'They also say that the only women safe around a Tal Dyreen are the dead and the dying, and the dying only sometimes,' Rothe observed.
Anyara shrugged at that. 'I can look after myself.'
Orisian smiled at the confidence in her voice. Anyara's mood was lighter now that they were drawing closer to safety. The shadow beneath which they had toiled really might be lifting a little, and for the first time in weeks hope did not seem quite such an unreasonable thing.
No more than half a day's march from Koldihrve, on the northern flank of the Car Criagar, a small hill rose from the thin forest. It was dotted with a few scrawny trees. Kanin had set up his camp on the short turf beneath these ragged sentinels.
The march over the mountains had been hard and fast, though plagued more by cold and snow than by the arrows of woodwights. There had been no sign of the Fox that Kanin had feared might impede their progress. That, he knew, was because of the hundreds of White Owls surging through the Car Criagar. There were corpses in the forest - tokens of the struggle between the clans - but the cresting wave of savagery was always somewhere ahead of the Horin-Gyre company. Some of the dead Kyrinin they found were mutilated or dismembered. There were men, women and children strung up in trees or impaled upon the ground. A part of Kanin was disgusted at the thought of marching in the tracks of blood-frenzied woodwights. Only the greater need kept his feet on the path: until the children of Kennet nan Lannis-Haig were taken, the task he had promised to undertake was incomplete. The butchery the White Owls spread through the forest served that promise, speeding his descent upon Koldihrve.
On the treeless high ground of the Car Criagar a snowstorm had lashed at them. A slide of rock and snow carried off a few victims. There had been no rest on those hostile slopes, so now, with the peaks behind them, he had ordered a brief pause on this lonely hillock. He did not want to blindly lead weary warriors still further into unknown lands. He sent messengers and scouts racing ahead and waited to see what word they might bring back.
The Thane - he still was not accustomed to thinking of himself as such - was seated on a dusky brown rug, breaking his fast on the same biscuits and gruel that fed his warriors, when a tired-eyed man came scrambling up the hillside and fell to his knees before him. It was one of the sentries posted on the camp's outskirts. Kanin calmly set down his bowl and wiped his lips with his cuff. He waited for the man to speak.
'There is an Inkallim here, lord. One of the Hunt. He would speak with you.'
That caught Kanin's attention.
'Bring him to me, then.'
The man, when he came striding up out of the forest, was accompanied by a great, thick-jawed hound. The beast loped heavily along at its master's heels. They never leash those creatures, Kanin thought. However ruthlessly trained they were, the Hunt's dogs always had a feral, threatening air. Of course, if they were leashed it might make people less intimidated by them, and that would not accord with the Hunt's desires.
The Inkallim was relaxed and casual, but that could not hide the signs of a hard journey. He was pale and gaunt, befitting a man who had seen little of rest or food in several days. As he halted before Kanin his hound sat at his side and fixed its dark eyes on the Thane. Kanin did not rise from his rug, and after a moment's pause the Inkallim squatted down on his haunches.
'Lord,' the man said.
'You are one of Cannek's?'
'Of the Hunt, yes. Two of us came on the trail of the Lannis-Haig girl, up over the tops from the falls where the halfbreed was killed.'
'And?'
'There are six of them. Two wights, a na'kyrim, a Lannis warrior, the girl and a youth: most likely her brother.'
Kanin grimaced and rubbed at his eye in frustration.
'So you've failed to kill them,' he muttered.
'My companion made an attempt, as they descended from the mountains. It was unsuccessful. I thought it best to follow at a distance, rather than risk my own death and the loss of their trail.'
'Of course. Where are they now?'
'They entered Koldihrve this morning. Had I not seen your approach, I would have pursued them and made another attempt in the town.'
'Igris!' Kanin shouted, clambering to his feet. His bowl of gruel toppled as he went, spilling its contents across the rug. The Inkallim's hound sprang to its feet and growled.
Kanin's shieldman trotted up from his post a short distance away.
'Find a rider, with a fast horse,' the Thane snapped. 'They're to make for Koldihrve. I want a message given to whoever passes for a ruler there: the Black Road is coming, and if the Lannis-Haig children are not delivered up to me I will raze the town to the ground, I will slaughter their stock and drown every child of their own in the river.'
