'Breathe lightly,' she said. 'Speak soft. This is not your place. You are watched.'
Orisian waited for Ess'yr to explain.
'This is a dyn hane. A place of the dead. The body goes into the earth. A willow staff is planted in the hands. If it buds, the spirit will go to Darlankyn. If it does not bud, they remain. Then they are kar'hane: the watchers.'
Peering ahead, Orisian could see that amongst the dense-packed, curving trunks and branches of the willow trees were scattered a few thin, leafless poles that must be the unregenerated burial staffs of Kyrinin. The sight of them made him imagine ghostly eyes upon him. The countless branches of the living willows brushed sighingly together. Each tree, he realised, marked the grave of a Kyrinin, its roots entwined about their bones in the soft earth.
'Sent to the willow,' Ess'yr said softly.
A cold grave, thought Orisian to himself, in wet ground by a forest stream. He had long known that the Kyrinin buried their dead instead of burning them as his own people did. He could not remember ever hearing about the trees, though. It occurred to him that he might, when riding with his father or with Croesan's household on the hunt, have passed by such places as this. How many hundreds of Kyrinin might have lain in their dead slumber beside his horse's hoofs?
'The kar'hane do no harm, if you have goodwill,' she said as they walked back towards the vo'an.
'And those who are not of goodwill?' asked Orisian.
Instead of answering his question, Ess'yr said, 'Inurian likes the dyn hane. He names them places of peace. This is why I show you.'
'Thank you,' Orisian said to Ess'yr.
As they made their way into the centre of the vo'an, she directed his gaze toward the face sculpted out of branches. As always, it appeared sinister to him, as if a writhing mass of snakes had been suddenly frozen in place.
'You ask what that is. It is...' Ess'yr paused, searching for a word or phrase that did not come easily to her lips, '... a catcher of the dead. It is anhyne. An image of the Anain.'
In the moment she uttered the words he could see it, and wondered why he had not guessed it before. The Anain were unlike all the other Races; closer to the Gods, as some would have it. If they had a form at all, which many claimed they did not, it was that of wood, bough and leaf come to life. This, the unknowable thought of the green earth coursing through the forests and wild places of the world, was what the Kyrinin had sought to represent.
Everything Orisian knew of the Anain was half-legend, gleaned from tale and rumour. There were no more than a handful of stories of humans who had encountered one of them and almost all had dark endings. One of those tales every Huanin or Kyrinin alike knew well: at the end of the War of the Tainted, when the Kings had cast down Tane and crushed the strength of the greatest Kyrinin clans, the Anain had roused themselves. They had raised a vast forest - the Deep Rove - where there had been none before, swallowing up Tane and all the lands about it. It set a wild, impenetrable barrier between the human armies and the Kyrinin fleeing away into the east. It, as much as the siege and breaking of Tane, had ended the bloodshed. And here, in the peaceful heart of the vo'an, was a representation of that awful power, watching over the playing children and the wandering goats.
'What does it mean?' asked Orisian, finding himself speaking in hushed tones.
Ess'yr frowned slightly. It was a strange sight upon her normally undisturbed features, as though some bird had passed for a moment across the sun and cast a flicker of shadow over her face.
'If the body does not come to the dyn hane, the... spirit will not rest. The anyhne is the guard against this. It brings the Anain close. They guard against the restless dead.'
The restless dead, Orisian thought. That was a fit name for them. He did not believe in ghosts - not the kind he understood Ess'yr to mean - but there were other ways for the dead to be restless.
'I didn't know there were any Anain here,' he said.
'They come before the eye in few places. What you call Deep Rove. Anlane where the enemy is. Din Sive. But the eye is not all. They fill the green world. You do not see them, but they are here.' She would say no more after that. It was enough to leave Orisian wrestling for hours with a sense, still more acute than what he had felt before, of being watched. No matter that Ess'yr said the Anain were a protection, he had no wish to lie beneath the gaze of such legends. That night he craved the stone walls of Kolglas, their solidity and unchanging presence, in a way he had not for years.
