All the signs, thankfully, were that the Black Road’s forces in the Glas valley were too few to offer any serious resistance. Now that he was here in Kolkyre, where it began to be possible to sift fact from rumour, Mordyn was satisfied that Lannis-Haig had been undone by misfortune and by the cunning, rather than the numbers, of their enemies. The complicity of the White Owl Kyrinin, the ravages of the Heart Fever five years ago, a tendency to complacency in Croesan and his family: these were all it had taken to allow the Horin-Gyre Blood, alone, to bring Anduran down. They would be of little use against Aewult nan Haig’s army.
The Shadowhand winced as flurries of sleety snow began to swirl around him. He had never much liked Kolkyre but at this time of year, when bitter winds came off the sea and every day seemed given over to fog or rain or sleet, it was particularly unpleasant. He folded his arms to protect his hands from the cold, and longed for the day when he would be on the road south once more. In Vaymouth now, Tara would be bathing, breathing the sweet clove-scented air she so loved; or perhaps hosting some gathering of the ladies of Gryvan’s court, exquisitely garbed. Too far away, Mordyn thought, and too long to wait for our reunion. If Aewult did not win his victory quickly — insufferable as such a victory would no doubt make him — it would be a considerable time before the Chancellor forgave him.
IV
The hall of the Tower of Thrones was small but grand. It had room for no more than thirty or forty people, but on the night of the feast to welcome Aewult nan Haig, whatever the guests lacked in numbers was more than made up for by their grandeur. Lheanor oc Kilkry-Haig and his wife Ilessa sat at the high table. On their right hand was Aewult, then Orisian and Anyara. On the left sat Mordyn Jerain and the High Thane’s Steward, Lagair. There should have been one other there. The rumour, already flying through the Tower’s corridors, was that Roaric nan Kilkry-Haig had refused to share a table, or even a room, with the Haig Blood. Orisian, required to spend the evening at Aewult’s elbow, almost wished he could have done likewise.
The long table that ran away down the length of the hall was filled with Lheanor’s officials, the captains of the Haig army and the wealthiest merchants and Craftsmen of Kolkyre. It was not an admixture likely to produce high good humour, and so it proved. A kind of leaden, forced jollity arose, but it lacked conviction. The resentment and mistrust between the Haig and Kilkry Bloods were too deep-rooted to be wholly set aside for even a single night.
Musicians came and paraded up and down the hall. Falconers displayed Lheanor’s finest hunting hawks. A trickster made coins disappear. None of it did much to ease the evening’s latent tension. At length a storyteller was ushered in. As he bowed to Lheanor a hush fell across the room.
“In the Storm Years,” the storyteller began, “not long after the Kingship fell, a man called Rase oc Rainur — tall and red and strong-handed — had a hall at Drinan, which was then but a village. In the summer, the people grazed their cattle far out through the forest. Now, there was a girl called Fianna, daughter of Evinn, who often stood watch over her father’s cattle, taking only his two black dogs with her.”
Aewult nan Haig leaned too close to Orisian, his breath heavy with wine and grease.
“I think I’ve heard this before,” the Bloodheir said.
“It’s a common tale here,” Orisian replied. “It’s called ‘The Maid and the Woodwight’.”
“A miserable one, isn’t it? Doesn’t everybody die?”
“Not quite everyone.”
The storyteller pressed on, but he had clearly failed to catch the Bloodheir’s attention. As a scattering of discussions resumed around the hall, Aewult turned his attention to Anyara.
“You’ve a very fair face, my lady.” He flicked a wide grin at Orisian. “Has your sister given her affections to anyone, Thane?”
“My affections are my own,” Anyara said, “and I don’t give them away. I’m sure your own lady would say the same thing.” She glanced pointedly at the beautiful young woman who sat amongst the Haig captains at the long table.
Orisian was not certain of her name — Ishbel, he thought — but it was already common knowledge in Kolkyre that she shared a bed with the Bloodheir. It was said that he had smuggled her all the way from Vaymouth in one of the supply wagons. Apparently Aewult’s mother, Abeh oc Haig, had forbidden the liaison, as she disapproved of the woman’s background or breeding. Whatever the truth of it, Orisian suspected it was not wise ground for Anyara to start digging in.
