“It’s true,” Roaric said, and his pleasure was obvious. “The advance companies of his army have already marched. He’s out at the camp himself, trying to herd the rest into some kind of order. I’ve not seen such a mess of an army in a long time. At least Gryvan knows how to command a host. He didn’t see fit to share that wisdom with his heir, apparently.”
“I don’t envy Taim Narran, when Aewult catches up with him.”
Roaric laughed. “Oh, he can look after himself, your Captain. I’d count myself lucky if I was half the man Taim is. If it’s true, as I heard, that the Shadowhand has gone off on the trail of your brother, it’s him you should be concerned for.”
“Orisian can take care of himself as well,” Anyara said, hoping it was true. The news that Mordyn Jerain had left at dawn, taking only a small company with him up the old Kyre road, had taken everyone by surprise. In truth, she suspected that Orisian would be distinctly unsettled should the Shadowhand catch up with him. “Some of my brother’s companions would probably enjoy the opportunity to tell the Chancellor a thing or two, anyway.”
The Bloodheir looked at her questioningly, and Anyara smiled.
“Yvane. I don’t think you’ve met her.”
Sea Street was broader and longer than any thoroughfare Anyara knew from the Glas valley. There were several grand houses — the homes of rich merchants and Craftsmen, she guessed — but much of its length was lined by shops and yards and stables. Though the day was cold and the air damp, the street was busy. She might be imagining it, but Anyara thought she could detect a certain boisterousness about the crowds that she had not seen before. Nobody here would mourn the departure of the Haig army. One of the Tower’s maids had whispered to her as she prepared to ride out that, only last night, a Taral-Haig spearman who had got drunk in the wrong tavern had been badly beaten. He was found in an alleyway, battered, bruised and stripped naked. The maid had been simmering with excitement as she recounted the rumour.
The quayside itself was, if anything, even busier than Sea Street. Seagulls swept in tight circles above, at least as noisy as the humans below. Anyara had never seen so many vessels: the whole length of the waterfront was lined with everything from fat cargo ships to tiny rowboats. Life and trade continued here in all their variety, no matter what shadows threatened. The crowds were such that people pressed close to the horses. Anyara could sense how uneasy Coinach was becoming. If he was ashamed to have been given the task of standing as shieldman to a woman, it did not show. He was, Anyara was coming to recognise, almost obsessively alert to the slightest hint — invariably imagined, as far as she was concerned — of threat to her.
“The harbour master’s taken your cast-ashores into his own house,” Roaric told her. “They can’t stay there, though. He doesn’t have the space.”
Anyara remembered that house from when she had arrived here with Orisian and the others: the first real warmth and welcome they had experienced since the night of Winterbirth.
“You can almost smell the relief that we’re to see the back of Aewult and his army, can’t you?” said Roaric, gazing out over the lively crowds. “The news has gone around the city faster than a plague of sneezes.”
“It’s good to see more happy faces,” Anyara agreed. “I don’t look forward to Aewult’s return, though. It seems unlikely that he’ll be any more pleasant once he’s got a victory behind him.”
“Oh, I don’t think we’ll see much of him after the fighting’s done. He hates it here. He hates us. Even his desire to gloat, and to grind our faces into the dirt of his triumph, won’t be enough to keep him here. That’ll be a still happier day for us all, when we’re watching his back disappear off down the road to Vaymouth.”
“He’ll be High Thane one day,” Anyara said distantly. “My brother’s master.”
“Perhaps the Black Road will do us a favour and kill him,” Roaric said with a grim smile. “Failing that, we can only wish his father a long life. And that’s not something I’ve said before.”
The people the harbour master had taken into his house were desperate folk: destitute, hungry, half of them sick. Anyara listened to their tales, and offered what comfort she could. She felt more anger than pity. Glasbridge had been a fine town, prosperous and bustling. The Black Road had ruined it, and all of the lives that centred upon it, just as they had ruined so much else. In seeing these shattered people, Anyara saw afresh all the loss and suffering that had been inflicted on her Blood; it was embodied in their thin frames, in their fearful, exhausted faces.