Orisian was woken by hands that stripped the furs from over him, and urgent voices that tore at the slumber clogging his ears. His first instinct, still half-asleep, was to struggle and fight against the bodies that seemed to crowd in upon him. There were too many, and he abandoned any resistance. He was pulled and pushed out into the cold night. Blearily he looked around.
A great crowd of Kyrinin was gathered before his tent: so great that he thought every man, woman and child of the vo'an must be assembled there. They stood in silence, their eyes fixed upon him. Those who had roused him melted into the crowd, leaving him standing alone, still a little unsteady. The forest was bathed in radiant moonlight, casting an ethereal glow over the colourless faces that confronted him. He looked up and saw a great white full moon hanging in the sky overhead.
Rothe was pushed roughly forwards to join him. The shieldman looked more awake and alert than Orisian felt.
'Stand close by me,' he growled as he stood upright and took Orisian's arm in a tight grip. 'Show no fear.'
Orisian looked around the wall of motionless bodies that faced them. There was no sound save the rasping hoot of an owl somewhere out in the woods. He had the powerful sense that he and Rothe did not belong here, that they had somehow strayed from the waking world and passed into another place. Something was happening, or about to happen.
'Say nothing,' he whispered to Rothe, realising that his shieldman was more likely to make a mistake in this moment than he was himself.
The crowd parted, opening a narrow pathway for an advancing figure. Bare feet showed beneath the hem of a straight hide dress. Strips of fur hung from the shoulders of what must be a Kyrinin woman, but the face that looked upon Orisian and Rothe was that of a great fox. As the head turned this way and that, he could see the bonds that held the mask in place. They lay over long strands of grey hair, marked with streaks of red, that shone in the moonlight. It was In'hynyr, Orisian realised. The recognition did nothing to soften the savage aspect of the mask when she turned back to stare at him. In her left hand she bore a tall staff to which were tied a dozen tiny animal skulls. The bones clicked against one another as she moved. There was an elongated instant of tension as the vo'an'tyr faced the two humans, then she swivelled round and spread her arms. She stood thus between them and the host of Kyrinin for a few seconds. Her voice, when she began to speak, was muffled beneath the fox mask but that only made it sound all the more eerie as it spilled out across the clearing. She spoke in the Kyrinin tongue: a tumble of words that sounded almost like an incantation.
'Be ready for anything,' murmured Orisian.
In'hynyr spoke on, and every eye was upon her. She shook her staff and the little skulls it bore chattered. Her voice rose and fell. Her breath steamed, rising up as if drawn to the lambent moon.
The fox-face spun about with a cry and In'hynyr thrust an arm towards the two of them. Rothe flinched. Orisian did not stir. He had done what he could to save them when he spoke to the vo'an'tyr; he knew nothing could now change whatever was going to happen. In'hynyr fell silent and a whisper ran through the crowd. Heads were bowed here and there. First one by one and then in small groups, the gathering began to fray and disperse. The Kyrinin disappeared, sinking into the darkness. In'hynyr backed away, keeping her masked face towards Orisian and Rothe, for a few strides and then turned and walked off, alone. In the space of a few breaths, only Ess'yr remained of the throng. She stood regarding Orisian. Rothe's hand was lifted from his arm, and he heard the big man exhale deeply. Ess'yr
came towards them.
'What happened?' asked Orisian as she drew close.
'The vo'an'tyr spoke,' Ess'yr said. 'You may leave. Tomorrow. One day more, and you will be sent to the willow. I will come for you in the morning.'
At dawn there was a heavy fog laid across the camp. Orisian stretched outside his tent. He had slept little after the gathering had dispersed, tossing and turning for much of what was left of the night, his mind too crowded to allow any rest.
Rothe strode up out of the fog. He grinned at Orisian as he drew near.
'Freedom beckons, then.'
Orisian returned the smile. 'So it seems.'
'I never thought we would get out of this with our hides on our backs,' Rothe said, 'but here we are. This will be a good tale to tell.'
Orisian looked around the vo'an. The shifting veils of fog muffled all sound and half-concealed the few figures moving about. The smell of smoke hung in the damp air. It was a muted end to the tale of their sojourn here.
Ess'yr arrived. She held up a pair of scrawny, skinned carcasses. 'Break your fast,' she said.
