by Tom Lloyd
Isak shot a look of irritation at Carel, who ignored it and suggested, 'Perhaps you should use Tila's spare saddle as penance, my friend.' The looks he received made him throw up his hands theatrically and stomp off to join his men, who were supposed to be changing horses and eating, but were more interested in the little drama playing out a few yards away.
‘Tila, we need to move faster, or it will take a few months to get there. Even if you could manage the pace on that thing, you'd be hurting so badly we'd have to stop for you to recuperate,' he said more calmly now.
'But there is no other choice,' Tila explained again. 'You seem to have forgotten that the only reason my parents allowed me to accompany you was because they think it will mean a better marriage for me afterwards. That'll be worthless if I'm damaged…' Her face was bright red and her voice trailed off. Did she have to draw the wretched man a picture?
'And you seem to have forgotten how long and hard this journey is going to be.' Now Isak was beginning to lose his temper. 'Even using a normal saddle, the first week will be hard enough. You'll be sleeping in a tent more often than not-'
'My Lady will stay in a proper bed in a good inn every night,' Mistress Daran interjected.
Isak glared at the woman. He didn't like conversations with two people in the first place, whatever the subject, since he ended up not being able to concentrate on either. Mistress Daran was not as old as he had first assumed from her permanently sour expression, but she treated everyone – even Carel, a landed marshal, no less – like a foolish child.
'What my Lady requires is of little concern,' Isak snapped. 'We travel until I decide we should rest, and if there's an inn when we stop, then that's where we will stay, but once we're past Nerlos For-tress, there won't be many and not all towns are going to welcome a party of armed men.'
'Lady Introl was most specific as to her daughter's requirements,' muttered Mistress Daran, her lips pursing. Isak saw exactly what the woman thought of white-eyes.
'Lady Introl does not interest me in the least.' He checked his words for fear of insulting Tila's family too much – however cross he was, Tila was a friend – but he couldn't control the look on his face: the wretched woman would not last much longer if she continued to irritate him. 'What does interest me is getting to Narkang before bloody Silvernight,' he growled.
He was pleased to see Mistress Daran flinch, presumably fighting the instinct to admonish him for his language. He determined to see how often he could make that happen on the journey to alleviate his
own boredom.
'Isak, there's nothing you can do about it, so if you want to make good speed, then let's eat now and not tarry too long.' Tila shifted as she stood; she was already feeling the strain of her new saddle.
Isak shrugged at her and walked off angrily to see to his horses instead. The argument would have to wait until Tila was too tender to he obstinate. Let's see how she felt after her first night on the ground. He swapped the packs from one horse to the other and readied Megenn's saddle.
Isak patted both animals affectionately, then rubbed down Megenn's chestnut flanks where the packs had rested. They had very different temperaments: Toramin was a fiery young stallion of unbelievable strength, while Megenn was older, a gelding, and as biddable as could be wished. Both horses appeared to cope with his weight without complaint, but Isak felt only Toramin was desperate to gallop on. At times he could feel the muscles bunch under the rich, dark coat and he'd have to tighten his grip to remind the horse who was in control.
Isak turned to watch the others for a while. Carel had already won over the Ghosts with his humour and his undeniable skill, still sharp, no matter his age; Vesna's reputation almost guaranteed respect in any barracks.
The soldiers kept apart from Mihn – the only company he sought out was that of the two rangers. Now the three were sitting slightly apart from the others, Mihn carefully positioned so he could see both Isak and the road ahead. Rangers were all strange, reclusive, often to the point of surly disregard for any who might not match their own high standards. Mihn fitted in perfectly. The bulky northerner, Borl Dedev, was the more talkative. Jeil was a native of Tirah, a wiry man only slightly taller than Mihn. Jeil had probably been orphaned to the palace as a child, judging from his lack of family name. A number of rangers and Ghosts in Bahl's service had been left as babies at the palace gates by mothers who felt they couldn't cope. Without a parent to claim them – or denied by a spiteful father, as in Isak's case – they had no family name. Like Bahl and Isak, Jeil had had to make his own name.
