by Tom Lloyd
‘Don’t worry,’ he said quickly, ‘you’re not here to guard.’
She curtseyed and straightened, waiting for the question he was about to ask. Isak took a moment. He couldn’t remember her name; she was a friend of Tila’s, the daughter of some local marshal. He knew Tila had told him - but he’d been told a lot since returning to Tirah.
‘How is he?’ he asked eventually.
‘Still weak, my Lord.’ Her voice reminded him of Tila’s, less melodious, but with that same crisp intonation common to those of the landed gentry; it was traditional for the maids in the main wing to be drawn from the upper classes. ‘Your father’s injuries have not opened up again, and there’s still no sign of infection.’
‘But they’re still not healing right?’
‘No, my Lord.’ She lowered her eyes, her hands clasped tightly together over her stomach.
‘The priests of Shotir came again?’
‘Yes, my Lord. Only one of them was crying when he left today.’
Isak forced a smile. ‘So they’re toughening up at least.’ The smile faded. ‘I might be calling on that soon enough. He’s asleep?’
She nodded.
‘Good. Please light the lamps and have the kitchen send something hot up, enough for several people.’
While she went about the lamps Isak looked in on his father. Horman lay on his back, his head turned towards the door. His face was half-obscured by his ragged hair. He had always slept in an awkward sprawl of limbs, but now he was constrained by bandages and was lying as though fighting them. The pungent smell of sweat hung in the air, for the heavy drapes covering the window to keep in the warmth also kept the air close and stale.
Guilt slithered down Isak’s spine again. Horman’s left hand had been amputated at the wrist and the wound refused to heal fully. His right elbow had been repaired after a fashion, and the old injury to his knee was only marginally worse, but it was the overall effect of a daemon’s possession that had taken the greatest toll on his father’s health. He had wasted away in the weeks following the fall of Scree until he looked as pale and weak as a corpse. The effort required for eating proved too much for him most days and he rarely managed more than a couple of mouthfuls.
‘Is this how they’ll all end up?’ Isak muttered, ‘all broken and beyond the help of healers? Maybe tonight’s death-omen will be the saving of my friends.’
Outside the door he heard the sharp click of halberds on the stone floor: his guards were letting him know that a friend had arrived; anyone else would have warranted a verbal greeting. He shut the door to his father’s room and rubbed his hands over his face to wake himself up.
‘My Lord?’ Tila said as she entered cautiously, Count Vesna at her elbow. Both were still in their formal clothes, although Tila had a thick woollen blanket draped over her layered grey silk dress now. She’d taken out the gold flower-head pins she’d used to put her hair up and the long dark tresses now spilled down to her waist.
‘You were waiting up for me?’
‘The guard on the gate let us know when you returned,’ Tila said, coming into the room and casting a glance towards Horman’s door.
‘He’s fine.’ Isak could see she was itching to ask about where he’d been, but she understood her position within his inner circle. As Duke of Tirah, Isak’s word was law, and they all had to adjust to that.
‘My Lord?’ Vesna echoed Tila, his eyes also fixed on the white-eye.
The maid caught the count’s tone and, with a curtsey to Isak, hurried out without even waiting to catch Tila’s eye. When the door was shut, Isak removed his tunic and Eolis before throwing a few more logs onto the fire.
‘Isak,’ Vesna said, dropping the formality once they were alone, ‘you look troubled.’
‘My friend, when can you last remember me any other way?’
‘Enough of that,’ Vesna said firmly. ‘What happened at your meeting?’ The count was without his broadsword but his tunic was fastened up to the neck, as it had been earlier.
The white-eye paused; there was something different about the famous warrior. He thought for a moment. ‘You’re not wearing your earrings,’ he commented, pointing to Vesna’s left ear where the count normally wore his two gold earrings of rank. ‘I hope my return didn’t disturb anything important?’
‘No, my Lord,’ Vesna said in a flat voice.
‘Good. She’s still unmarried, you remember?’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ Vesna replied, refusing to rise to Isak’s needling.
‘Isak, what’s happened?’ Tila asked, firmly changing the subject. ‘Is everything all right?’