He and Rothe watched in silence as Ess'yr spitted the squirrels over a small fire. As they sat there waiting, Varryn appeared. He stood beside them, leaning upon a long spear. Rothe regarded the Kyrinin warrior with unconcealed hostility.
'This is Varryn, Ess'yr's brother,' Orisian said. Rothe grunted and turned his eyes back to the fire. Varryn showed no sign of even recognising their existence. Even when Ess'yr said something soft to him, Orisian detected no flicker of a response. Perhaps Ess'yr saw something he did not, for she seemed unperturbed.
'Where do you go?' she asked Orisian.
He glanced at Rothe, aware that he had not discussed the matter with him. 'To Anduran,' he said. 'The city in the valley.' His shieldman nodded.
'It is close, isn't it?' Orisian asked Ess'yr.
'Not far,' she said. 'We guide you to the forest edge. I and Varryn.'
'No need,' said Rothe, glaring at Ess'yr.
'It is best,' said Varryn. 'Our people are in the forest. They may think you the enemy. End with quills in you like a porcupine. We take you fast and safe.'
Rothe looked as if he was struggling to restrain himself. 'I am sure we can find our way,' he said through lips clamped so tight that the words had to battle for their freedom.
'My brother... plays,' said Ess'yr. 'But he is right. We will take you by ways that mean you cannot find this vo'an again. We will take you by ways that are safe. We will take you so that we know you have left Fox lands. For these reasons, the vo'an'tyr says we take you. That is how it will be.' And that was the end of any debate.
A black expression settled over Rothe's face, and Orisian reflected that a journey with the shieldman and a proud Kyrinin warrior in the same party was not going to be an easy one.
'We prepare,' Ess'yr said. 'When you finish, come to the edge of the vo'an. The east.'
She and her brother left Orisian and Rothe to pick apart the squirrels. The shieldman muttered in dire tones about the foolhardiness of trusting Kyrinin.
'We've no choice,' murmured Orisian. 'I don't think they'd look kindly on refusal. It won't be for long, anyway. They're only trying to protect themselves; making sure we can't find our way back here too easily.'
Orisian sucked at a bone. Unnoticed, children had gathered around them. He glanced up to find a dozen or more, come to take a last look at these strange visitors to their home. Rothe tossed the remnants of his meal on to the fire and rose to his feet. The children shuffled to one side to open a path for him.
The two of them made their way to the edge of the camp as they had been instructed. Nobody paid them any heed. They passed a pair of old women cracking nuts on a stone anvil. A younger girl was stretching the still wet and gory hide of a deer across a drying frame. She did not even look round as they walked by.
Ess'yr and her brother were seated together at the fringe of the vo'an where the last few tents were spread thinly. Small packs lay beside them, and spears, arrow-filled quivers and bows. Standing in front of them, waiting with a still patience no human child could have achieved, was a young Kyrinin girl. She was watching as Ess'yr and Varryn fed long strips of leather through their hands, knotting them at regular intervals along their length. Afraid to interrupt the air of intense concentration that pervaded the little group, Orisian stood to one side with Rothe. The shieldman's sword and scabbard were on the ground. Without waiting to be invited, he picked it up and began to examine it in the minutest detail.
Each knot was precisely tied and moistened with a touch of saliva before being pulled tight. Like beads upon a necklace, knot after knot was added to the strips. Finally, at almost the same moment, both of them seemed satisfied with their work. Each passed their piece of leather to the child. She took one in each hand and walked off.
Ess'yr turned to Orisian. She brought out a thin knife from inside her jacket. It was made for throwing, with a smooth wooden hilt that lacked a crosspiece.
'This was in you,' she said, holding it out to Orisian. 'You have no weapon. Take this.'
He took it and slipped it into his belt. It reminded him of his wound, and he felt the flesh there ache for a moment, but it was better to have this knife than none.
'An Inkallim blade,' said Rothe almost admiringly. 'That's a rare trophy to carry.'
Without a word, Ess'yr and Varryn rose, took up their packs and weapons and headed into the forest. Orisian and Rothe glanced at each other. Rothe shrugged. They followed the Kyrinin away from the vo'an.