Isak made up his mind: now was the time, before they got too far from Tirah. He called for Mihn, and the small man was already rising, his staff in hand, almost before Isak had finished speaking. Isak led him away to a place where they could speak without being overheard, ignoring the curious faces that watched them. Borl had cropped Mihn’s hair close to his scalp the previous night; it suited him better, highlighting the dark gleam of his eyes.
‘We’re going to be away for a long time,' Isak started. 'Longer than a year.' He tried to think how to phrase what he wanted to say. His lack of eloquence was already annoying him. 'I don't know what's going to happen, and every day, I feel like I know even less.' He sighed. He'd have to be blunt. 'I want to know your history, Mihn. You've avoided telling anyone very much, and when I don't understand my own shadow, I've no chance with the rest of the Land.'
'My Lord,' he said, quietly, 'I've told you that I come from a small tribe on the northern coast-'
Isak bared his teeth in irritation. That's not what I mean. You're saying so little you might as well lie to my face. No common tribesman speaks perfect Farlan. Your accent is more refined than mine. No normal moves the way you do – not even any man of Kerin's, and he's trained our best. I doubt many of the Chief Steward's agents would survive long against you. And the man practically went down on his knees to Lord Bahl to get you working as an assassin for him – he promised he'd have the entire tribe swearing oaths of loyalty within six months.'
Mihn flinched; if anything, it looked like the idea sickened him, though Isak knew he didn't have qualms about violence. Mihn wouldn't meet his gaze and his fingers shifted and flexed round the shaft of his staff as he stared at the ground.
'Well? Have you got nothing to say? I've seen you fight. Either you're a very short true elf, a Harlequin or-' The words died in Isak's throat as Mihn's entire body jerked at his words and his eyes went wide with shock. Isak realised that the man was caught somewhere between anger and terror, then the strength drained out of his body and Mihn sank to his knees, gasping for air.
Isak gaped at the change in his bondsman, then crouched down beside the man, placing a hand on his shoulder to steady him as much as calm him. Before he could think of anything to say, Mihn choked out a handful of words. 'Please don't send me away. I have nothing – I am nothing now. My life has been…' His voice trailed off into a language Isak didn't recognise, his own tongue, perhaps.
Finally Isak understood. 'You're a Harlequin?' It was scarcely possible to believe. No one knew very much about the Harlequins – not even where they came from, let alone how they were able to remember every story and song they had ever heard. The androgynous storytellers who carried a pair of slender swords and dressed in diamond-pattern clothes and white masks were as mythical as the tales they told.
'I am nothing,' Mihn repeated, as if in a trance. He looked up to meet Isak's eyes for the first time and calmed himself a little. Tm a failure. They had such high hopes for me; all the elders said I would be the best they had ever seen. I had surpassed the masters with the blades by my eighteenth summer.'
'Then what happened?'
'I failed the last trial. There were only three of us. Those who are allowed to take the test should be certain to pass. But I failed.'
'How?'
The last trial is to tell one of the sagas, in full, one that should last for a day at least, but I… I could not remember my tale, not a single word, no
t a name, not a place. I had spent my life training for this, learning every language in the Land, all the dialects and accents and idiosyncrasies, repeating the stories the Gods taught us, practising each step of every play, the voices of animals and accents of man and woman. But at the test I could not remember one word of my favourite tale, one I had memorised before my tenth summer.'
Mihn leaned forward, his chest pressed down on his thighs. 'I was cast out. The mask I was to put on was burned, my blades broken. I vowed never to wield an edged weapon again, as penance for failing those who had trained me and invested their faith in me.'
'One story? One forgotten story and your life is over?'
With a bitter laugh, Mihn replied, 'A Harlequin who cannot remember? The Gods themselves wrote our laws in stone, carved into the wall of our holiest place. A Harlequin is emissary of the Gods. Without perfection in thought and word, it would be blasphemy.'
