hair.
‘It is well,’ she said. ‘This was Voghal’s trophy. She was the last to seek the wisdom of the Warrior.’
‘Does that mean I’ve passed?’ Zastra’s voice was still hoarse.
‘The test is not only physical. What did the Warrior teach you?’
Zastra recalled bitter cold and loneliness, but also the beauty of the summit. Most of all, she remembered her dream. Her own naked figure buried in the ice cliff. Her fear that it would be revealed. It suddenly made sense. But the dream felt intensely private and she was reluctant to share it.
‘Anything you say here will remain between us,’ Lungrid said, as if reading her thoughts. Zastra stared into the fire.
‘I must stop being afraid to love,’ she said.
Lungrid nodded. ‘It is well. Now we must ink you with the sign of the hunter, so all will know you conquered the Warrior Mountain.’
She took Zastra’s left arm and turned her wrist so the inside was facing upwards. She began to make a tattoo. Zastra’s skin was so numb with cold she barely felt the prick of the needle. It seemed she was a now Kyrginite hunter as well as a ko-venteela fire-dancer. If Hylaz was to be believed, she was also part Sendoran. Did all of this make her less Golmeiran?
‘I wish to see my mother,’ she said. ‘I have much to say to her.’ Lungrid paused, and then continued until she had finished the tattoo, an intricate rendering of the snow-capped Warrior mountain capped by a circle of stars. When she had finished, she set aside her needle and looked straight at Zastra.
‘There is something we must tell you.’
Chapter Sixty-three
Lyria castle was large and sprawling, home to hundreds of servants and craftspeople. It also housed the militia. Even with ten mindweavers, the loyalty tests had taken all night and most of the next day. Myka had passed easily, thanks to his training. He had also been on hand to help Nerika while Gildarn stayed close to Orwin. More than two dozen men and women were less fortunate. To Orwin’s dismay, his personal valet was one of those who failed the loyalty test.
‘I can vouch for my man,’ he protested. ‘Please, he has a family – two girls and another child on the way.’
Orwin’s words carried no weight, not even in his own castle. The unfortunate valet and the others were taken to the main courtyard and lined up, shivering in the cold air. They were made to wait until Rastran emerged from his chamber, yawning. The grand marl paid no heed to the pleas of the victim’s families, or even those of Marl Orwin himself. With a sharp motion of his hand, the condemned men and women collapsed like broken puppets.
‘What was that?’ asked Orwin, horrified as Rastran hurried back into the warmth of the castle.
‘Our grand marl likes to take on the role of executioner himself,’ said Strinverl. ‘He has an enviable mindmoving skill. He has broken their necks. The only limitation to his power is that he must be close to his target and able to see them.’
‘What did they do to deserve such a fate?’
‘Nothing yet,’ said Strinverl, ‘but they might. Best we take out the rotten fruit before it turns the rest bad.’
Sickened by what he had seen, Myka retreated to the kitchens. He found Podrik leaning over a bubbling saucepan. Myka wrinkled his nose.
‘That smells awful!’ Podrik jumped so hard he nearly knocked the pan off the stove.
‘Oh, it’s only you,’ he said with relief.
‘What are you doing?’
Podrik checked that they were alone.
‘I’m… not going to let Strinverl get his hands on poor Ursolina. I… got this recipe fro
m a healer. A few drops in his chala and he’ll sleep the whole night. If he’s asleep, he… can’t hurt her.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Myka. Podrik turned his good eye towards him.
‘You’re with Lady Zastra, aren’t you? One of the rebels?’
Myka nodded.
‘She came here, long ago. We were friends – she said so herself. No one else ever wanted to be my friend. What’s she like now?’
Myka pictured the tiny lugger ripping through Thorlberd’s fleet.
‘Not someone to be messed with,’ he said.
‘Ha!’ Podrik nodded sagely. ‘That was true, even then.’
Myka returned to their chambers to find Gildarn and Nerika dressing for the banquet.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be protecting Orwin?’ he asked.
‘People might talk if I followed him into his bathroom,’ Gildarn remarked. ‘Not that he’s my type. I prefer a man with hair. Besides, Rastran scanned him yesterday. He’s unlikely to repeat the exercise.’
