by Tom Lloyd
That afternoon, he found himself kneeling on the grass with three whooping children, young relatives of the countess, balanced on his broad back. Vesna and Tila were standing close together, fingers interlocked, watching.
‘Of such things are the most perfect childhood memories made,’ said Vesna, grinning.
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Tila with a laugh. ‘Within four summers they’ll be horrified when they remember clambering over Lord Isak, let alone how they bit the duke on his white-hand!’ She giggled as Isak stretched out an arm so the boys could swing from it, as if it were the branch of a tree. With a roar, a little girl lunged for the arm as well, struggling to dislodge the boys. Isak could almost imagine that he was playing with Tila’s children while she and the count watched on in parental approval. As he tickled the girl, provoking squeals of laughter, Isak grinned as he realised that for the next few weeks he could have a childhood of sorts, one denied to him in the past. The impositions of adult-hood would return all too soon; for now, it was summer, he was surrounded by friends and the sun was shining.
Groaning, Isak swung himself into his saddle. Though the morning was a little cooler, Isak still found his new dragon-emblazoned green tunic uncomfortably warm, but he would look the part of a duke as he saw Morghien and Mihn off. As it was customary for the Saroc household to accompany those leaving for the first hour of their journey, the suzerain had decided to turn this into a visit to the nearest town.
Red oak-leaves embroidered all the way up Isak’s left sleeve drew attention to the exposed skin of his hand, but he couldn’t deny the overall effect. With Eolis hanging from a bright red swordbelt and scarlet leather boots, Isak looked more like a Farlan noble than he ever had before. Only the white cloak around his shoulders ruined the image a little, but they had officially proclaimed Bahl’s death now, so every person in the party wore similar cloaks, embroidered with ancient symbols of mourning. The women wore white scarves, and would keep their hair covered for the fortnight of mourning.
‘I must say, Countess, your seamstress has surpassed herself,’ commented Tila as Isak wheeled Megenn around.
‘The very image of a gentleman,’ agreed the countess with a smile. Isak glowered at the two of them, but goodnaturedly. He had to admit it was nice to be dressed in new clothes; the months of travelling had taken a toll on their wardrobes.
‘Everyone will be talking about times changing,’ Tila continued. ‘Lord Bahl’s image was rather that of a hermit, and a threadbare one at that. I’m afraid it didn’t serve him well.’
‘I hardly think people’s opinion on his dress worth worrying about,’ Isak said. He spoke without rancour, but Tila stopped. Isak had become extremely protective of Lord Bahl since his death.
‘This is your first public appearance as Lord of the Farlan,’ Tila said firmly. ‘You may not like it, but word of how you appear today will spread to the other suzerainties very quickly. They have heard only that Lord Bahl is dead. They will be reassured that you look the part, that you look like the Duke of Tirah.’
‘I suspect they’ve heard too much about me already.’
‘Then we have a new image to present,’ Tila said, still composed. ‘The refined, sophisticated Lord Isak, Duke of Tirah is a quite different beast to the uncivilised Suzerain Anvee!’
‘The things a woman will do for a state wedding,’ Isak retorted, remembering Lord Bahl’s parting words. He grinned at her blush. State wedding indeed, he thought. Better be sooner rather than later, or there might be a little embarrassment - I’d be surprised if a virgin smiled like that!
Before either could say more, Count Vesna ushered them all through the gates. Morghien and Mihn were already there, waiting impatiently, and as soon as they spotted Isak they swung their horses around and broke into a gentle canter. The procession took a while to catch up, but soon everyone settled in to an easy stride.
The early morning mist didn’t linger for long and the air was filled with birdsong. Isak noticed the difference in the Land here, far from the mountains and dark forests a wagon-brat had considered home. The undulating ground of Saroc was mostly scrub, where the forest had given way, populated by goats and long-horned sheep, interspersed with cultivated fields neatly enclosed by drystone walls or high bramble hedges.