The white-eye sat heavily into a chair facing the pair. With all the chaos of Scree’s aftermath, they had yet to officially announce their betrothal. There was a grim mood throughout the city, made worse by the onset of winter. He knew they would happily forego the state wedding offered by Lord Bahl - and by him - but neither one wanted to broach the subject until the period of mourning had finished. The Farlan had lost many soldiers, men and women, and the urns were stacked high in the Temples of Nartis. There had been no comforting words from the priests to disperse the anger and resentment which lingered like a black cloud.
‘You know about my dreams,’ Isak said eventually. ‘It was a reminder of those.’
‘What sort of reminder?’ Tila said, suddenly alarmed.
‘One that made an impression. But that’s not a concern for tonight - more importantly, Xeliath has entered the city.’
‘Xeliath? Are Morghien and Mihn with her?’
Isak shook his head. ‘Can’t tell, but I hope so. It will be good to see Mihn again.’ He pictured the tidy little man with his placid expression and acrobatic skills whose failure of memory in the final test had led to his exile from the Harlequin clans. Since coming into Isak’s service, Mihn’s many abilities had proved invaluable, as had his undemanding friendship. Yes, it will be good to have Mihn in my shadow again.
‘Do you want us to sit in on your first meeting?’
‘This isn’t an arranged marriage; we’re not negotiating terms,’ Isak said wearily. ‘I’m sure they’ll all want to sleep for a week - there’s no urgent intelligence we need and the journey will have taken a toll on Xeliath’s health.’
‘Should we leave?’
Isak sighed and stretched his feet out, planting the heels of his boots on a slender mahogany table that wobbled alarmingly under the weight. ‘Could you stay?’ He stretched his neck and twisted his head to one side and then the other, trying to work out the cricks. ‘I don’t really want to talk about tonight; I’d like to just sit with my friends and pretend the Land doesn’t want me dead, at least until they arrive.’
The guardsman, a lone figure on the drawbridge, took long measured steps back and forth in the quiet cold of night as he waited for life to stir in the city. It was well past midnight and the streets were silent. Alterr was hidden by cloud and Kasi had fallen below the horizon long ago. The soldier resisted the urge to turn his head and glare at the guardroom, where his watch partner was sitting in the warmth. As he reached the end of the drawbridge he started walking backwards immediately, keeping his eyes on the empty roads ahead at all times.
The fact that he was a white-eye and thus not required to walk the freezing streets keeping the peace did nothing to improve his mood. When at last he caught sight of movement in the distance, it was met with a hiss of irritation, one that increased as the horse-drawn carriage made its way up towards Barbican Square at little more than a gentle walk.
There were two figures on the driver’s seat and no luggage on the roof. The coach was plain - not a nobleman then, just a merchant with money to spare. Both figures were hooded and cloaked, and hunched over against the cold, their faces hidden. If it hadn’t been for Lord Isak’s direct order, he would have summoned the duty squad on principle, but as it was, he stood still and patiently awaited the coach as it rumbled towards him. It stopped at the last moment, the front wheels on the very
lip of the drawbridge. The passenger jumped down from his perch on the driver’s seat and walked straight up to him, pushing back his hood to reveal a face he recognised.
‘Fetch your watch partner and a stretcher, now, please,’ he ordered.
The white-eye narrowed his eyes at the foreigner barking orders at him. ‘Can’t leave the gate unguarded,’ he said in response, ‘and last I heard, you’d been dismissed from the duke’s service.’
‘And that would make you wrong on both counts,’ Mihn replied. There was no antagonism in his voice but the white-eye bristled anyway, unwilling to be ordered around by a man without position, rank or weapon who stood more than half a foot shorter than him.
‘Who’s in the carriage?’ he asked brusquely.
‘Have you received no orders from your lord?’ Mihn asked.
‘I have.’
‘So stop arguing and take Lord Isak’s guest up to him. Then take the lady to the Chief Steward and get her the gold crown she’s been promised.’ Mihn jabbed his thumb towards the driver, who had remained hunched in her seat. Before the soldier had a chance to speak again the door of the coach opened and a man leaned out to look at them.
