“You’ve come to terms with a far greater loss than her or me,” said Kyrin from the doorway. Aldric didn’t look back, but his right hand closed around the longsword’s grip so tightly that its knuckles went bone-white.
“Yes. Yes, I suppose I have, if what I intend for Duergar Vathach is the coming to terms you mean. But I had no choice about him. Now I do. You said it yourself: I’m heir to lands and ranks and titles. I have authority and power. What did your mother tell you? When you see something worth taking, seize it while you can. Something like that.” He swung around with the taiken braced, ready to draw. “So what’s to stop me?”
Kyrin stared at him, and more tears began welling from her shocked eyes though now there was no smile to keep them company.
“You’re crying again.”
“Yes, Aldric, I’m crying. I’m crying for you. Somebody has to. What broke inside you besides that rib? What changed the man I thought I knew…?” Her voice trailed off, and she wiped the tears away with a sweep of one hand hard enough to leave a bruise. “No. I won’t accept that. Say it again. Say it to my face. But put the sword down first.”
“Why should I?”
“Why shouldn’t you? I’m not armed, I’m not an enemy, and I thought I was more than a friend. So put that sword aside, then lecture me again about the privileges of power.”
Aldric drew breath to refuse, to dismiss her unspoken suggestion. He was still eijo, but soon he would be kailin-eir and clan-lord and master of Dunrath, and this blade would help him achieve it all.
“Will you not?” Kyrin glanced from his face to the sword in his hands and back again. “Or can you not?”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Just a request. I’ve asked for other things before now and never seen this much hesitation.”
Aldric’s cheeks burned. It was all so foolish. He had no reason to put Widowmaker aside, and… And he didn’t want to. As if he was afraid to, and that was even more foolish. What had he to fear from Kyrin, or she from him? He opened his hands, and the clatter as the longsword dropped onto the bed sounded like a protest.
“Now,” said Kyrin, “repeat what you said before.”
Aldric drew a long breath, then let it out again. He couldn’t make that arrogant declaration again. His mouth wouldn’t shape the words, his voice couldn’t form the sounds, and knowing he had said it once already made his stomach turn over.
“Oh Light of Heaven, I’m sorry, truly sorry…” Hard to hurt an enemy, easier to hurt a friend, easiest of all to break the half-formed bonds of love. “P-please forgive me…”
Kyrin stayed at the threshold of the room, poised if need be to step back and slam the door, but the wary apprehension on her face had become understanding. And pity.
“There’s nothing to forgive. You only confirmed a suspicion that makes parting easier. I’m not the companion you need right now.” She glanced sidelong at Isileth lying along the centre of the bed as it had done on a night bare weeks and a lifetime ago. “That is. Gemmel gave you a faithful guardian. Perhaps too faithful, and lacking discrimination between enemies and other friends. Some of our old tales mention rataqtu-sennu, ‘eager blades’.”
Aldric looked at her sharply, as if hearing something uncomfortably familiar.
“They’re mostly swords, though the Lady of the Moon had a curved spear and… Anyway, that’s how the world got Night and Winter. They’re not magic, not cursed, just so well made they want to fulfil their function. And if it means—”
“Encouraging short tempers and provoking harsh words? Oh yes. Our stories have them too, hungry swords, an-gortaikenin, but they’re not as mythic as creating light and dark and changing seasons. Just futile heroism, broken romance and a tragic conclusion.” He produced a tight little smile. “Better on page or stage than in real life.”
“Aldric, how is it you were a wizard’s fosterling and lived for years in company with magic, yet understand so little about it?”
“At first I didn’t ask, then when I started to ask, Gemmel-altrou didn’t want to tell. So perhaps he didn’t think to tell me about that. Perhaps he didn’t even know about…” He laughed, for the notion of that particular oversight was ridiculous. “What am I saying? He knew.”
“Then ask him about it sometime. If you can, because I’ve heard that magic can slip from memory if your mind doesn’t want it there.”
“I’ll remember.”