‘How do you know Strinverl?’ Myka asked. Gildarn stared at him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I saw him whisper in your ear.’
‘Oh, that? Nothing but an idle threat. Standard practice, trying to rattle me.’
Myka tried to keep his expression neutral even though he knew Gildarn had just lied to him. He went over to his bed and began to tidy it, feeling the Far Islander’s eyes follow him. A rap at the door made them all jump. A servant from the royal entourage informed them that Grand Marl Rastran wished to view their merchandise. Myka turned to look at Gildarn, who was staring back at him. Why would Gildarn lie about knowing Strinverl?
‘You best bring a bale, Myka. It will look odd if I carry my own silks,’ Gildarn said, his voice suddenly hoarse.
‘You’re the traitor!’ Myka gasped.
Gildarn sagged into the nearest chair and burst into tears. Nerika jammed a chair beneath the door handle to stop anyone coming in, then seized hold of Gildarn.
‘It was you? What have you told them? Do they know why we’re here?’
‘No! They think I’m using you as cover. I try to give Strinverl as little information as I can.’
‘But you gave up Uden’s Teeth?’ Nerika’s nose went white. ‘Dobery and all the others. Dead, because of you!’
She went for him, slapping and punching hard. Gildarn ducked beneath his arms in a cursory attempt to protect himself.
‘Nerika, stop. This isn’t helping.’ Myka tried to lift her away but she fended him off and continued to pummel Gildarn until his hair was awry and his nose bloodied. Myka wondered why Gildarn didn’t stop her with a simple burst of mindweaving. His own powers were too limited or he would have done it himself.
‘They have my Dray,’ Gildarn sobbed. ‘They’ve had him all this time. If I don’t tell Strinverl something tonight, he’ll kill him.’
Nerika pulled a knife out of her sleeve.
‘You won’t be telling anyone anything,’ she cried. Myka jumped between them, wishing again that he had offensive mindweaving skills. As it was, he couldn’t even make Nerika drop the knife.
‘You can’t kill him,’ he said. ‘We need him to protect Orwin, remember? Or are you going to put revenge ahead of winning this war?’
Chapter Sixty-four
Myka eventually persuaded Nerika not to kill Gildarn. Not yet at least.
‘You have to let him go the banquet,’ he said. ‘To protect Orwin.’
Nerika eventually saw the truth of what he said. Gildarn dressed in his best clothes, cleaned up his face and went down to the banquet. Myka headed for the kitchens and offered to help. It was the safest place he could think of. He doubted Rastran would ever set foot somewhere as hot and busy as a kitchen. Morn put him to work plating up some of the simpler dishes. Podrik was there too.
‘Rastran said he didn’t want his meal spoiled having to look at a malformed half-breed,’ he said morosely. ‘Look at all these plates! Ma’s prepared five times as much they could ever eat in case our grand marl doesn’t care for some of the dishes. Meanwhile, most of the local villagers are struggling to pay even for bread.’
Myka felt a pang of guilt. He had never gone hungry, not since he’d been identified as a blue-blood and future mindweaver.
‘What are you able to do?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘With your power?’
Podrik gave a one-shouldered shrug.
‘No one ever… showed me. I learned to hide. An’ sometimes I can tell what people are thinking. Not like words, but… people look at me and I can feel their… disgust.’
Myka showed Podrik how to protect the minds of others. It was the most useful thing he could think of. Podrik showed a surprising aptitude. All the time, Myka wondered about Gildarn. Would he betray them? Since no one had come to arrest him, he supposed their cover was still intact, but for how much longer?
‘Podrik, take this water and wine up to the visitors’ chambers,’ Morn instructed. Myka offered to help. They deposited carafes of water and wine in various rooms, saving Strinverl’s chamber until last. Myka kept watch while Podrik pulled a small vial from his jacket and poured half the contents into the water and the rest into the wine.
‘I thought you said it only needed a drop?’
‘I want to make sure.’ Noises in the corridor told them the party was breaking up. The door opened. To Myka’s surprise, Nerika came in.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘Making sure Gildarn doesn’t betray us. You’d better hide. They’re coming.’