She did not stay long. She promised them that they would be helped, and fed, and have the attention of healers. Roaric assured her they would be given shelter in Kolkyre’s northern quarter, where so many Lannis folk had already congregated. And then she left, taking her anger and distress away lest it should show itself too clearly. It would not help these people, she thought, to see that the sister of their Thane was just as helplessly distraught as they were.
Coinach escorted her back along the harbour and up Sea Street. The Tower of Thrones stood ahead of them, like the last pillar of some immense edifice long ago crumbled away.
“I’d hate to have to live all my life in a place like that,” Anyara said.
Coinach looked up at the soaring tower, but said nothing.
“It’s too old, too… unlike everything else,” Anyara went on. “It feels cold to me.”
“You miss your own home,” Coinach said, turning his attention back to the crowds filling the street. “There’s nothing strange in that.”
“I do miss it. I don’t know how much of a home it’ll be when I return, though. The castle burned. My father — half the people I knew — won’t be there any more. Where’s your home?”
“Now? I don’t know. Wherever you go, my lady. I’m your shieldman.”
Anyara watched him for a moment or two. He did not look at her, but at the dozens of faces that they passed. His eyes ranged over the street scene like a hunter seeking birds in a field.
“Where did you leave from when you marched south with Taim Narran, though?” she insisted.
“Anduran.”
“Were your family still there? When the Black Road came, I mean.”
Coinach shook his head, gave her a short, inexpressive glance. “I have no family to speak of, lady. My father died when I was very young, drowned on the river. My mother, and my sister, died of the Heart Fever.”
“Oh.”
They rode a little further in silence, ascending the long, slow rise of Sea Street. Two men were arguing, facing each other over a broken barrel from which a slick of some dark liquid had spread. They jabbed fingers at each other, spat accusations. Nobody paid them any attention. Anyara took her right hand from the reins and flexed it. There was a bruise across her knuckles. Coinach had taken his task of training her seriously, and it had not been an easy or painless experience.
“You’ll have to stop calling me ‘lady’,” Anyara murmured. “It doesn’t seem right, coming from someone who’s going to be beating bruises into me with a training blade.”
In the dimming light of that dusk, Anyara was on Kolkyre’s northern wall, by the Skeil Gate, to see the last of Aewult nan Haig’s army disappearing up the road that would lead them to Kolglas and beyond. The long column of supply wagons had been out of sight for some time. Now only the rearguard — a couple of hundred mounted Taral-Haig spearmen — could be seen, and they would soon vanish into the distant gloom.
“It’s taken them all day to get themselves out of that camp,” Lheanor oc Kilkry-Haig said at her side. “You’d think none of them know that the days grow shorter in winter.”
“They’ll have to stop for the night before they’ve even had a chance to get tired,” Roaric agreed.
Seeing the Thane and his Bloodheir side by side, Anyara was struck by how alike they were in appearance. They were almost precisely the same height, and shared the same wide, firm stance. Lheanor was an old man, Roaric still a relatively young one,
but the likeness of their faces would have been enough to tell any observer that they were father and son.
“Aewult’s a fool,” Lheanor sighed. “Still, he should have four or five swords to match against each one of the Black Road’s, so no doubt he’ll have his victory.”
“Unless Taim Narran has already won it by the time Aewult reaches Kolglas,” Roaric said. His amusement at the thought was undisguised. Lheanor shot his son a vaguely disapproving glance. The Bloodheir did not seem to notice it.
“You should have more care what you wish for,” the Thane said. “Or learn to read the currents rather better. If Orisian and Taim Narran cheat Aewult of his glory, we’ll all pay a price, I can promise you. It’s no part of the High Thane’s intent — or that of the Shadowhand — that any Blood but Haig should come out of all this stronger than it went in.”
“I know that well enough,” Roaric muttered. He stared at his feet.
“Come,” Lheanor said, turning to Anyara. “Let us retire to the Tower. This is one night at least when I mean to set aside worries about the past or the future. Whatever perils remain, today we are relieved of the burden of hosting uncomfortable guests. Those who remain are welcome, and we can feast amongst friends.”