‘What’s the hold-up, soldier?’
The white-eye looked at the pair of them for a moment and decided discretion was the better part of valour. He stepped aside and waved the coach forward. The driver gave a click of the tongue and set the horses walking forward again, down into the tunnel that led underneath the barbican and into Tirah Palace. As it reached them, both men stepped up onto the coach to let it carry them through, Mihn hopping back up to the driver’s seat like a mountain goat. The white-eye gave a short whistle once they’d entered the tunnel and the gate immediately started to close behind them.
Instead of stopping outside the Great Hall they took the coach around to the rear of the main wing, where there was another way up to the state apartments, a rear door that was normally kept locked and guarded. While the stretcher was being fetched the white-eye watched as Mihn and Morghien helped the last passenger out of the coach. It was obvious they didn’t want his help, and they took great care to keep her face in shadow. Their precautions made no difference; as soon as he got within a few yards of her, the white-eye felt every nerve in his body quiver.
Instinctively he found his nostrils flaring, seeking her scent: she was the same as him, and more. When he lifted the stretcher the white-eye found himself taking great pains not to touch her in any way. As strong as he was, his hands trembled and his throat tightened at the power humming through her body. They started up the dark stairway and he kept his eyes on the stairs underneath him, not trusting himself to look at the hooded head inches away from him. All the way up he felt her attention on him, and a threat hanging in the air.
Isak was up and on his feet long before they reached the door to his private chambers. Vesna and Tila hovered in his wake, broad smiles on their faces at the sight of Mihn hovering beside the stretcher.
‘Take her into my bedroom, then leave,’ Isak commanded before grabbing Mihn in a bearhug.
‘It’s good to see you again, my friend - but why the stretcher? Does she need a doctor?’
The smaller man smiled up at his lord and shook his head. ‘She’s well enough, merely exhausted. The journey took a great toll, but I wouldn’t want to be the one to force a doctor on her!’ He looked a little thinner than the day they’d parted, but that was the only indication that the failed Harlequin had just returned from a long and gruelling journey.
Mihn embraced Tila and Vesna before following the soldiers into Isak’s bedroom. The young lord gripped Morghien by the wrist as he followed them in, but the ragged-looking wanderer cut short the pleasantries. ‘That can wait; right now you must go and introduce yourself. We can talk while she sleeps.’ It looked like the journey had taken its toll on Morghien, who was tired and drawn, but his grip was as strong as ever. Isak had to remind himself that Morghien, known as the man of many spirits, was far older than he appeared - he should be permitted some trace of fatigue.
Isak patted his shoulder and went to his bedroom. The soldiers had put the stretcher onto the bed and were about to slide it from under her when Isak bustled past.
‘Leave that,’ he said, ‘we can manage. The kitchen should be sending up food for my guests; check it’s ready, then return to your posts.’
He didn’t even wait to see they’d left the room before he was leaning over the bed. He gently pushed back Xeliath’s hood. The young woman blinked up at him and Isak barely managed to hide his shock. Gone was the healthy, radiant girl he’d seen in his dreams. Instead, he saw a near-parody of that beaming beauty. Trails of sweat ran down her twitching cheek and the crumpled skin of eyebrow and eyelid drooped limp over her left eye. As well as the permanent damage done to her body, her soft brown cheeks were flushed with spots of colour that made him think she was feverish.
‘Isak,’ Xeliath whispered. Her lips curled on one side and trembled on the other. She was trying to smile. His name on her lips was tinted by the heavy rolling sounds of the Yeetatchen dialect.
‘Xeliath,’ he replied softly, smiling down at the wan face below him. He eased her legs onto the bed and slid a hand under her body so he could pull the stretcher away. Her thin limbs reminded him of a pigeon he’d shot; lying dead in his hands, the bird had felt far too light, as though something was missing now it lacked life.
Xeliath looked tiny, even bundled in her heavy woollen cloak. He raised her hand and placed a courtly kiss in her palm. He folded her fingers around it and said, ‘Sleep now, you need to rest. I’ll bring you some soup later.’