Igris nodded and turned away.
'And break camp,' Kanin shouted after him. 'Everyone is to be mounted and ready by the time that messenger is on his way. I want us within sight of Koldihrve by tomorrow's first light.'
VI
THE WALLS OF the Lore Inkall's Sanctuary at Kan Dredar enclosed a forest. Hundreds of pine trees stood within their bounds, carpeting the ground with more than a century's needles. They filled the great enclosure with the scent of their sap and the air had a close, embracing feel that only the strongest of winds could disturb. There was seldom any sound beneath their dark green canopy, save the twittering of the small birds that flocked to their shelter in winter or the tolling of a bell to mark some ritual observance. The city in the valley below - the sprawling stronghold of the Gyre Blood - rarely made its presence known. Even the most bullish children of Kan Dredar knew better than to venture over the granite wall of the Sanctuary.
This was Theor's domain, and had been his home for all save the first few years of his life. His parents were a distant memory, almost washed away by time. He had been only five or six -- he could not be certain which, since no precise record was kept - when they handed him over to the Inkallim in exchange for a few silver coins. Many others entered the Inkall in the same way. Theor, when he thought of his mother and father at all, was grateful for their decision.
Today, many more people than usual were moving from building to building amongst the Sanctuary's trees. As well as Theor's robed Lore Inkallim, there were warriors of the Battle and grim-faced stalkers and trackers of the Hunt. Such activity was only stirred up by the few formal ceremonies of the year or, as now, by the gathering of the Firsts in the Roundhall. Theor knew that it was a pale echo of what was happening beyond his walls: Kan Dredar was in ferment, the people roused by rumours of great victories won in the south. The talk on the streets and in the markets was of nothing else.
Theor walked alone towards the Roundhall. When these meetings were held, the Firsts came and went without their attendants. The oaken doors of the hall stood open, awaiting him. A single servant was sweeping the tiled floor of the wide, circular chamber. At Theor's arrival, the man quietly left, averting his eyes. The hall was simple, undecorated. A pool of yellowish light fell from candles burning on a central stand. Three chairs were arrayed around its edge. Theor sat and waited.
Nyve of the Battle was the next to enter. Theor's friend walked silently to his chair. They did not look at one another. Avenn came last. The First of the Hunt was a lean, taut woman, several years younger than the two men. Her face, framed by straight black hair, was pock-marked with the scars of a childhood disease. As she took her seat the doors swung shut and the Firsts were alone in candlelight.
'Beneath the unclosing eyes of the Last God all is seen,' Theor breathed.
'For his eyes are the sun and the moon,' the others said in unison.
'And he sees my heart and my will.'
'There is only the Black Road.'
'Only the Road.'
'Only the Road,' Nyve and Avenn repeated.
Tiny echoes from the hall's bare stone walls filled out their voices.
'Ten men were found, crossing the Vale of Stones,' Theor said. 'They were Horin-Gyre. Old warriors, long settled
on farms in the Olon valley; farms they abandoned to go to war.'
'There have been others,' said Nyve, 'even from Ragnor's own garrison here. Three deserters were garrotted this week. They claimed they meant to go south. Anduran's fall has set many to dreaming of the homeland, and of the Kall.'
'The Kall is for the Lore, not the people, to pronounce. This is not the promised renewal.'
'As you say. None would question the Lore's primacy in such a matter.'
Theor turned towards Avenn.
'Do you have the answers we sought, First?'
'In part, I think.' Her accent was precise, curt: a relic of an impoverished upbringing in the Fane-Gyre mountains. 'The message that Vana oc Horin-Gyre's people found on the High Thane's courier is in a cipher we have not seen before. We cannot read it.' She saw the disappointment in Theor's eyes, and pressed on quickly before he had a chance to speak it. 'But the cipher's form and structure are familiar. No one of Horin-Gyre would have recognised it for what it is; it's fortunate that Vana was willing to pass it to the Hunt. I am told it is most likely a variation on those that Gryvan's Shadowhand introduced in Vaymouth.'
'And the messenger himself?' Theor asked darkly. "What did he have to say?'