They walked together back towards the Tower of Thrones, the three of them surrounded by more than a score of shieldmen and attendants. The streets were emptying out with the approach of night, but those who were still abroad stood aside without protest as the Thane processed through his city. Lheanor walked slowly — whether through age or weariness, Anyara was not sure. She matched her pace to his. For all his talk of setting aside worries, his demeanour was not that of a man with a light heart.
“Do you really think there will be trouble, if Aewult feels my brother’s cheated him of something?” Anyara asked him.
“There might be,” Lheanor said softly. “It’s not so much Aewult’s anger that concerns me, as what channel the Shadowhand might dig for it. The Chancellor and the High Thane are not well known for resigning themselves to disappointment.”
“You didn’t tell Orisian to stay here, though, did you?”
“No. I’m an old man, and one with more than a trace of fear clouding his eyes. I have no right to try to dissuade a young Thane whose Blood is fighting for its life from whatever course of action he chooses. Anyway, we — your Blood and mine — have an army of quarrels with Haig already. One more will make little difference.”
“He would have listened to your advice, I’m sure.”
Lheanor gave her a kindly smile. “I did give him some, though not on the matter of staying here. But whatever the subject, he needs it less than he — or you — might imagine. He’s no fool, your brother. He gave me some advice of his own, and it was welcome. And wise.”
The Thane hung his head then, and watched the cobblestones flowing beneath his feet as he walked. He appeared disinclined to expand upon what had passed between him and Orisian. Anyara restrained her curiosity. She could not guess what advice her brother had seen fit to give this powerful old, man. But then, she reflected with a touch of sadness, Orisian was Thane now. He had ceased to be just her younger brother, who she could by turns tease and protect. Now, he stood at the head of the Blood. He could march away into strife and leave her behind; he could exchange advice with Lheanor oc Kilkry-Haig; he could choose to risk the enmity of the High Thane himself. Everything, all the world in all its smallest details, had changed since the night of Winterbirth. Even Orisian.
They followed the flagstone path up the mound, through the wintry gardens, and into the Tower of Thrones.
Lagair Haldyn sat with his wife, both of them sullen and uncommunicative. They formed a cold island in the lapping water of merriment, their eyes resolutely downcast. Roaric was glowering at the Steward.
“I don’t know why they don’t just leave, since they make their boredom so obvious,” the Bloodheir muttered under his breath.
Anyara glanced over at Lagair. He had a slab of meat impaled on his knife, and took a bite from it as she watched. He caught her eye and flicked her an unconvincing smile before turning to his wife. An air of disapproval hung about the two of them, Anyara thought. Perhaps they were offended by the way the departure of the Haig army was being marked. If so, their stubbornly glum presence at this feast served as an effective reminder that Gryvan oc Haig was never truly absent; the High Thane’s shadow was not removed merely because his warriors had marched on.
“I don’t suppose they’ll stay much longer,” Anyara said to Roaric. “Just long enough to remind you they’re still here.”
“No, no,” Lheanor was crying in exasperation. “I want wine, more wine.”
A harassed girl, her efforts to fill the Thane’s beaker with ale thus rebuffed, hurried away. She looked, to Anyara, as though she was close to tears. Lheanor rattled his empty cup on the table and cast about for someone who could give him what he wanted. Ilessa, his wife, laid a gently restraining hand on his arm. He calmed at once.
“Some sickness, a disturbance of the guts, has sent half the kitchen girls to their beds,” he explained to Anyara. “We’ve had to borrow hands from everywhere else. There’s stable boys carving meat and washerwomen baking bread. Most of them have no idea what they’re doing.”
Now that it was pointed out to her, Anyara could see that the servants rushing about the hall did not have the usual air of proficiency. She could see old women and red-faced men, boys carrying overladen plates. As she watched, two of them almost collided in their haste to keep the supply of food and drink flowing.
“It’s bad luck to have so many fall sick,” she murmured.
Lheanor grunted. “Life’s way of reminding us that no day is ever so sunny that a little cloud may not appear. Still, it’s no great trial. There’ll be a few sore feet and aching backs by the end of the night, that’s all.”