“Maybe you will.” Kyrin looked at the taiken again. “Do your hungry swords kill lovers too? Because I think that cold lady tolerates few rivals, and you might use more than cutting words next time.”
There was a moment of silence, then by unspoken mutual agreement and in perfect unison they moved away from the bed. It could have been comical, and if someone had looked self-conscious it would have been comical, but it wasn’t.
“Lovers? Did you ever really—?”
“If you’re about to say ‘Did I ever really love you?’ then save your breath. You already know the answer, Aldric. You’ve always known it, even though you ignored that knowledge because—”
“I’m a romantic.”
“Not an insult, a compliment. Cherish it. You might need something that wholesome before you’re done.” Kyrin finally moved close enough to touch his face with her fingertips, a butterfly contact as if too much pressure would break something. “I liked you a great deal, eventually. I enjoyed your company. I enjoyed you.” She smiled a quick wicked smile that prompted one in return. “Don’t spoil it all by searching for something that was never there.”
“You should leave now, Kyrin-ain. For good or ill, I have places to go where you can’t follow.”
“Don’t linger in those places when you’re done, Aldric-ain. Come back safe from them.” She stroked his cropped hair, then pressed her lips against his forehead, each eyelid and finally his mouth. “I remember only the good things between us. All else is smoke on the wind. You acted honourably towards me, Seorth will hear of it, and our house is yours, for safety and shelter, for fire and food and friendship.” She bowed as she had seen him do so many times. “Go with your God, Alban, and may Heaven grant you long life.”
“Someone long ago had an opinion about that .‘What is life except excuse for death, or death except escape from life?’ Recall my name with kindness now and then.”
Before she was out of the room she heard the rattle of steel on wood and leather that told her he had picked up Isileth Widowmaker again. Kyrin looked back just once, at the black-clad figure cradling a black longsword in both hands as if they would never hold anything else. As she walked away she thought about his words, increasingly certain they weren’t from long ago but Aldric’s own.
And she shivered.
*
From the balcony of Dunrath’s donjon Lord Santon’s troops looked like toy soldiers set out for playtime, little blocks of men facing the fortress walls just out of arrow-shot. Duergar Vathach leaned on a parapet and frowned. Another thousand troops from Grand Warlord Etzel and he could crush the siege-force in open battle, but even after nearly four years the Warlord refused to show his hand so openly. All Duergar could do was stand up here and wish.
Fabric rustled behind him and Kalarr cu Ruruc stepped out onto the balcony, wind whipping at his forbidding vermeil robes. “Have they altered disposition at all?” he said.
“Not since dawn. Why? What difference would it make?”
“Enough to annoy me.” That was enough for Duergar to move away. He had seen cu Ruruc’s annoyance before, and it far exceeded any normal man’s blind rage. “Last night’s work was based on last night’s troop positions; I have no desire to do it all again. And the traugarin?”
“The cold stopped them rotting, but if it’s too intense they dry to leather. At least the kites and blowflies can’t—” He was interrupted by a short, humourless laugh.
“The problems of necromancy! Why didn’t you weather-work from the start?”
“I don’t like weather-mag
ic. It’s crude, it’s hard to control, and it’s not safe.”
“Like? Safe? What kind of sorcerer are you?” Cu Ruruc turned his back on Duergar and studied a distant group of horsemen riding out from the siege-lines. They stopped well clear of bowshot and their leader made a hand-waving speech too faint to hear, then set light to straw tied around his spearhead and held it high. “How very traditional. The commander of the host sends defiance with fire and steel and awaits our response. Shall we provide one?”
“How? Surely they have some defences? Otherwise why would they dare come so close?”
“Ignorance or disbelief, call it what you will. I tested this morning with lesser enchantments – a snuffed fire here, a tumbled banner there – and encountered neither wards nor barriers. Their commander is the usual high-clan kailin-eir who won’t see farther than the end of his wellborn nose. To him and his kind the Art Magic is something from a story.”
“Not to all of them.” Baiart Talvalin stood at the stair-head behind them. “My brother understands you well enough, cu Ruruc. That’s why he’ll kill you.”