Isak gently grasped the broken figure by the shoulders and lifted him up. As he felt a shudder run through Mihn's body, he realised it was just as well Mihn had come with him: he was too similar to Bahl – left alone, he'd end up a shadow, walking the corridors of the palace like a restless phantom. Mihn's face had crumpled into complete hopelessness. He was searching for something to give him meaning again.
'One moment of pain can rule you, but it doesn't have to. Lord has been dwelling on the death of his love for so many years that it has become his life and might even be his death,' Isak said. 'Listen to me. Harlequins may be wonderful; they may be blessed – but you can be more than that.'
Mihn gaped at his lord, mouth half-open to protest, when Isak went on, 'Think about it. What do Harlequins do? They teach us where we came from, and hope we heed the warnings of history. They have so many skills, but they hardly use them. They have so much knowledge, but when do they ever exploit it for the good of anyone, even themselves? You have all of these gifts, and one more – you don't
wear the mask.'
'I don't understand,' Mihn muttered.
The Harlequins' masks hide them from the Land. Unlike a Harlequin, 1 can't hide behind my mask forever. 1 have to be a part of the Land – it's up to me whether my influence will be for good or bad. You might not be able to tell the stories, but you can influence them. Tila is forever laughing at my ignorance, but it could be a crucial failing if the Gods involve themselves in our lives. You can fight better than any normal I've met, but it's your knowledge of the Gods, of the entire Land and its languages, that I need – and 1 won't find that in
any other soldier.'
Isak realised that he was trembling. The whole subject of being a failure was a little close to his heart. 'Think it over. We'll be back in the saddle soon, but you have until we leave Nerlos Fortress to make up your mind. After that, we'll be outside Farlan territory. You can decide to become a ranger, or an assassin or a court jester, or whatever you wish, but if you want purpose in your life, here it is, for the taking.'
CHAPTER 24
As the first cold rays of dawn reached out over the Land, a figure made his way on to a deserted stretch of battlements on the south-western corner of Nerlos Fortress. He was dressed only in a rough black shirt and billowing trousers, hardly suitable for the cool morning, but as he padded on to the corner-platform between two stretches of walkway he appeared unperturbed by either the wind or the cold stone against his bare feet.
He knelt, facing the sun as it crept up towards the cloud that covered most of the sky, then bowed and, eyes half-closed, whispered a mantra. The words drifted away on the wind as he repeated the bow and the prayer ten more times, his voice smooth, almost hypnotic.
He sat back on his heels and beamed contentedly at the sunrise for a few minutes, then closed his eyes again and stretched out his right leg, laying it flat against the stone pointing north, then extended his left leg to the south, all with apparent ease. More words slipped through his lips, less formal, perhaps, but still full of reverence, as he leaned forward and placed his hands against the stone floor, tensing slightly, and eased his weight on to his palms. His legs wavered for a moment as he found his body's centre of balance, then he drew them together, pointing straight up.
He straightened his arms and moved his weight on to one hand, twisting so he was facing down the empty walkway. In times of peace there was only a single lookout on the highest tower and no one else had risen with the dawn. He bent his body into a crescent shape, then Propelled his body around and back up to a standing position.
And what was that?' The voice made Mihn pause and he peered into the darkened doorway suspiciously until Isak stepped out into the crisp sunlight.
'I was praying.'
Isak raised an eyebrow. 'Praying? I've never seen a priest do that.'
'You don't need to be a priest to pray, my Lord. Every child should be taught the devotionals to each of the Upper Circle.'
'No doubt they should – 1 can probably even remember some of them – but what was that last bit? If everyone had to do that at temple 1 might have gone more often.' Isak's laughter died when he
saw Mihn's grave expression.
'That was a personal prayer, something we were taught in our tribe. It's different for each person, a way of giving thanks for something you enjoy, or a particular ability-'
'So I should be killing someone each morning? That's all they made me good for.' Isak immediately regretted snapping, but Mihn's calm
was not disrupted.