'He told us as much as he knew before he died. It was not easy to break him, but we found his limits. Although he did not live long enough for us to test him repeatedly, we are confident he told us everything he could. He was bound for Dun Aygll, in the guise of a shepherd. There, he knew only that he was to pass the message to a stallholder in one of the markets.'
'It is not much,' murmured Nyve.
'It is enough,' Theor said.
Avenn nodded. 'We deal in likelihoods, in possibilities. But the Hunt's judgement is clear: Ragnor oc Gyre corresponds with the Haig Chancellor. Perhaps with Gryvan oc Haig himself.'
'They are one and the same, Gryvan and his Shadowhand,' Theor asserted. 'The Chancellor holds the reins of the Haig Bloods just as much as the High Thane does.'
'In most things, that is true,' the First of the Hunt agreed. "Well, then,' sighed Theor, 'the time has come for us to make some decisions. The ice is breaking beneath our feet; we must rush onwards, or turn back.'
'Agreed,' Nyve rumbled. 'Our High Thane seeks to play the Bloods against one another. The Horin lands have been all but promised to both Gaven and Wyn should Kanin fail to return, so they will not demur if Ragnor withholds his aid. Our Bloods have lost their vigour; forgotten their heritage. Wealth and power in this world please them more than the prospect of the next, and Ragnor fears his wealth and power will be at risk if he tests himself against Gryvan oc Haig. Only Horin out of all of them has kept the creed at its very heart, and now Angain is dead and his son will be abandoned.' He shook his head in puzzlement. 'It is surprising that the Gyre Thane should so far forget himself.'
'It is not so long ago that the Inkall aided a Gyre Thane in humbling Horin-Gyre,' Avenn pointed out softly.
'Those were different times,' Theor said, 'and Ragnor's father a different man. He had no secrets from us. He needed none, since his will ran in the same riverbed as our own. What was done then in the Stone Vale strengthened Gyre, and in those days that meant it strengthened the creed. Our loyalty is first to the creed, second the Gyre Blood and only third the High Thane - the man - himself. If the needs of the first two now dictate it, the last may be set aside.'
'We have long known that Ragnor holds us too lightly in his regard,' said Nyve. His gaze was wandering over the tiled floor like a man who had dropped some coin and lost it in the pattern. 'It has been clear for a long time that there might come a moment such as this, when we must decide whether to put our hand more firmly upon the tiller. I take it we are agreed, that something is wrong . . . rotten . . . when victories such as those Kanin nan Horin-Gyre has won elicit no response from the High Thane?'
Theor and Avenn both nodded.
Nyve rocked his head to one side. Still he did not look up. 'Vana oc Horin-Gyre is not Angain's widow for nothing. She is already gathering fresh forces. She may send them to her son's aid even if Ragnor forbids it.'
Avenn's voice betrayed an eagerness when she spoke. 'Given encouragement, there are many who would march, whether or not Ragnor wishes it.'
For the first time, Theor thought he knew what was fated to follow from this meeting, the role they were to play in the unfolding of fate's pattern. He had never doubted the shape of Avenn's instincts: the Hunt always found itself leaders with a taste for the Road's most dramatic twists and turns. Nyve he had not been so certain of. His old friend was harder to read, not given to haste or precipitous action.
'How many more swords can Vana put in the field?' Theor asked.
Nyve glanced at Avenn, silently acknowledging that she might know something he did not. The Hunt had an eye and an ear in every corner of every Blood.
'No more than another thousand,' Avenn said. 'They are the last, unless she were to leave Hakkan itself defenceless.'
'Not many,' said Theor. 'Whatever happens, we should at least strive to preserve the Horin-Gyre Blood. They must be protected if the creed is to be strengthened rather than weakened by all of this. They are a beacon others can look to, especially now that they have achieved the impossible.'
'They are,' Nyve agreed. 'All would depend upon the commonfolk. Put enough fire in the bellies of his people and even a High Thane cannot disregard it. What does the Hunt say, Avenn?'
'We can stir the villages. Dozens have already gone across the Stone Vale. There is a fervour not seen in many years: feasting and bonfires and telling battle tales. My people could set talk of glory loose in every meeting hall, every farmyard; light a fire the Thanes could not restrain.'