Coinach was sitting at the near end of the table running down the length of the hall. Anyara watched him trying to fish something out of a flagon of ale that stood before him. He had half-risen from his bench, and wore a frown of concentration as he chased whatever had fallen in there with a finger. He looked, Anyara thought, like some ordinary village boy just then.
Someone further down the table was picking out a tune on a whistle. The melody danced its shrill way up and up, accompanied by shouts and laughs of encouragement, then collapsed in a flurry of missed notes. There was mocking applause.
“Ah, here we are,” Lheanor said. An old woman — short and a little hunch-shouldered — had brought a jug of wine and was refilling his cup.
“Do you see, Anyara?” the Thane said with as broad a smile as Anyara had seen on him since she arrived in Kolkyre. “Us old folk have our uses still. It took an old, wise head to find me my wine. How long since you’ve served at table here, Cailla?”
The woman edged away from the table, clearly unwelcoming of such attention.
“Many years, sire. I keep to the kitchens these days.”
“Yes. You served me when I first ate in this hall as Thane, though. I remember.”
Cailla nodded and headed off with the empty jug. Someone set a fresh loaf of bread down on the table in front of Anyara and she caught the rich, hot smell of it. It was a smell she loved, but it carried some bitter memories with it now: the kitchens in Castle Kolglas, where rows of loaves would stand cooling; the hall there, where her father would never again feast as Lheanor did now. She was not even certain if that hall survived. Everyone said that the castle in the sea had burned, but how much of it was ruined she did not know.
Those thoughts occupied Anyara for a time. She ate sparingly, watching all that happened and feeling very much alone. She almost wished that she could sit alongside Coinach on the benches of the long table. However warm and welcoming Lheanor and the others might be, Coinach was the only one of her Blood who was here. No matter how little she knew of him, that one fact was enough to mean that they shared something important.
The meat and bread
were cleared away. It was a messy, clumsy process, since so many of the servants were new to it. Eventually, though, the platters of sweet cakes and dried fruits, honey and oatbreads, began to emerge from the kitchens. The mood of the hall softened. Thoughts were drifting towards sleep. Anyara could feel weariness settling over her, and wondered whether tonight she might be granted a dreamless, gentle slumber.
She heard Lheanor make a contented, approving noise in his throat, and turned to look. Cailla, the aged kitchen maid, was leaning over the Thane’s shoulder, setting down a bowl of stewed apples. She did it carefully, with a deftness that belied her years. Anyara’s head began to turn away. Her eyes lingered for only an instant, but it was long enough to see — if not, at first, to understand — what happened next.
Cailla was straightening. Her right hand slipped smoothly beneath the cuff of her left sleeve and drew something out. Lheanor was glancing up at her, smiling, even as he reached for his cup of wine. The thing that Cailla was holding caught a spark of yellow light from the torches. She made a sudden movement. Lheanor jerked in his chair; his cup went flying. Roaric turned to look. Beyond the Thane, Anyara saw Ilessa’s old, kind face as she too glanced round. Anyara was frozen, paralysed by incomprehension. Her mind stumbled over what her eyes told her. Ilessa’s features were stretching themselves into a mask of horror.
Roaric was starting to move, surging up. Cailla was reaching, thrusting her knife at the Bloodheir’s face. Roaric dodged the blow. Ilessa’s mouth was open, screaming or wailing. Roaric bore Cailla backwards and down. Anyara’s stare swung back onto Lheanor, and stayed there.
The grey-haired Thane of the Kilkry Blood was slumped limply, sinking. His head lolled to one side. He was looking at Anyara, his eyes quite still and clear. And his blood was pumping out of the wound in his neck, spilling on his shoulder and down his chest and onto the table, a terrible dark red flood that did not stop.
There was a cacophony then. An eruption of sound and movement that overwhelmed the senses. Within it, distinct amongst the welter of noise, Anyara could hear a rhythmic pulse, like the slow, wet beat of a drum. It was Roaric, hammering Cailla’s head against the stone floor.
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