'Not at all. I believe you have several things to be grateful for: your strength, your health, your position. And there are your gifts-'
'Fine, I understand, just stop preaching. If you've decided to stay and piously whine at me as your life's calling, I take everything back,' Isak shifted uncomfortably. It- hadn't even occurred to him to say a prayer of thanks for his gifts. There had been little chance when Nartis was invading his dreams, and then he'd got caught up in his new life… one had to hope that the Gods weren't like people. Isak had seen family feuds grow out of those feast days where gifts were traditional. The idea of appearing ungrateful to the God of Storms was not appealing.
Mihn broke into his reverie. Then I will try not to piously whine at you every morning – but yes, I have decided to stay with you. For a man whose first recourse is violence, you can be eloquent at times. The casual listener might believe you had given the subject some thought.'
Isak grinned. 'If you've quite finished, you can go and fetch me some jugs of water.'
Mihn narrowed his eyes. For all of his power, Isak was still a young man, and one who'd rarely had a chance to enjoy himself at that. 'Some might think Carel's observation that he found it hard to wake up early these days was not intended as a hint.'
'I know, but they're the sort of people who pray every morning. I on the other hand, have no morals – by divine mandate. And who am I to defy the will of the Gods?' Mihn sighed. 'Who indeed?'
********
Jeil moved swiftly through the trees, his bow held ready. Over the rushing sound of the river nearby he heard a faint birdcall, the short double-trill of a goldcrest, and he stopped to crouch behind an ancient hawthorn. Borl's mimicry of birdcalls was brilliant, one of the reasons he had been picked to escort Isak to Narkang. It was the perfect way to keep his companions informed of enemy movements without giving himself away, and it meant Jeil, who was faster, could hunt them down from his calls.
This was the first person they had encountered since disembarking from the riverboat they had used to travel the border between Tor Milist and Scree towards Helrect. It was an obvious ambush point, as only coracles could traverse this section of the river, and they were no use for transporting horses.
The goldcrest trilled again and Jeil tensed, ready to step out, when a second call sounded from somewhere up ahead. He swore silently: either Borl's mimicry was too good and had attracted a real bird, or their prey had caught on. Jeil hunkered down and kept completely still, listening hard. The Land was unnaturally quiet – until a piercin
g whistle broke the stillness, no bird sound, this, but a warning that Jeil had been seen. The ranger rose and drew his sword, stabbing it into the earth within easy reach before fully drawing his bow.
'Enough of the birdsong,' called a voice no more than thirty yards ahead. 'I know you're there, so come out.'
He heard footsteps crunching over dead branches advancing towards him and stepped around the hawthorn, still certain that no one could have seen or heard him. The silk of his bowstring caressed his cheek as he caught sight of the speaker. He wasn't much to look at: dressed in roughly patched leathers and a ragged wolf's pelt, with a longbow slung over his shoulder and a short-handled axe at his belt. 'I'm alone,' he said. 'I've been waiting for you all morning.' He looked about fifty summers, with traces of white on the week's growth of beard. An easy smile hovered on his lips, one that put Jeil on edge.
The border with Scree is a strange place to be waiting alone and on foot,' Jeil replied, keeping his bow raised. 'A boat couldn't have brought you to this stretch of the river and you don't look much like a local waterman to me.'
‘Send the other ranger back to fetch your Lord,' the man continued.
'I would speak to him.' He didn't sound like he was a native of these parts. His accent was awkward, as if his own dialect were markedly
different.
'What's your business with my Lord?'
'Someone sent me to speak to him. Look, boy, I knew you were coming, 1 could have ambushed you all if 1 wanted him dead. Just send your friend to tell them I'm here and then we can relax with a pipe
until they arrive.'
Jeil eased the tension in the bow enough to free up his right hand. Without taking his eyes off the man, he raised his arm and motioned in the air. A whistle told him that Borl understood. Still keeping his eyes on the man, Jeil backed away and retrieved his blade; the arrow