by Tom Lloyd
Pushing the image from his mind, Isak moved to the sword and closed his fingers around the double-handed grip of Eolis, tightly wrapped in pure white silk and bound with an emerald filigree that emanated from the massive emerald set into the hilt. Six silver claws shaped like talons gripped the emerald securely. The guard was a circular piece of ivory that looked to be fused into the blade itself.
As Isak marvelled at the blade, he realised that the poor working Kerin had claimed was nothing more than the echo of this sword reaching up into Isak's mind. Without knowing it, some part of his soul had recognised Eolis. The smith had given the sword honest praise, but Isak knew now how far short of the mark it had fallen. The weight of the blade was almost imperceptible, yet as he moved Eolis through some basic forms, listening to the soft zip as it neatly cut the air, he felt a surge of strength in his arm. Isak realised that this blade would cut through even the pieces of rock littering the floor in Genedel's chamber.
There was a rough leather sheath beside it, Farlan-designed, of plain black leather, which presumably Lord Bahl or Lesarl had left for him. Pulling off his boots and shirt, Isak quickly dressed in the under-suit Bahl had given him. He hesitated before touching Siulents again, but as he started fitting the armour on to his body, he felt a note of exhilaration trembling; building up as each piece clipped into place. The silver took on a seductive, liquid quality as he flexed his limbs to test the freedom of movement, and even more remarkably he could not see the seams between plates, only an unbroken curve.
A smile broke over his face. This wasn't what he had expected; instead, his body felt cocooned in a second skin, only slightly constrained, and coupled with an intoxicating sense of invulnerability. Isak hesitated when only the helm remained. It was tradition that helms were only for battle; ancient belief held that a hidden face displayed hidden intentions. Wealthy knights would often have their visors made into savage and grotesque faces to further the distinction between a man of war and a person of civilisation.
Though he wanted badly to try it on, the sound of voices in the main chamber broke the spell and, gathering up his clothes, Isak bundled them together and laid them inside the shield, cushioning his helm.
As Isak entered the dragon's lair, Bahl broke off his conversation and stared, almost wavering with shock. 'Gods, Aryn Bwr was well named; quicksilver indeed,' he exclaimed. A rumble from deep inside Genedel's throat echoed agreement.
Isak just stood, unable to put what he felt into words. He held up Eolis, drawing it from the sheath to show Bahl the glitter of white light that shone out, even in the dark, green-tinted depths of Genedel's cavern. His expression was one of bemused helplessness. 'These really are the last king's weapons, aren't they?' Now you know why the elves have come. The Land has envious eyes for such beauty.
'We cannot be sure of that,' interrupted Bahl. You are, as I am. The night of Isak's Choosing was one of unrest in distant parts as much as here. The creatures of the night felt it; the denizens of Ghenna knew his name at that moment. Mages and prophets have also sensed the disturbance, whether they recognise it or not. The elves have been waiting for three thousand years. They know.
Bahl didn't respond. His huge frame suddenly seemed small, deflated, even. His eyes ran down the gleaming blade, over the smooth curves of Siulents – and he gave a small nod. Stepping forward, the Lord of the Farlan reached into his belt. Isak tightened his grip on Eolis, feeling a spasm of shame as Bahl produced a piece of blue cloth.
'I have no such gifts to offer you, but I feel there is something-' He didn't finish the sentence, but held out a hood identical to his own. 'May it keep you safe in other ways.'
Isak nodded his thanks and placed the shield and Eolis carefully down on the ground. He slipped the hood over his cropped scalp. The silk hung loose briefly before tightening around his head, covering his nose and mouth but somehow not impairing his breath. There was an enchantment on it so subtly woven he'd not noticed it until then.
'Give me your hand.' Isak cocked his head at the strange instruction, but held out his right hand, changing it to the left at the old
lord's request. Bahl pulled off his gauntlet – the silver parted without resistance – and then the glove underneath.
He held Isak's hand palm up, inspecting it for a moment, before suddenly whipping a dagger from his belt and slashing down. Isak cried out in surprise and pain, but Bahl kept a tight grip on his wrist and pulled his Krann closer.