To his relief, Aewult appeared to be amused rather than annoyed.
“A pretty face but a pointed tongue, I see,” the Bloodheir said through a mouthful of mutton. “You’ll have to blunt that a bit if you want to marry her off, you know.”
“I don’t mean to marry her off,” Orisian said quickly. He pressed forward against the table, hoping to put a barrier between Aewult and his sister. “How long do you expect to remain here in Kolkyre?”
“Keen to see us off to battle?” Aewult asked, with a smirk. “You don’t need to worry. We’ll be on our way soon enough. We’ll get your lands back for you, Thane, and sit you on your throne in Anduran. Believe me, I’ll not spend a day more than I must up here. It’s too cold and too wet.”
“It’ll get colder yet,” Orisian said. “Our winters aren’t really made for fighting.”
“Ha! A bit of weather won’t hinder us. I’ve an army here big enough to cut a path all the way to Kan Dredar if we needed to.” The Bloodheir waved a bone from which he had picked all the meat, as if that somehow proved his point. “It’ll be a massacre. You’ll see. It’s only Horin-Gyre that’s come south, from the sound of it. Stupid, but then they’re all a bit mad on the cold side of the Stone Vale, aren’t they?”
“It was Inkallim and White Owls that attacked Kolglas at Winterbirth, not Horin-Gyre,” Orisian muttered. There was a patronising, dismissive strand in Aewult’s demeanour that annoyed him. Apart from anything else, it belittled the price that Croesan, Kennet and all the others had already paid for Horin-Gyre ambition.
The Bloodheir snorted, flourishing his empty goblet to attract the attention of a serving girl.
“There’s not enough ravens or woodwights in all the world to trouble ten thousand determined men. Have you ever ridden to battle, Thane? Too young, I suppose. Have you even killed a man yet?”
Orisian could not help but look away. He remembered driving his knife into the chest of a fallen Tarbain warrior; remembered a torrent of blood that only grew in his memory. And the emptiness that came after that act, leaving unsated whatever hunger for revenge had preceded it.
Anyara was tearing at a slab of bread, concentrating with a fierce intensity that made Orisian glad he was seated between her and the Bloodheir.
Aewult drew his own conclusions from Orisian’s silence.
“No, eh? Well, don’t worry. You can rest here while we cleanse the Glas valley for you. You’re the last of your Blood, Thane. There’s no one to come after you. Can’t risk anything unfortunate happening to you, can we? Haig warriors will do the dying that’s needed to open the path back to your throne.”
Orisian gazed at the storyteller, who was still manfully persisting in his efforts to make himself heard above the soft drone of conversation. Those last phrases had sounded glib, almost rehearsed, in Aewult’s mouth, as if he was repeating a thought crafted by someone else. Orisian wondered whether Mordyn Jerain held even the Bloodheir’s reins.
“There’s been no shortage of dying already,” he said.
“Maybe, but it’s not gained you much, has it?” grunted Aewult. There was a blush in his cheeks, whether born of drink or heat or anger Orisian could not tell. But the Bloodheir’s speech was losing its shape a little; his eyes were gleaming. He regarded Orisian with what seemed to be naked contempt.
“Those who’ve died did so fighting,” Orisian snapped.
“Fighting and losing.” Aewult’s lips were stained red with wine. “Make no mistake, it’ll take the strength of Haig to wi
n you back your seat, Thane.”
“At least you remember that my brother is Thane,” Anyara hissed from beyond Orisian. “The way you talk, I’d thought you had forgotten. Bloodheir.”
For once, Orisian hardly cared if Anyara wanted to pick a fight. His own jaw was tightening in anger, and a kind of furious shame burned in him: so little did Haig think of his Blood, and of him as its Thane, that he was treated as nothing more than a child. He was uncertain whether Aewult deliberately meant to goad him into some mistake or whether the Bloodheir simply did not care.
“Bloodheir to Gryvan,” Aewult said, and grinned. He turned his attention to his plate, cutting into the joint of a chicken leg on his platter. His movements were crude and imprecise. The knife glanced off bone. “I speak with my father’s authority. And I say Lannis stays behind when I march.”