Only after they had been walking for a few minutes could Orisian bring himself to ask Ess'yr what the knotted leather cords had meant.
'One knot is one thought,' she told him. 'Thought of people, of times, from the life. It is done before a journey. If our bodies do not return, the cord goes to the dyn hane and is buried. It will bind our spirits to the willow. We will not be restless.'
The two Kyrinin set a demanding pace. The forest was open, with broad stretches of grass between the stands of trees. Every few hundred strides they would pass an ancient oak tree in some sheltered spot. Often their route would change direction beneath the branches of one of the oaks, and Orisian suspected that the Kyrinin were navigating by these gnarled trees, using them as markers on some map they carried in their heads.
'How far is it to Anduran?' he called ahead to them.
'Not far,' was all Ess'yr replied, without even turning round.
They came to a more difficult stretch, where a swathe of trees had fallen and a dense thicket of saplings had sprung up around their corpses. Varryn led the way straight into the undergrowth. Orisian and Rothe found it difficult to fight their way through. They emerged, scratched, on the other side to find the Kyrinin warrior awaiting them, leaning on his spear once more, as if he had been standing thus for hours.
'A speared boar is not so loud,' he said.
Rothe looked grievously affronted in a way that might have made Orisian smile had he not feared that words between these two might turn into something more physical. The shieldman had, in any case, no opportunity to respond. Having delivering his rebuke, Varryn spun on his heel and was off once more.
'A speared boar ..." muttered Rothe. 'That it should come to this . . . following woodwights through the forest like children. I wore a beard before that . . . that wight was a bulge in his father's breeches.'
'It is a sad day,' Orisian agreed, 'but we had best keep up nevertheless.'
They strode after the two Kyrinin, pressing on along the southern flank of the Car Criagar towards Anduran.
Chapter 3
The Black Road
IN THE DAYS when Monach oc Kilkry was High Thane in Kolkyre, when his Blood had ruled over all the others for close to a hundred years, Amanath the fisherwoman fell into a slumber in Kilvale. For three days and three nights she lay thus, and her family thought she had begun her journey to the Sleeping Dark. They sang songs of loss and put oils upon her eyes. But on the fourth
day she awoke and began to speak. She spoke of the Hooded God, the Last God, and of how he had remained when his brothers and sisters left the world. She spoke of the Book of Lives he bore and the tales he read from its pages; tales that told the story of every life there has been or ever will be. And those tales she named the Black Road, which is the fated path from birth to foretold death. She spoke of the Kall: the day when humankind would be united by the creed of the Road; when the Gods would answer the call of that unity and return to unmake and remake the world. And she taught that only for those who had been faithful to the creed would there be rebirth in the world that was new.
The fisherwoman's teachings did not please the powerful. The High Thane's men hung her from an ash tree. All the Thanes felt fear, save one. Avann oc Gyre-Kilkry who ruled in Kan Avor heard Amanath's words and took them to his heart. He gathered to him all those who saw the truth, and gave them shelter. And when war came his Blood stood against all the others in the name of that truth. Avann it was who, when Kan Avor had fallen, led the ten thousand over the Vale of Stones and into the north. The truth that Amanath spoke lives there still amongst the Bloods he fashioned. The flame still burns, and does not falter.
Hear well. This is the truth, for those who have the ears to hear. Put away pride and put away fear. The day of your death has already been read from the pages of the Last God's Book. There is only the fated path. There is only the Black Road.
from an anonymous commentary upon
"The Book of the Road"
I
THE VAST WALLS of Vaymouth, shining in the last rays of the sun's light, soared over Taim Narran dar Lannis-Haig and his company. The capital of the Haig Blood had become, in the last hundred years, what might be the greatest city in the world. Its fortifications were on a scale unseen since the Shining City of the Kyrinin was cast down. The southern gate, called the Gold Gate, was open, its great doors of plated iron swung back and chained in place. A handful of guards were clustered to one side, leaning on their spears and watching the approaching band of men impassively. The beggars whose shack-towns seethed around the city's walls lined the road, reaching out to the Lannis-Haig warriors.
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