This is my gift to you.' His voice was deep and old, full of sorrow and pain. 'This is the legacy that you will inherit from me; your blood, your pain, shed for people and Gods who neither know of it nor care. You will be hated and feared by those your duty leads you to protect, who will show resentment, not gratitude, no matter what you do for them. Do not expect your people to love you, trust you, or remain loyal to you. You will become the man your duty to the tribe permits, the man it forges. If you try to fight that, you will break under the weight of it.'
After a respectful bow to the dragon, they returned to the main wing of the palace in silence. Isak had too much swirling in his head to speak; Bahl had no more to say and instead let his own thoughts fester. The Chief Steward met them on the stair and bowed low to both, then offered Isak a white cape, reaching up as far as he could to set it about the Krann's shoulders. As it unfurled behind his back, Isak caught sight of an emerald dragon detailed in gold. Isak secured it himself, fastening the cloak with his brooch from the bundle of clothes. With his shield retrieved and set securely on his arm, Isak looked at the two men, waiting for their nods of approval before he set off to face his army.
A reverential whisper greeted Isak in the Great Hall. It grew and spread like a tidal wave. Bahl saw men stop dead and stare; men who had felt a change in the air and turned to watch Isak emerge into the training ground where his horse was waiting. More joined the congregation of hushed voices; the awed sound waxed with every heartbeat, echoed back by the encircling wall, then swelled to a roar into the gusting wind and growling clouds. A single fork of lightning split the sky and the men cheered, with all their hearts and souls; they raised a clamour that woke the whole of the city and sent a howl of defiance rolling east over the trees.
CHAPTER 11
The unrelenting north wind heaved and buffeted Tirah Palace's high walls. It brought the voices of the city up to Bahl in his lonely chamber where he sat watching the tiny figures below, a brass goblet of wine cradled forgotten in his hands as he stared out of the window. The people of the city had succumbed to the glamour of Siulents and given Isak a reception Bahl could never have dreamed of. The old Lord didn't want their adulation, but still he felt an unwonted melancholy that, despite all he had given up for them, his people had never loved him. What they cheered was a faзade; a hero they could worship. Isak was the shining figurehead that Bahl had never been, but the Lord of the Farlan wondered about the uncertain youth inside that enchanted armour: was he already buckling under the weight of being Bahl's Krann? But Isak's place in the Land was not merely as Bahl's replacement. His role would be even harder to bear.
'And yet what can I teach him? What do I know of being a king?' Bahl spoke out loud to the empty room.
'More than the King of Narkang, I'll wager, and he's the only one worthy of the title these days.'
Bahl jumped at the unexpected voice from the doorway. Suzerain Tehran gave him a nod as he advanced into the room.
'Kehed, you don't go to wish your son well for his first battle?' The suzerain shrugged and eased his portly frame into the nearest chair. Few men would dare sit without permission, but Bahl would have sacrificed protocol gladly for a few more supporters as loyal.
'I spoke to the boy this morning; there's nothing more he wants to hear from me. His cousin's going to keep an eye on him. He's a sensible lad, he'll see him right. Mayhap he'll grow up in the process.' 'Things are no better?' Tehran grimaced. 'Ah, sometimes I think he can't be mine. Could
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hardly have blamed his
mother if he weren't, the number of bastards I've got. I've reached the end of my tether with that one. If this campaign doesn't wake him up to the Land, I'll ask Kerin to take him on. I'd hoped to give him a proper education, perhaps find him a seat on the city council for a few years to teach him some responsibility, but he's no interest in it. It'll be hard to let him go though. I hear his mother in every word he says.'
'How long has it been?' Bahl asked softly.
'Three summers now, though I'd scarce believe it myself. The boy won't listen to me. There's nothing more I can do with him. I fear I'll have an empty hall soon enough, for I don't think Fordan's intending to come back. He sees me now and has no intention of getting this way.'
The suzerain gestured down at his straining belly and stained clothes. Age and hard living was catching up with a man whose barrel shape had marked him out on the battlefield almost as much as the distinctive yellow and purple colours of Tehran. His cheeks and nose were scarred red with drink, the skin about his eyes looked heavy and tired and gout hampered every step. With the loss of his wife he'd recognised that all his friends and contemporaries were slowly fading from the Land.