“We’ll see,” Orisian said. He turned to Anyara, urging her to silence with the slightest shake of his head.
The noise was so sudden and sharp that he started, almost lifting from his chair. Aewult had punched his knife into the table top and it stood there, trembling. The Bloodheir glared at Orisian.
“We’ll see you do as the High Thane commands,” he said. “That’s what we’ll see.”
Lheanor had turned at the sound of blade splitting wood. Beyond the Thane, Orisian saw Mordyn Jerain leaning forward and looking down along the table. He thought he detected a momentary narrowing of the Shadowhand’s eyes, a pinch of displeasure on his lips.
“I can’t hear the tale with so much noise,” Lheanor said, clear and strangely solemn. “It is almost done.”
Slowly Aewult nan Haig sank back into his chair. He tugged the knife from the table and dropped it back onto his plate.
“Of course,” he said, looking pointedly at the storyteller rather than at Lheanor. “Let’s hear it.”
The storyteller struggled on to the end of his tale amidst a taut silence. Once done, he retired with a look of undisguised relief on his face. There was some thin applause. The evening rolled uncomfortably on. Aewult nan Haig spoke not one more word to Orisian and Anyara. Before long, he abandoned the high table altogether. With a sour glance in Orisian’s direction, he went down the hall and took the seat next to Ishbel for himself, leaving its evicted occupant to go in search of space elsewhere.
“Let’s go,” Anyara whispered to Orisian. “Tell Lheanor we want to call on Yvane, to see how she is. He won’t mind that.”
Orisian doubted whether Lheanor would mind if every single guest rose as one and left him alone in his hall. Ilessa oc Kilkry-Haig had been trying hard — keeping a smile on her face, laughing at whatever nothings the Shadowhand whispered to her — but her eyes betrayed the effort it took to maintain the appearance of pleasure, of levity. Apparently, it was an effort of which her husband was incapable.
Orisian looked from the Thane and his wife out over the rest of the gathering. Aewult was laughing at his own crude stories, Ishbel listening with rapt attention. Further down the table a Kolkyre merchant was arguing with some official who had travelled up from Vaymouth with the army. One of Aewult’s warriors — perhaps from his Palace Shield, judging by his size — spilled a beaker of ale as he rose, swaying, from his seat. He was loudly extolling the virtues of Vaymouth’s sword-makers.
“Yes,” Orisian said to his sister. “We’re not needed here.”
They climbed into the higher reaches of the Tower of Thrones, ascending a narrow spiral staircase like those of Castle Kolglas. The stones in these walls were smoother, though, and of a hard rock that glistened as if wet beneath the light of the torches. For all the many hints of similarity — the smell of those torches, and of old wood; the way footsteps and voices shivered along the stonework — this place felt stranger and more ancient, in its bones, than the castle in the sea ever had. The Tower had, after all, been here since before the Gods abandoned the world. The Kilkry Thanes had only inherited it from its unknown makers.
A short passage led off the stairway to Yvane’s room. An odd pair awaited Orisian and Anyara outside the door. Hammarn the na’kyrim was seated cross-legged on the cold flagstones, scratching away at a piece of wood with a tiny blade. Woodchips and shavings lay all around him. A young Lannis warrior was standing guard opposite Hammarn. He was watching the na’kyrim with an air of puzzled fascination, as if he had never seen anything quite so unusual as this white-haired, half-human old man.
At Orisian’s approach, the guard straightened and stared ahead.
“Go and rest your legs,” Orisian said to him. “Sit on the stairs a while, or find a window and get some air.”
Hammarn scrambled to his feet as the guard moved away. He blew a little plume of wood dust from his carving and grinned first at Orisian, then at Anyara.
“How long have you been sitting out here?” she asked him.
Hammarn frowned. “A time, yes. Cold out, you know. All sorts of cold out there for the likes of me. Best place to be, I think.” He jerked his head at the closed door. “Not very welcoming, though, these days. Bit cold in here, too.”
Orisian rapped on the door.
“I am resting,” Yvane shouted from within.