The wizards glanced at Baiart and at each other, then Kalarr’s nostrils twitched and Duergar broke into a high-pitched bray of laughter. “Your brother,” spluttered the Drusalan, “is floating on the high seas, prey to everything we throw at him.”
“My brother passed from your knowledge when the Eye was destroyed. I was there, I saw it happen, and I heard your reaction.”
Kalarr’s saturnine face darkened. “Maybe so. Wait a little longer and you’ll see what awaits bold clan-lord Aldric when he comes within my reach.”
“You’re scared of him, aren’t you?” Baiart jeered. “He killed the monster you sent after him, and he evaded your spy. Now you’re afraid!”
“If death is what you want—” Duergar levelled his open hand and Kalarr dragged it aside.
“Then it’s not what you’ll receive. No matter how much you desire it, Baiart Talvalin, death will pass you by.” Kalarr cu Ruruc smiled pleasantly, like someone promising a treat. “Others are more fortunate. Watch, and learn.”
CHAPTER NINE
Alban Great Harness was difficult to put on unaided, each part fitting to the next in sequence, but Aldric did it alone because he wanted to occupy his mind, so it wouldn’t dwell on… on too many other things.
He checked every joint and plate as they locked around his limbs. Players on-stage clanked and jingled because their armour didn’t fit, yet by the time Aldric was done, each piece slid against its neighbour with no more than a metallic whisper or a scrape of mail. His crested Colour-Robe went on with equal care. The last time King Rynert’s councillors saw Talvalin’s silver eagles they had been on Baiart’s unworthy shoulders, and Aldric was determined to wear them better.
He buckled on his weapon-belt last of all, reached for his tsepan and then hesitated, staring at the black dirk for a long moment before he picked it up and ran the sheath into its loops. Isileth Widowmaker concerned him far less, and the long hilt rearing above his shoulder was like a friend watching over him.
One he could rely on.
The bathhouse and eating hall had been in their usual places for an Alban town-house, which meant the private chambers were probably the same, so he took a shortcut through upper corridors where some servant, concerned by many military boots, had laid protective mats over the fine wood floors. They were also thick enough to muffle all but the loudest footfall.
If Aldric had been less wrapped up in his own troubles, he would have realised walking in near-silence through a house full of high-ranked lords might take him into places where he wasn’t wanted. That realisation came too late, while he crossed a high balcony lined with carved screens. Their exuberant fretwork of flowers and leaves didn’t block his view at all, and when he glimpsed movement he glanced down without a second thought.
What he saw and heard brought him to a standstill.
The murmuring voices weren’t close enough for him to understand the conversation, but anyone standing where he was now could confirm he might have overheard a few words. Even a few would be too many. It made him wish he’d gone another way, any other way, even out into the rain, and the wise thing would be to creep away and do it. He didn’t dare. Getting this far unnoticed had probably used up his day’s luck on that score.
Tall windows striped the hall into patterns of wan light and deep shadow, framing three figures like the cast of a dramatic tableau. King Rynert sat at one end, Dewan ar Korentin stood in the centre, drawn sword on shoulder, and a third man knelt on one knee with a window to either side.
It was obvious why he took such trouble over his position. In this dim place the rain-streaked windows were still bright enough to dazzle, his smoke-grey hooded cloak blended with the gloom between them until one became the other, and a pale-blond beard was the only clear thing about him. Aldric could see no weapons except for ar Korentin’s sword, but it didn’t matter. This man’s mere presence was enough for caution.
Sudden violence and a taulath went hand-in-hand.
Why King Rynert was having dealings with a Shadowthief of the Drusalan Empire was beyond Aldric’s understanding. He had never seen one, though he knew all about them: spies, kidnappers, assassins, any task at all, performed without question once an employer met their price. Eijin like himself were men who had laid aside their honour; tulathin didn’t even have the word in their vocabulary.
He remembered other words, spoken by a dead man, cut short by Dewan ar Korentin and silenced forever by Ymareth the firedrake. “Your king has a double standard,” Luent Skawmour had said. “Honour in the daylight and death in the shadows. Death by the Shad—”
Aldric would swear on his own tarnished honour that the unfinished word was Shadowthief.