‘Wait, listen,’ Xeliath whispered, straining to form the unfamiliar words. Isak remembered his first meeting with her, on a featureless, rolling field in his dreams, where she’d told him she couldn’t even speak his language. That night, and every other time they’d met, she’d spoken directly into his mind. Now, as he strained to make out each syllable from her ravaged throat, he realised Mihn must have been teaching her Farlan as they travelled.
Her right arm fought its way free of the folds of the blanket, and Mihn had taken a half-pace forward even before she beckoned him over. Isak, shifting slightly so that Mihn could take her hand, sensed a sudden flicker of power from her left hand which was obscured by the cloak. He pushed it back, and gasped when he saw the Crystal Skull fused into the palm of her hand, her long, thin fingers clawed around it, drawn a little way into the body of the Skull. Isak ran his finger down the side of her thumb: the skin was fused to the Skull, so perfectly bonded there was no seam between the two but a complete melding of materials.
‘Take it, cut it from her flesh,’ hissed a voice at the back of his mind.
Isak bit back a growl and drove the spirit of Aryn Bwr from his thoughts. That was one blessing over the last few months: the voice had become quieter of late, cowed almost, and Aryn Bwr had been more willing to withdraw when pushed. It was a mixed blessing, though, for it served only to increase Isak’s suspicions that it was the Reapers lurking on the edges of reality.
Again he felt a flicker of power from within the Skull. Isak withdrew his hand, an apologetic look on his face until he realised that it was not anger he felt. Xeliath was staring into space, her good eye looking past him, while erratic sparks of magic started to dance from one finger to another over the surface of the Skull. He sensed pulses of energy flowing up her arm.
‘What—what’s happening?’ he asked softly.
‘She’s drifting,’ Mihn replied quickly. ‘This has happened a few times - usually after she’s contacted you in her dreams. There’s nothing to worry about, it’s just the effect of being tied to your destiny.’
‘I remember,’ Isak said. ‘Her mind was almost broken when she was Chosen, when she was tied to a thousand destinies and to none, or something like that.’
Mihn stroked her hand. ‘She still doesn’t understand it fully, but it has had some sort of prophetic effect on her, perhaps like th
e Seer of Ghorendt - not true foresight, but glimpses of the future, though they don’t make much sense. She doesn’t go into a trance, or anything like that - and sometimes she hasn’t even remembered it happening.’
‘Has she said anything that made sense to you?’
The small man shrugged. ‘Once she said she saw you walking around a statue of a man holding a sword to his chest, made of obsidian. A man with two shadows, one tinted with blood and one with white eyes, was watching you. Her description put me in mind of the ranger, Tiniq.’
‘General Lahk’s brother?’ Isak said in surprise. ‘Well, I suppose he does rather live in the shadow of his white-eye twin.’
‘Isak,’ Xeliath croaked suddenly.
The two men looked down, Mihn still with his hand wrapped around the young woman’s.
‘Thank you,’ she managed.
‘For what?’ Isak asked.
‘For bringing me to safety, you fool,’ she managed, again forcing her lips into her semblance of a smile. Disengaging her hand from Mihn’s, she gave the small northerner an affectionate pat on the cheek. ‘You are lucky to have such a loyal friend; I believe he would follow you anywhere.’
Isak’s face fell. ‘Don’t say that - it might be the Dark Place he ends up visiting.’ He looked at Mihn, whose face was calm, the image of a man at peace in the Land. Rarely did the failed Harlequin give away much, but surely he’d have thought about what horrors he would face if he stayed at Isak’s side.
How is it I’m served by a man whose qualities surpass my own so completely? Isak wondered, not for the first time.
A sharp pain in his wrist brought him back to the present. He looked down and saw Xeliath had jabbed her thumbnail into the skin, leaving a red mark. ‘Stupid boy,’ the hazel-skinned white-eye growled before switching to Yeetatchen and spitting a dozen or so angry words.
Without pausing to think, Mihn translated for Isak. ‘You claim I have a problem with prophecy? You, a fulcrum of history, should know better than to speak so carelessly.’