He lifted a goblet and drank, wiping the wine from his chin with the grimy white stripe around his cuff that marked him as a former Ghost. Suzerain Tehran's title had never stopped him earning every shred of trust he had been given, something Bahl wished he could say about more of the nobles who owed him allegiance.
'There's always a place at my table for such a loyal friend. With your son in the Guard, I expect you'll want to keep an eye on him.'
Tehran smiled in genuine gratitude and straightened himself up a little, a flicker of pride driving away his gloom for the moment.
'The Krann seems to have potential. Will he hold up in battle?'
Bahl shrugged. 'We shall see. He's got the strength and skill; if we keep the elven mages off his back then he should be fine.'
'And Shalstik?'
Bahl hesitated. He was far from certain in his own mind. 'By the Gods, I hope not, Kehed. If the elven houses have united under the Shalstik cult, we're in for years of war.'
'How likely is that?' Tehran asked, looking worried.
'Shalstik's prophecy of the last king's return has been a threat hanging over us for more than a thousand years; if that's the case, they'll fight to the bitter end to bring it about.' He grimaced. 'Our first defence has always been their inability to fight as a united group. We are still pretty sure the elves have ten noble houses constantly at each other's throats – I doubt any force we've met in the last hundred years has comprised warriors from more than two houses. I don't know if they have called a truce, but with an army large enough to destroy Lomin's cavalry…' His voice trailed off and he looked out of the window for a few moments before continuing, 'The dragon's mood had better remain good over the next few weeks. We may need him.' Kehed Tehran was one of the few who knew of the truth about Genedel. His private hunting grounds, a forest at the foot of the mountain north of Tirah, was patrolled by rangers and kept as an exclusive preserve, well stocked with enough livestock to feed the dragon. Some believed that Genedel was real, and lived on the very peak of one of the mountains, under their Lord's enchantment; others saw the beast as the embodiment of Nartis, aiding them in times of need. Lesarl hadn't needed to start these rumours; the people had beaten him to it themselves. Bahl found that a little sad, no matter how convenient.
'Fortunate we have a vampire to catch too!' Tehran's laugh was empty. 'Life gets harder for us all. Perhaps we should just get drunk and wait it out.'
Bahl smiled wearily. 'I accept. I'll tell Lesarl to find us some players, or acrobats maybe: someone to entertain us until we're too drunk to care. But first, there's something I must do while I still have my wits about me.'
As Bahl walked through the top floor of the palace, he noted the dry and lifeless atmosphere with a growing distaste. Few people came up here – the guest apartments for court-ranked nobles were on a lower floor. Neither fresh rushes on the floors nor the smell of beeswax did much to change the impression of a temple, deserted yet still full of
quiet reverence.
Bahl went first to Isak's chambers, then down to the library, where he paused at the entrance. He ran a hand lightly over the faded painting that covered the double doors: one of his more enlightened predecessors had been responsible for this picture, which still clearly showed his message to all who would follow him. It depicted a figure,
no doubt the Lord himself, sword sheathed and carrying only a handful of scrolls as he faced down an approaching army. It was a message Atro had never appreciated, for all his acquisitiveness; few white-eyes would.
As he had expected, Bahl found Tila within, a book lying forgotten in her lap as she stared out through the bay window. The library had once been a temple to the remaining Gods of the Upper Circle before a past Lord who valued learning over piety had converted it. Few recognised this room as the treasure trove it was: more than a thousand leather-bound books and dusty scrolls gathered together in a Land where fear of heresy, prophecy and magic meant academics had to work in secret and the history of the Land was hidden in legend and fable: truth buried in myth. With daemons and Aspects – local gods subordinate to a more powerful deity – part of everyday life for some men, knowledge and the written word were as powerful as they were dangerous.
A fire crackling in the wide hearth off to his left took the edge off the cool air. Even in the depths of winter, the library was a sanctuary, away from the crowded, noisy Great Hall. The Chief Steward, using a burning log from the constant fire in the Great Hall, lit the fire in the library first, as tradition dictated. The tradition predated Bahl: it was a symbolic act that Lesarl had determinedly retained.
