by Tom Lloyd
She pulled his hand up to her lips and kissed his fingertips as gently as a butterfly. ‘You grieve for Sebe. When you drink, you glower, and frighten those around you. However delicate your touch, you still resemble a white-eye looking for something to kill; that’s what they notice in Coin.’
‘It isn’t so easy to throw off,’ he growled.
‘I know that, pretty one,’ Zhia continued in a conciliatory tone, ‘but it is a detail you must address. There’s enough grief around that folk will understand it. Wear something to explain your mood and their suspicion will be allayed.’
‘You think that’ll be enough?’
‘I don’t know; you won’t tell me what information you are seeking.’ There was an edge of hurt in her voice that made Doranei want to immediately apologise, but he suppressed the feeling.
‘Do we need to have this conversation again? I’m not your pet to be indulged, and we’re not on the same side in this war.’
‘Those are not sufficient reasons to mistrust me. I can provide you with a plan of the Ruby Tower, of the duchess’ security arrangements - whatever you want. Lady Kinna is still under my control, and her access is unrestricted.’
‘They are all the reasons I have,’ Doranei said, knowing he sounded petulant, ‘and besides, my orders are clear enough.’
‘Your king does not trust my motives; I understand that, but do you honestly believe I would give you false information or betray your plans to the shadow? Do you believe I would ever put you in danger?’
‘Zhia — Of course I don’t, but this is how things must be. Can we — ’ he broke off to stroke her back, and whispered, ‘Zhia, can we please talk of inconsequential things instead?’
She heard the tired edge in his voice and, knowing how exhausting an emotion grief was, she didn’t push matters further. Zhia gently kissed each of his callused knuckles before using his hand to cup her face. ‘As you wish, pretty one. We will talk of the children we will never have instead; of the life we will never lead. I require a minimum of two girls - I remember having a sister most fondly.’
‘At least two?’ Doranei winced at the thought. ‘Just one with her mother’s smile would be trouble enough for me.’
‘You would rule them without ever realising it,’ Zhia said with laughter in her voice, ‘as their father, the proud merchant, comes home after a long day to a great clatter of feet as his adoring women rush to greet him.’
‘Merchant? What would I sell?’ Doranei asked in surprise, unable to imagine himself doing anything so safe - or so legal. ‘My entire life’s been in the king’s service.’
‘This is the life we will not lead,’ Zhia reminded him. ‘Your father was a soldier in King Emin’s conquest, but he wanted a better life for his son and so he apprenticed him to a wine trader. You, in turn, are so filled with pride when young Manayaz announces he intends to join the Kingsguard, you cannot resist giving him your blessing.’
He frowned. ‘Manayaz? Even in your homeland, boys can’t have been called that since the Great War. Your father rather coloured most folk against the name.’
‘Manayaz,’ Zhia said with finality. ‘He will have his father’s size and his mother’s speed. No bully will take exception to his name more than once.’ She pulled Doranei’s hand tighter against his chest. ‘He will be a fine older brother to little Sebetin, the one whose smile melts the hearts of even his fierce gaggle of sisters.’
‘Sebe,’ Doranei whispered, ‘named for their favourite uncle, who still manages to get me into daft scrapes when we’re both old, rich and fat.’
‘The very same; who wakes early when he comes to visit and drags the children out with the dawn so we can have these few quiet moments together. These moments that mean as much to me as anything - these moments that last as we grow old together and watch our children make all the same mistakes we did when we were young.’ Zhia smiled and squeezed his hand. ‘Except the ones involving jumping off buildings or petting guard dogs; they’ll have the sense not to do those.’
‘What fools we are,’ Doranei said bitterly. ‘You, who doesn’t grow old; I, who’ll not survive to do so.’
‘It is not too late for you,’ Zhia said with a shake of the head. When she tried to continue, however, she felt the words catch in her throat. Neither of them could believe that; it wouldn’t matter what she said.
They lay together in silence until sounds began to emanate from elsewhere in the building and the tavern servants started their day. With the quiet broken Doranei eased himself away from Zhia, who let him go and watched while he dressed. Her eyes were closed when he bent to kiss her forehead and only opened again when the door clicked shut behind him.
CHAPTER 8
Low shafts of sunlight pushed between the trees as the witch of Llehden walked towards the lake. It was early enough to be crisp and cold still - two hours after dawn, and the sun hadn’t yet warmed the frost off the rusty bracken. The witch wore a wolfskin cloak, fastened at the throat by a bronze stag’s head clasp that looked incongruous with the rest of her clothes, and in her arms was a large, awkward-shaped bundle. Occasionally the bundle would wriggle, prompting the witch to shift her hold a little and whisper soothing words.
At the end of the path the trees opened up and afforded her a view across the still water. The other side of the lake was punctuated by rampant clumps of reeds standing higher than a man, beyond which stretched the long, undulating expanse of Tairen Moor. Several villages bordered the moor, but the only people you would ever find on the moor were travellers using the single road and the few peat-diggers and herdsmen who lived there.
The witch headed for the cottage on the lake’s shore. The sound of chopping wood rang out from the trees behind as she left the path, but stopped when she called loudly, ‘Grave Thief!’