'Even with every sword Horin-Gyre can muster and an army of commonfolk alongside them, Kanin could not stand against the full weight of Haig,' Nyve observed. He was methodically massaging his crooked fingers. 'He will be consumed. As, it seems, Ragnor wishes.'
'All might be different, were the Battle to march,' Avenn suggested.
Neither Theor nor Nyve replied at once. Nyve's kneading of his fingers did not pause, as if he had not even heard what Avenn said. Theor regarded the First of the Hunt thoughtfully. She was impatient, always eager to moving on. Perhaps it was for the best. They all knew this was the crux of the decision that must be made.
'That would remove all restraint,' Nyve observed quietly.
'Perhaps that is what is required,' Theor said. His tone was gentle, conversational. He would not compel his old friend into this. In times such as these, unanimity was important. 'If Ragnor oc Gyre has made agreements with the Haig Thane; if he would rather see the Horin-Gyre Blood broken than risk open warfare with Haig; if he prefers playing games of worldly power, and the warm safety of his throne, to seeking the creed's rightful dominion over all people -- if all of this is true, then perhaps the time for restraint has passed. War forges a people as the furnace does a sword. It will restore our people's temper. And if the Battle marches, nothing Ragnor can do will stop the fire we set. Thousands -- tens of thousands - will follow.'
'That's true,' Nyve said quietly, 'that's true.' He lapsed into silence.
Theor thought it best to leave the First of the Battle to his ruminations. He turned to Avenn.
'Tell me, do you remember a conversation we had three years ago? I believe it was at the wedding of the Gaven-Gyre Bloodheir. You made some mention of a woman you had in Kolkyre. A blade, you called her, poised over our enemy's heart.'
She smiled. It was a wolfish kind of expression, Theor thought.
'I remember it well. I am surprised you do, Lorekeeper.'
'Oh, I find I remember a great many things as I get older. It's perverse, but there you are. If we are to abandon ourselves to fate, shed all restraint, I wonder if the time might not have come to let that blade fall?'
'Gladly, if it is our united will,' said Avenn, with a sideways glance at Nyve. 'That is one death that would fill our people with belief. Once that he
ad rolled, it is unlikely that anyone could prevent conflagration: not us, not Ragnor, not Gryvan oc Haig.'
'We choose how we meet fate, not what that fate is,' Theor said. 'If it is written that we are to succeed in this, we will do so no matter what dangers or obstacles may seem to bar our way. I do nothing without full consent, but I say the time has come.'
Nyve laid his hands like crumpled cloth in his lap. 'The Battle will march.'
So it is done, Theor thought. For good or ill, we put ourselves in fate's balance; we face a tumultuous future. 'We are agreed, then. The Battle will march, a Thane will die and the people will rise. Let it be as it is written.'
'As it is written.'
'As it is written.'
They left as they had come: one by one, alone. Avenn went first, striding out into the day's white light. Theor and Nyve did not speak as they waited for her to disappear from view, but before the First of the Battle followed her out of the Roundhall Theor laid one hand upon his shoulder and let it rest there for a while.
Theor retired early to his private chambers that night. He sent away his servants and dressed himself in his night robes. He opened the carved box at his bedside and removed a scrap of seerstem. The herb had blackened his lips over the years, and they tingled faintly now, anticipating what was to come. He lay down and slipped the stem into his mouth. He worked carefully at it with his teeth: crushing and squeezing, not breaking it apart. The dark juices oozed out and that familiar, comforting numbness began to spread over his tongue and lips. Slowly, slowly it would spread through his jaw and over his scalp and eventually seep into his mind. Then the visions would come. Sometimes, there was the precious sense of patterns emerging from the chaos of events and lives.
None save the Lore Inkallim were permitted the use of seerstem. Others, lacking the discipline of a lifetime's schooling in the creed of the Road, could be led astray by the sights the stem offered. The key was to understand that it was not the future that was contained in these fleeting, formless visions, but the past and the present. When Theor dreamed seerstem dreams, he saw all the thousands of paths that had been followed to bring the present into being; he saw, in all their multitudes, the countless tales -- finished and unfinished -- that the Last God had read from his Book of Lives. But he did not see what was yet to befall those travelling that vast, intricate Black Road.
Godless World 1 - Winterbirth Page 50