Bahl crossed over to the fireplace and added more logs. The noise startled Tila and she jumped to her feet, sending the book clattering to the floor. She winced, knowing full well how expensive each volume was.
'My Lord-' she started, but he cut her off with a look, then dragged a heavy oak chair closer to the fire and indicated that she should do the same. He leaned in close to banish the dismal chill in his bones.
'We should talk,' he announced softly. Tila sat primly upright with her hands clamped together in her lap, waiting for him to continue, but Bahl took a minute to look her up and down first. The girl wore rather more jewellery than Lesarl usually permitted, but as most was religious, Bahl didn't comment. Unlike most Farlan, her eyes were light in colour, a soft hazel with flashes of yellow; eyes more suited to laughter than sorrow.
'You're close to my Krann.' No question, merely a statement of fact.
'Yes, my Lord. He… Lord Isak doesn't require much of me, only that I teach him all I can, of the wars of the Houses, the Age of Gods, any small story 1 might have told my niece before bed.' She wasn't sure what Lord Bahl wanted her to say. 'He leams quickly?'
'Oh yes! He is hungry to hear everything, 1 suppose because he never had a mother to-' She halted abruptly. Bahl's early life had been far harsher than Isak's; the entire palace knew that. 'He also questions the stories; he wants to know why things happen.' 'Give me an example.'
Tila thought a moment, her lips slightly pursed. 'Well, the punishments of the cursed. I'd never thought about why they were punished differently, but that interested Isak more than the punishments themselves. A couple of times last week he even corrected the priests – well, the ones who still go near him after what he did to Afger Wetlen.' She hesitated again, scared that she was saying too much, or sounding like a gossip – that could cost her Isak's friendship as well as
her position.
Bahl drew his cloak tighter around himself and gazed away at the shelves behind Tila's head. 'Yes, that was unexpected,' he murmured, almost to himself, before turning his attention back to the maid. 'No matter, it brings me to what I wish to say. Isak is special, and not just as my Krann. The Age of Fulfilment is a bad time to be special.'
Tila nodded, her head turning fra
ctionally towards the bay window she'd been watching Isak from.
'A Lord is blessed beyond any other mortal, but the Gods are not nursemaids. They expect and demand unwavering loyalty. A Lord should love only his patron, because to love another is to have a point of weakness.' Bahl was speaking as much to the past, and giving the warning Ineh had never had. 'No matter what he whispers in the night, he cannot always protect you-'
'My Lord!' she protested, a scarlet flush in her cheeks. 'He's not-we've not…' She couldn't bring herself to finish that sentence before the Chosen of the Gods. Bahl was surprised, but she was telling the truth. No one could lie to him, not even hardened criminals or
politicians.
'So you're not that close yet – but is it just a matter of time! Tell
me, girl, and truthfully.'
'I-' Tila lowered her eyes to escape her Master's scrutiny. 'You have feelings for him? Foolish, very foolish.'
That sparked defiance in Tila. 'Lord Isak and I have much in common; we enjoy each other's company,' she said, a trace of bitterness in her voice. 'What does it matter whether I do or not? Why else was I sent to here in the first place?'
Bahl raised an eyebrow. 'Your parents will want you to secure a post in Isak's retinue and gain influence enough to be a useful bride. Lord Isak is a white-eye, not some major promoted from the ranks that you can housetrain into polite society. You could not have a family with him, could not grow old with him. Those gifts he now carries would make you the most valuable hostage in the entire Land.'
Tila nodded. 'I know that, my Lord. I have not even thought of discussing the future with Lord Isak. At the moment I just care that he comes back alive.'
'You doubt his skills? However much he grins and acts the jester, a white-eye is born to fight and to survive; Isak's no exception there.'
'I understand, my Lord,' she said. 'I just can't help thinking that an army in winter must want more than just slaves, and those gifts fit the puzzle. Isak is inexperienced enough without a whole army intent on killing him specifically.' She released her hands for a moment to tease a thin citrine ring into a more comfortable position, then her fingers tightened around each other again.