The hour went quickly as the warmth increased. Brief goodbyes were exchanged on the highway, under the watchful gaze of a solitary, ageing roadman whom Suzerain Saroc had greeted by name. When the time came, Isak found he didn’t know what to say to Mihn, the man who had been his shadow for six months now. The words caught in his throat as he realised how much he would miss the silent presence, almost fatherly, though Mihn was only just thirty summers.
As they clasped arms, Morghien stepped away, to allow them some privacy. Isak opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. He released Mihn and withdrew his hand, feeling foolish and awkward.
‘Don’t go and get yourself killed, you hear?’ he said, sounding almost angry. ‘I’ll have things for you to do when you bring her back.’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ Mihn replied, as inscrutable as ever.
Isak shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘Well then, I suppose you should be off,’ he said gruffly.
‘Yes, my Lord.’ Mihn gave a bow and turned to leave.
Ah, damn, I’m being a fool, aren’t I? Isak thought suddenly. Never had much need for goodbyes before, not to a friend. ‘Mihn, wait,’ he said on impulse. Right, what do I say now? ‘Thank you for agreeing to go; Xeliath is really my responsibility after all. You’ve been as loyal a bondsman as I could have ever hoped for, as well as a friend.’
A smile crept onto Mihn’s usually expressionless face. ‘I am glad to have purpose in my life again,’ he said. For a moment he hesitated, off-balance himself. ‘I—when I was young and still with my people, weaponsmasters from the furthest clans came to watch me in a practice duel. I am—I was the best with the blades they’d ever seen. One said he thought he was watching the King of Dancers.’
‘The what?’
‘A myth among the Harlequin, that one day we would have a king of our own, one who will end our years of service to the Seven Tribes of Man. It isn’t a prophecy -even among the Harlequins we do not know its origin -but it is told to every child, down through the generations, because it is the only tale we have of our own. None of the history we relate involves the people of the clans. After that day I was treated differently, as though my destiny was assured and I carried their hopes with me.
‘When I failed, the old men wept as if they had no future. I know it isn’t the same for you, but I do know what it is to bear expectation. It was something I resented. I thought of it as a burden. Now I am glad I have the chance to be part of something magnificent again.’
Isak didn’t speak. He was transfixed by the outwelling of emotion, and by Mihn’s unwarranted decision to reveal such a personal matter.
‘Just remember,’ Mihn continued as he composed himself, ‘you’ve been blessed by the Gods. Never forget that, and never regret it.’ With that, he turned and walked away to his horse. He had a spring in his step, as though a weight had been lifted from him.
‘I hope you remember that too,’ Isak said to Mihn’s back, but whether he heard, Isak had no idea.
When the pair had disappeared behind a great outcrop of grass-topped granite, Suzerain Saroc led the procession in the opposite direction, eastwards, toward the town. As they travelled, the suzerain explained to Isak that the town was in fact owned by the abbey at its centre, run by the Brethren of the Sacred Teachings. His grandfather had bequeathed them land that hugged the banks of the river, but the second abbot, being a man of sharp business sense, had overseen the village’s expansion and now the once-sleepy hamlet was a busy town.
As they drew closer, Isak began to note increasing numbers of fit young men in blue habits, beyond that of any normal monastery. The suzerain was a popular man, and stopped frequently to talk to the townsfolk. He introduced the most importan
t to Isak, but most were too intimidated by the huge white-eye to do much beyond bow and mutter greetings. Even so, Isak felt the atmosphere was one of welcome more than anything else, and his fears about the Brethren began to subside -until he reminded himself that it was easy enough to put on a show for one day. He would need to hear Lesarl’s opinion before he accepted it wholly at face value.
At the abbey a small party stood waiting to greet them. The men were all dressed in dark blue, as befitted monks in the service of Nartis, but on their deep cuffs were thick bands of yellow, which Isak had never seen before. The abbot looked young for his position, barely forty summers, by Isak’s guess, although his head was clearly bald, unlike many of his companions, who had had to resort to shaving to correctly mimic their God, Nartis.