“Not true,” whispered Hammarn. “She’s not been sleeping, not restful at all. I know. She told me.”
“Let us come and talk with you,” Orisian said through the thick door. “You’d be doing us a favour. We need a hiding place to avoid a tiresome feast.”
“Who’s we?” Yvane asked, each word thick with suspicion.
“Me and Anyara. And Hammarn. Surely you don’t mean to leave him sitting outside this door all night?”
There was an extended silence. Orisian shrugged at Anyara, noting the frown of irritation that had already settled on his sister’s brow. He hoped that she and Yvane could resist the urge to set about one another, but even if they didn’t it could hardly be more unpleasant than Aewult nan Haig’s company.
“No one else, then,” Yvane called by way of grudging permission.
Hammarn clapped Orisian roughly on the shoulder.
“Very persuasive,” he grinned. “Always thought you stood most high in the lady’s affections. Mind you… not sure she has affections, in truth.”
Yvane was sitting in a broad bed, propped up against some voluminous pillows. She looked tired. Her eyes, almost as perfectly grey as a Kyrinin’s, were sluggish. Her reddish brown hair had lost some of its former sheen.
Hammarn went straight to the side of her bed and held out the piece of wood he had been carving. Yvane had to reach clumsily across her body to take it: her nearer arm was still weak, having been skewered by a crossbow bolt during their escape from Koldihrve
“Made you a woodtwine, dear lady,” said Hammarn. “Of Kulkain’s first entry into Kolkyre as Thane, you’ll see. He has Alban of Ist Norr in chains there, if you look close. Bit crude, perhaps. Not my finest.”
“It’s a welcome gift in any case, Hammarn,” Yvane said. Orisian often thought she exhibited far more patience and gentleness in her dealings with Hammarn than with anyone else. It was almost as if she expended all her limited stores of those sentiments on the old na’kyrim, leaving none for anyone else.
“How are you feeling?” Orisian asked.
“How should I be feeling? I’m stuck at the top of a tower in Kolkyre — where they burned na’kyrim, by the way, before Grey Kulkain came to power. My right arm’s all but useless because some madman, or madwoman for all I know, took it into their head to shoot me with a crossbow. And my head feels like it’s full of woodpeckers, chipping away at the inside of my skull trying to get out.”
“No better, then?” Anyara asked. Yvane scowled at her.
Orisian noted a tray of food lying apparently forgotten on a table by the shuttered window. He held a hand over the bowl of soup. It had gone cold.
“Don’t tell me you’re refusing food as well?” he said.
“I’ve no appetite,” Yvane muttered.
“Nothing’s changed?” Orisia
n asked, seating himself on the end of the bed. “In the Shared, I mean?”
“No.” Yvane started to fold her arms, but winced and thought better of it. “No change.”
“That’s true, that’s true,” said Hammarn. “The taint can’t enter this quiet head, can’t stir the thoughts in this bucket.” He rapped his knuckles against his forehead. “But even Hammarn can smell its stink.”
“There you are, you see,” said Yvane as if Hammarn’s words explained everything. It took a long questioning look from Orisian to induce her to say anything more. “It’s like a never-ending echo. That first night we spent in this town, the… the howl that filled the Shared, that woke me; it’s the echo of that. Anger, pain, bitterness, all mixed up, all inside my head. And none of it mine.”
“Not good, not good,” murmured Hammarn. He was pacing up and down now, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” Yvane said.
“Not yours,” Anyara said. “His, then? Aeglyss?”
“I’ve told you: I can’t be certain.”
“But you think it’s him, don’t you?” Anyara persisted. “Anger, pain, bitterness. That’s how Inurian talked about what he saw inside Aeglyss.”
Yvane sighed and looked down at Hammarn’s woodtwine where it lay in her lap.
“I don’t know,” she said wearily. “I only glimpsed the edges of whatever it was that Inurian saw. But yes, it might be him. If it is.. well, if he’s still in league with the Black Road I think they might be in for a nasty surprise. It’s frightening to think what it must be like inside his head now, if his is the sickness that’s afflicting the Shared.”
Hammarn had paused by the window, and pulled back one of the shutters.
“Look,” he murmured. “Little fires.”
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