As she reached the cottage door Mihn appeared from around the corner, sweat-slicked and red-cheeked from his exertions in the cold morning air.
‘Good morning,’ he called, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘You have something for us?’ he added, when he noticed the bundle in her arms.
‘For your patient.’
Mihn smiled faintly and came around to open the door for the witch. ‘I am glad to hear it. He is not much better since you last visited. The man is still there, but he is hiding deep inside.’
They entered, and the witch lost no time in crossing to where Isak was lying. He was not so tightly curled up as before, and it looked as if he had reacted slightly to the sunlight shining through the door, but he was a far cry from the arrogant, ebullient youth she had first met.
‘Is he biddable?’ she asked.
‘Just about.’ Mihn went to the square brick stove in the centre of the room and lifted the lid of a pot that was bubbling away on top of it. He stirred the contents, sniffing appreciatively, and replaced the lid before adding, ‘I have managed to get him up off the bed - I even got him outside once, but he went and fell into the water not long after so I do not know if that counts as a success.’
The witch frowned at him a moment, then crouched at Isak’s bedside. Her lips moved silently, and one hand reached out towards him. After a while she glanced back at Mihn.
‘I fear to take any more of his memories. The holes I’ve put in his mind will never heal.’
‘Then it will have to be enough,’ Mihn replied. ‘You did not promise anything more than that. If you have removed the worst of his experiences in Ghenna, then I am satisfied the risk was worthwhile. Some things no one should remember.’
The witch nodded and turned back to her patient. ‘Isak, can you hear me?’
The big white-eye turned his head fractionally at the sound of his name, but his eyes didn’t focus on the witch and after a moment he looked down again. If she was disappointed, the witch didn’t show it. Instead she pushed the bundle onto the bed beside him and carefully peeled the folds of the blanket open. Within was a bundle of floppy limbs and soft, greyish fur. She gently took Isak�
�s hand and put it down beside the bundle, and his touch was rewarded with a muffled squeak before the puppy lifted its head from the blanket and tentatively licked his fingers.
Isak recoiled. The witch could feel his body tense as he drew his hand back - but not all the way. His fingers remained outstretched, as though ready to reach again, waiting only for a cue. The witch stepped back and joined Mihn, who was watching.
The puppy, finding itself lacking the warmth of the witch’s body, lifted its head and looked at its new surroundings. Isak’s huge, heavy breaths made its flop-ears twitch and it started to snuffle its way around until it found the big man behind it.
Still Isak didn’t move, but both of them could tell he was more alert now than he had been since Xeliath had died.
The puppy took a while to get its folded limbs into some sort of order, then it bumbled its way forward towards Isak’s face, wriggling into the white-eye’s warm lee. It gave him a tentative wag, the tip of its tail brushing Isak’s fingers. After a moment they saw his fingers close a little, not grabbing at the tail, but letting the fur brush his flesh. The puppy edged closer to Isak’s face and pushed its nose against his shirt, snorting softly to itself as it breathed in his scent. Now Mihn could see it was a gangly bundle of grey-black fluff, all big paws and belly, with a ruff of dark fur around its neck. He couldn’t recall seeing any of its kind in Llehden before but he resisted the temptation to ask where it had come from.
‘Are you sure about this?’ Mihn whispered.
‘No,’ the witch admitted, ‘but Daima is. Before we can speak to the man we must remind his body of more basic things. The sensation of being alive is strange enough to him, but there are inbuilt needs - for warmth and comfort - that a pack animal might be able to coax out.’
Jerkily, Isak slid his hand forward on the bed and the puppy caught the movement and gently batted at his scarred fingers with a paw. Its ears pricked up. The hand didn’t recoil this time, and Mihn saw Isak had closed his fingers a little further again, as though reaching for the sensation of soft fur once again. The puppy flopped its head down beside his fingers and gave the nearest another lick.
Still not looking at the puppy, Isak drifted towards it, sliding his head off the makeshift pillow and laying it flat on the bed. The puppy twitched its ears in response, but didn’t raise its head again.
‘I spoke a charm over it as I walked,’ the witch explained. ‘It will be sleepy for a while longer - dogs need little encouragement there. I thought it best their first hours together were slow, rather than boisterous.’
Mihn nodded slowly. ‘I’m not chewing his food for him,’ was all he said before leaving to return to his wood chopping.
The witch gave a half-smile as she noted the flicker of hope on Mihn’s face as he left. ‘Which one?’ she called after him.
*****
‘How much longer?’ Count Vesna growled, pacing around the mage and flexing his fingers impatiently. The scrape of steel-covered fingers sounded like knives being readied for murder.
‘Not long, I hope,’ the mage’s attendant replied in a hesitant voice. ‘Your presence will, ah, be a complicating factor. A distraction to his trace.’
The attendant was a man of forty summers, but he had been reduced to a nervous child in Vesna’s presence.
Can’t blame him now, can I? Vesna thought, halting to concentrate on getting a grip on his emotions. I’m not human now - this is how men act in the presence of the Chosen.