Suzerain Saroc went through the formalities, introducing Abbot Kels and Prior Portin. There were two unnamed monks, who were standing beside a third man, dressed as a lay brother and leaning heavily on a wooden crutch, his right leg raised off the ground. The man wouldn’t look at Isak, but scowled at the ground between the Duke of Tirah and Abbot Kels. There was something familiar about the man, but nothing he could put his finger on. In the distant recesses of his mind, Aryn Bwr, who had been quiet since the battle, chuckled infuriatingly. Isak tried to concentrate on what people were saying, but when the injured man did at last speak, the words escaped Isak completely.
‘But of course!’ exclaimed the abbot in response to whatever the man had said. ‘I should not have kept you here at all. My Lords, please excuse Brother Hobble, for he has just returned from the hospital with vital medicines, and as you can imagine, it is rather tiring to walk with a crutch.’
Isak motioned for the man to go, which Hobble did without another word. Aryn Bwr muttered something ironic in Elvish, as the man made his way down the street.
‘Brother Hobble?’ Isak enquired of the abbot, who spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
‘It is the only name he will give us. He came to us several months ago, and he has been a blessing to the abbey ever since. He’s a learned and pious man who I hope will soon take his vows, but he will tell us nothing of his past, or the cause of that shattered ankle that refuses to heal properly.’
‘I know him,’ mused Vesna. ‘I’ve seen him at the palace, I think -a Swordmaster? His name escapes me, but I know I’ve met him.’
As the memory of his first morning in the palace rose in Isak’s mind, a cold chill ran down his spine and his mouth went suddenly dry. A face in the crowd as he sparred with Swordmaster Kerin; a pain in the back of his knee; the bubbling anger as he sprawled flat on his back on the packed earth of the training ground; a savage blow as he lashed out at the man who had caught him, and the thumping connection with an ankle that was so hard it had jarred his wrist.
Isak hadn’t even looked at the man, intent as he was on besting Kerin. Only afterwards had he noticed the man, face contorted by pain as he held his leg just above the shattered ankle -the ankle that still hadn’t healed.
‘Oh Gods.’
‘What is it?’ Vesna asked. ‘Can you place him?’
Isak ignored the question and asked the abbot, ‘Can you not do anything for him? Have you tried to heal it with magic?’
‘Of course, my Lord,’ the abbot replied, ‘we are a dual-aligned abbey, dedicated to Nartis and Shotir.’ He brushed the yellow cuff of his habit: Isak now realised it was the colour of the God of Healing. ‘Unfortunately, our best efforts - and we do have a number of talented healers here -have proved fruitless. The damage done to Hobble’s ankle is no normal injury, and our magic has had no effect. I suspect Hobble believes the hurt done to him was a divine judgment, that he has something to atone for. Certainly that impression is sustained by the vigour he goes about any task he is given, but considering how selfless the man is, I cannot begin to imagine what that might be.’
Isak stared down the road at the man limping through the crowds of townsfolk. ‘Tsatach’s balls,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘An angry boy’s moment of petulance, nothing more, and he takes it as a divine judgment?’ Now he knew why the last king had been so amused.
‘My Lord?’ said the abbot anxiously, trying to catch Isak’s words.
‘What does he do at the hospital?’
‘He is experienced at dressing wounds and spends much of his day tending to the poor folk afflicted with leprosy. He will not turn from the most menial of tasks.’
‘Leprosy?’ Isak exclaimed, wide-eyed with alarm.
The abbot chuckled. ‘My Lord, calm yourself. We have tended lepers in these parts for decades; I am certain there is no risk of contagion. Brother Helras has been in charge of the hospital for ten years now, and has persisted in good health the entire time. You are quite safe.’
‘Did Brother Hobble know that when he volunteered for the duties?’
The abbot paused. ‘I’m not sure . . . perhaps. If not, it is a testament to the man’s faith, no? Now, may I show you around the abbey and offer you refreshment?’
‘The consequences of this life,’ he muttered under his breath, too softly for anyone else to hear. He tells me to be thankful for what I have, yet every step of the way I hurt someone else. In my wake I hardly notice the futures I ruin. Oh Mihn, you’ve got such faith in me, but what magnificent destiny are you going to find down a road paved with broken lives?
‘My Lord?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Lead the way.’