Coins clinked briefly, then the taulath whisked back into those shadows as if he had never been there. The distinctive pale-blond beard, now lying on the floor, showed he might not have been blond at all, or even male. Aldric breathed a little more easily, but his pulse didn’t slow down until Dewan and the king were also gone. He wiped the sweat from brow and upper lip and shivered as unreachable drops trickled down his spine, wondering if the day held any more unpleasant surprises. Troubles, went the old saying, travel in threes.
If it was true, then the third was yet to come.
*
Lord Santon studied Dunrath from his position on the ridge. For an hour now a heavy mist had veiled the uppermost part of the donjon, and there was a dull, sonorous drone in the air like a monstrous swarm of bees, as much felt through the ground as heard in the air. Santon pushed the ominous sight and sound to the back of his mind by opening a chart and examining the list of notes running neatly down its margins, but he had barely begun when Dyran Haskol yelled an alarm.
Endwar-arluth Santon lost no time in idle questions because he could see for himself. Between looking away and looking back the entire fortress had become shrouded in that mist, now lit from within by a pallid shimmer. Spheres of brilliant light spat from the cloud, dragging long bright tails behind them as they curved down to make frosty explosions on the ground before the fortress. The dull hum grew more intense, a harsh drone to set the teeth on edge, and the air became still colder.
Santon swore, and watched the smoky breath of his curse drift away from his mouth. When he lifted his helmet he yelped and swore again, then sucked at fingertips whose skin remained on the icy metal of the neck-guard, blots of pallid tissue like the flesh of a man with frostbite. The red stone of Dunrath’s walls turned sparkling white as if snow had fallen and mingled with powdered diamonds as it fell. Long filaments of frigid mist flowed from it, drifting towards the siege-lines and the ranks of his army.
“Sound retreat!” Santon bawled, trying to smother the fear in his voice with loudness and anger. Dyran raised his bugle, then released his breath not in the ordered signal but a cry of pain as the bronze mouthpiece froze against his mouth. When he wrenched it away blood trickled from both lips do
wn his chin, congealing there in icicles of cherry red.
The orderly regimental blocks bulged, heaved and broke as the men in those formations began to run, flinging away shields, helmets and weapons grown too cold to bear. A wind rushed out from Dunrath’s walls, its sullen moan rising fast to howl then shrieking gale. It tore flags from poles, pavilions and bivouac tents from the ground, and breath from the lungs of men too chilled by a brutal blast from between the stars to fight against it. This unfought battle had been won and lost without a single blow from any blade.
Lord Santon’s officers had become old men, their beards and eyebrows thick with frost. Some swore, some prayed and one, maddened by impotent rage or simple crazed despair, fumbled for the tsepan at his belt. There were no ritual words, no elaborate ceremony, just the long blade stabbed up so hard and deep beneath his chin that he was dead before he fell. His blood steamed as it left the wound, but was a frozen spray like shattered rubies by the time it struck the ground.
That death was honourable, not by some wizard’s choice, and Santon envied him. He was only surprised that more minds hadn’t broken, because now the mist around Dunrath had solidified into shimmering patterns of force that crawled over the massive structure and gave stone the semblance of ghastly life. Serpentine coils of energy writhed high above the donjon, their shifting, brilliant colours impossible to watch yet impossible to ignore. They were brooding, ominous, the piled thunderhead clouds of a storm ready to break.
And he dreaded what would happen when it did.
*
Aldric stopped short of the council chamber to get his features under control for when he met Dewan and King Rynert, but to the guards flanking the big double door he only looked like someone who’d been hurrying and was regaining his composure.
“You’ve plenty of time to get your breath back, arluth-an,” said one, his careful mix of respect and familiarity an attempt to reconcile high-clan crests with a croppy haircut and a back-slung longsword. “Nobody will care if you’re late, because the King isn’t there yet.”
The Horse Lord (The Book of Years Series 1) Page 25