He looked down at his left hand and waggled his fingers. They moved more easily than they ever had in armour before, but that was small consolation for the fact the metal had fused to his skin from fingertip to shoulder. Vesna had expected the teardrop-shaped ruby attached to his cheek to remain, but not this too. Now he was just as noticeable as a white-eye, except amidst soldiers, and even then, Vesna had discovered all eyes turned towards him. He could see the fear in their eyes, and the awe at the presence of the Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn, the God of War’s chosen general. Every soldier could feel him like the heat of a furnace on their skin.
There were four of them in the guest bedroom of Perolain Manor, in the southernmost reaches of Helrect’s borders. The countess who owned it had, Vesna suspected, once been a member of the White Circle. As a result she couldn’t have been more helpful to the retreating Farlan Army in an effort to avoid possible reprisals.
Outside, a gale howled and battered the walls of the manor. He had been able to smell the cold emanating off those aides who’d come in from the camp to report. It was a freezing night once again, and more than one had had to gasp for breath as they stood as near as they could to the small fire.
Suzerain Torl stood at Vesna’s side: a tall, stern man, and the tribe’s most devoted soldier. Neither looked at his best; having lost most of the army’s baggage in their retreat the Farlan troops could hardly now be described as the peacocks their enemies nicknamed them.
The strain of the past weeks was clear to see on Torl’s lined face. The suzerain looked exhausted, as if he had aged ten winters in one, but Vesna would have traded with him in a heartbeat. He looked at his left arm and flexed his fingers. The armour covering it was far less unwieldy that it had previously been, but still . . . Once made to measure for him, the black-iron was now a horrifying parody of Lord Isak’s lightning-marked arm.
The divine air surrounding Vesna hadn’t been enough for Karkarn, it appeared, nor had turning the scars of past injuries blood-red, so they stood out on his pale Farlan skin. Now Vesna was a clear statement to the entire Land: Gods walk among mortals once more.
‘Count Vesna?’ the mage said in an abrupt, emotionless voice. He knelt on the stone floor, swaying rhythmically as though listening to a song in his head. Despite the privations they were all suffering, the mage’s head was freshly shaved and his skin scrubbed clean as he was ritually purified.
‘Yes,’ Vesna barked, moving back around the mage with such speed the attendant’s eyes widened in surprise.
‘This is Fernal,’ the mage replied after a pause in which he had mouthed Vesna’s reply. The ritual matched his thoughts to those of his twin, allowing them to relay a conversation across hundreds of miles. ‘I am here with Chief Steward Lesarl, Lady Tila and High Cardinal Certinse.’
Vesna and Torl exchanged puzzled looks. Only one person could speak through the mage; why would that be Fernal? Vesna imagined the huge Demi-God sitting in the now-vacant ducal throne in Tirah, and something about that image made him pause. As big as the Chosen, with midnight-blue skin and a mane of shaggy hair falling from his fierce, lupine face; Fernal presented a savage visage that belied his quiet nature. He was a bastard son of Nartis, the Farlan’s patron God, but he remained an outsider to the tribe.
‘I have been named Lord of the Farlan,’ the mage said after a longer pause. ‘Lord Isak appointed me as his successor and the Synod has reluctantly confirmed it.’
Vesna gasped. Isak had discussed nothing of the kind with him, and he was one of the dead lord’s closest friends. ‘I — I had no idea,’ he stammered, seeing Torl was as shocked as he was. ‘I congratulate you, my Lord.’
Isak’s death hung like a black cloud at the back of Vesna’s mind, but he refused to allow himself to mourn yet — not while his grip on the battered Farlan Army remained so tenuous. His new-found divine emotions had allowed him to dissociate himself from the ball of loss that appeared in his stomach whenever he remembered the moment when he had sensed Isak die, as he was cutting a path through the small Byoran Army, but he knew he could not keep it away forever.
The power now surging in his veins had not removed his humanity, though he had feared it might, but other than that, Vesna found himself not so different to a God. His strength was increased, his speed was unnatural, but his mind was still that of the flawed man he had been before.
The awe he saw in every soldier’s face was unnerving in its intensity, but it was just that — intensified, rather than new. Vesna has been a hero of the army for ten
years or more, and he had seen it before.
‘Thank you,’ said the mage dully, ‘I am told your circumstances have also changed.’
Vesna looked at the black steel plates attached to his left arm and touched the ruby lodged in the skin of his cheek.
‘I am changed, but I remain a servant of the Farlan,’ he said carefully. Gods, what is Tila going to think when she sees what I’ve become? he wondered privately. No, she will know to expect changes. Thank the Gods I told her about Lord Karkarn’s offer before I left.
‘You’re welcome,’ said a voice inside his mind, prompting Vesna to flinch. ‘I’m happy to claim the credit on behalf of us all.’ Karkarn chuckled. ‘Still skittish about communion with your God, I see? Never mind, it will pass. Just be thankful I don’t have Larat’s appetites.’
The Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn shook his head to try and get the sensation of being ridden like a horse out of his mind. The God of War had shown no compunction about appearing without warning, seeing through his eyes as though he was just an instrument.