Myka and Podrik ducked beneath the bed and Nerika folded herself into a wardrobe.
‘In you go, girl. No need to be shy.’ The chamber door opened. From his position under the bed, Myka saw a pair of boots heading towards him. The hem of a robe followed, not quite hiding the toes of small brown boots, faded from years of polishing. Ursolina. Another pair of boots followed. Myka recognised them as Gildarn’s.
‘Perhaps you’d better send the girl away,’ said Gildarn.
‘But then I might not get her back.’ Strinverl said. ‘Look at her, she’s trembling.’ He sounded pleased. Glass clinked against glass.
‘Some wine?’ Gildarn offered.
‘I’ve had sufficient. I do not wish to dull tonight’s pleasures. What do you have to tell me? It had better be good.’
‘The rebels are in disarray. The Sendorans have split off.’
‘That I know. What aren’t you telling me? You’re working too hard to protect your mind.’
‘I have nothing more to say, Strinverl,’ Gildarn said.
‘It’s what you don’t say that concerns me. That Southland girl, Orika. You told me she was no use to anyone, and yet she was responsible for Thorlberd’s defeat. What else have you lied about?’
‘Nothing, I swear it.’
‘I had your precious Dray whipped before we left Golmer Castle. It’s amazing that he’s got any skin left on his back. He will suffer more unless you give me something useful.’
Myka jolted so hard his head hit the base of the bed. Strinverl was lying, he was sure of it. A shadow blocked out the line of light beneath the bed and he turned to see Strinverl’s hawk-like face staring at him. A probe battered against his mental defences.
‘Out you come. Both of you.’
Myka and Podrik reluctantly emerged from their hiding place. Myka felt dizzy, so strong was the pressure applied by Strinverl.
‘I remember you.’ Strinverl frowned. ‘You were one of our trainees.’ He turned back to Gildarn.
‘Your husband will pay for this with his life.’
‘It’s you who’ll pay!’ Nerika burst from the wardrobe, her knife in her hand. Ursolina screamed. Strinverl narrowed his eyes. Nerika collapsed to the ground.
‘You can’t kill me,’ Strinverl snorted. ‘None of you are strong enough.’
Podrik fell to the floor and Myka battled for control of his own limbs. He reached out to try and balance himself an
d his hand found the carafe of water. He wrapped his fingers around the neck and, with huge effort, he hurled the contents into Strinverl’s face. The highmaster’s mouth opened in shock.
‘What—?’ he spluttered. Myka watched in desperate hope. A single drop, Podrik had said. He’d better be right, for all their sakes. Strinverl blinked twice and keeled over like a felled tree. Ursolina was still screaming.
‘Sorry, my dear,’ said Gildarn, catching the girl gently as he sent her into a stupor. ‘But we can’t afford to make this much noise.’
Myka roused Podrik and Nerika, all the time expecting soldiers and black ravens to come bursting through the door.
‘Why doesn’t anyone come?’ he said. ‘She was screaming loud enough to wake the dead.’
‘The sound of screams from Highmaster Strinverl’s chambers must be a common occurrence,’ Gildarn remarked bitterly. Myka checked the corridor, just in case.
‘Nerika, no!’ Gildarn cried. Myka whirled round, but too late. Strinverl’s throat had been cut.
‘That’s for Justyn,’ Nerika said, cleaning her knife. Gildarn began to weep and tear at his hair.
‘You’ve killed Dray! Only Strinverl had the power to keep him alive.’
‘Gildarn, I’m sorry, but I think Dray is already dead,’ Myka said. ‘I could tell Strinverl was lying about him.’
Gildarn’s legs gave way and he sank to the floor. ‘I should have known. I felt he was gone, but I wanted so much to be wrong. Oh, I’ve been such a fool.’
‘This is bad,’ Podrik said. ‘To kill a highmaster is treason.’
‘Maybe we can persuade everyone that it wasn’t murder,’ said Myka.
‘Sure. The man cut his own throat,’ Nerika remarked sarcastically, but Myka’s mind was racing.
‘What’s does Rastran worry about more than anything else?’
‘Getting his boots dirty?’ Nerika suggested.
‘I think we can do better than that,’ Myka said. ‘But we’ll have to work together.’
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