That evening, Isak found himself out in the walled garden again, staring up at the hunter’s moon at its zenith. The memory of Brother Hobble, struggling with his crutch and scowling down at the ground, had haunted him all day. Clearly he had not forgiven Isak for the injury, divine retribution or no, and Isak certainly couldn’t blame him for that: constant pain and the end to his life as a Swordmaster were hard things to forgive - although the latter must have been the man’s own choice, knowing Swordmaster Kerin as he did. It was the heroes of war who gained Farlan titles and fame, and there were dozens of men who’d found their place in the Land through being a champion of the Ghosts.
‘Contemplating the futility of existence, my Lord?’
Isak whirled around at the unknown voice, Eolis flashing from its sheath. The silver blade glowed in the moonlight as a man stepped from the shadows with a chuckle. A sword remained sheathed on his back while his hands were held out in Farlan greeting.
‘With such gifts, who could lead a futile life?’
‘Who are you?’ Isak tried to make out the man’s face. He wasn’t Farlan; his lighter hair and darker complexion made him look more Western, if anything. His dress was dark, functional, reminding Isak of the King’s Men of Narkang. Not quite a soldier, and more than one.
‘I am Ilumene.’ There was a pause. The man stood with the ghost of a sardonic smile on his lips. Isak had the oddest sensation, that Ilumene was not just a King’s Man, he could be King Emin’s son -though of course he could not be, as he was some thirty summers old, and Queen Oterness was well noted for having failed to produce an heir . . . but this man did have every ounce of Emin’s mocking arrogance.
‘For a man who seems to like the sound of his own voice, you’ve gone suddenly quiet,’ Isak said. ‘If you don’t want me to run you through, perhaps you would care to explain yourself in a little more detail?’
The edge in Isak’s growling voice served only to widen Ilumene’s smile. The man had two scars on his otherwise handsome face, on the left-hand side. One skirted the ridge of his eyebrow; the second was a jagged cut down the outside of his cheek.
‘I am of the Brotherhood.’ Ilumene gave a chuckle and turned his head to the right to give Isak a better view of his scar. ‘But as you can see, my duties have not left me unsullied.’ The base of his earlobe that would have carried the Heart rune had been torn away by the cut. When Ilumene pointed at his ear, Isak saw a network of criss-crossing scars on his hands, as though the man had been dragged through a bramble bush of steel thorns.
&nbs
p; ‘Strange that you didn’t appear when Morghien was here.’
For an instant Ilumene looked genuinely shocked. ‘I didn’t know Morghien had been in the region. Come to think of it, I didn’t know you and he were known to each other. It seems I have much to catch up on. When did he leave?’
‘Today, this morning.’
‘I’m surprised he didn’t wait then; I’ve not seen him for a long time. I was starting to wonder whether he could sniff us out - I can’t remember how often he’s stepped out from behind the only tree around on a deserted stretch of road.’
Isak relaxed a little. There may have been something odd about Ilumene, but he’d not liked all of those Brothers he’d met in Narkang either -the tall, blond one with a scar all the way down the side of his face, Beyn; King Emin and Doranei were confident of his loyalty, but there was something about the man’s face that Isak didn’t care for. I suspect it’s just because he has a white-eye’s arrogance, he thought, being honest with himself.
As it was clear that Ilumene did know Morghien, and Isak was certain the wanderer wasn’t one for casual acquaintances, he sheathed Eolis.
Ilumene stepped a yard closer so they could speak normally.
‘Well, I suppose that also answers how you got past the guards,’ Isak commented. ‘I hope you didn’t hurt any of them.’
Ilumene gave a small smile. ‘One will have wounded pride when his comrades find him, but nothing more. King Emin may encourage many unsavoury traits in his men, but a love of killing is not one of them.’
Though Ilumene spoke with a smile, there was an edge that left Isak with a slight frown. Most of the Brotherhood were respectful of their king to the point of reverence; Ilumene sounded like he was on more familiar terms with Emin. Maybe, Isak reflected, it’s because they’re so similar. His brief time in Narkang was enough for him to realise King Emin was not hot on excessive formality if it were not necessary.