I SHALL RETURN WITH WINTER

by CF WELBURN

  11

  ON THE SHORES OF LUCK

  Oben groaned, shifting uncomfortably and drenched in sweat. His horse had thrown him onto the cobbles in Wicker’s Yard. Old Gurney had carried him back to the stable like a sack of potatoes. Mara and his mother fussed, whilst Kyrion stood behind them, eating an apple, smirking. Then Brintok arrived to scold him.

  But the musty barn smelt different, like it was infused with strange scents and spices. It took him several moments to realise he was no longer in Gilden, nor even in Edale… He sat up, opened his eyes, but all he saw was darkness. He reached up to find a bandage covering both his eyes.

  “Oh, no, you’re not ready for that yet.” said a female voice. A hand touched his chest, pushing him firmly back down.

  “Where am I?” he asked, unable to keep the panic from his voice.

  “You’re in the lodge. We’ve had the healer treat you. You must rest.”

  A rush of memories came back to him. “My eyes…”

  “Wait. Let me close the window.” He heard the shutters close, smelt the smoke of an extinguished lamp. “You can remove the bandage. “Slowly does it.”

  He did so gingerly and squinted in the room’s low light.

  “Anything?”

  “Yes,” he said, as Seri came into focus, her grey hair loose and her ceremonial garb replaced by soft, white linen. He wore similar attire, and for the briefest of moments felt embarrassment that they must have stripped and bathed him. The low light that squeezed through the shutters was still enough to make his eyes throb. It illuminated the bed and a small table with a plate of food and a jug of wine.

  “How long?”

  “A week.”

  “A week! What happened?”

  “You survived.”

  He let her words sink in, while he examined his hands and torso. The veins were still visible, but much less prominent.

  “I don’t understand… My skin, my eyes…”

  “You survived the mountain and the trial is complete. The Thunder-Blade was not a weapon at all. Though it did serve you as one, to some extent.”

  “A flower… a thorn.” he murmured. He remembered his skin squirming, an altar, a fight.

  “I… I killed a man.”

  “You did.”

  He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Numb… and alive; that was the important part.

  “You were resurrected. The thorn marked your skin as lightning.”

  He could but shake his head as memories of the night came back.

  “And Rak, Blin?”

  Seri looked puzzled.

  “Oh, the prisoners. They live. The ceremony could not proceed. The altar was tainted. No more offerings can be made until the spring rains have washed it.”

  “Will they be freed?”

  “That is not for me to decide.”

  “They fought for you.”

  “True. But they have already been promised to Ishral.”

  “Seringil, then. Will he help?”

  She smiled.

  “I’m afraid Seringil is not what you think. I make the decisions here.”

  “You?” He failed to keep the surprise from his voice and instantly regretted it. He remembered that Gulmorgon, too, was a woman, and he had seen what Blin was capable of.

  “Do not misjudge him. Seringil was a great warrior once. But he forfeited that when he took his own eye to become a seer. It did not give him the powers he desired, so he sought a union with me. Things are less complicated with him on the throne. This was his father’s hall, after all. But it is I who rule.”

  “Then set them free.”

  “I can’t. But their fate is linked to yours for the time being. You will see them again.”

  “You mean to imprison me again?” Oben asked.

  Seri laughed, and for a moment seemed like a regular person. Then her regal mien descended like a veil and she said without emotion,

  “Why do you think I defended you on Shriving Night?”

  “Because you think I’m the Conduit.”

  “Half right. Because I think you might become the Conduit. The mark of Ishral, Mascal’s axe, and now the Thunder-Blade…”

  “There’s more?”

  “I’m afraid so. Tell me, before you came here, had you not heard of the Black Swan? Of the scriptures? Of Ishral?”

  “No. The Skalgs, pardon the expression, are thought to be godless. Heathens, barbarians. I had no idea. I’ve seen and heard many surprising things since I crossed the border.”

  “Hm. Your ignorance strengthens your claim. There have been too many pretenders in the past.”

  “I seek no glory or reverence, only to be on my way. I’ve done what you asked. Can I go now?”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. But you are right. You cannot stay here. You must leave for Skaligar when winter has passed.”

  Oben felt a glimmer of hope. Skaligar was wretched, but it was back on the right side of the sea, one step closer to Edale.

  She evidently noticed his relief.

  “The people are willing to suspend their disbelief for now, but it will not last. You have much to do before your claim to Conduit will be accepted.”

  “I make no such claim.”

  “You should. It has kept you alive.”

  “I can’t muster faith for your goddess. Not when I question even my own gods. They failed me on the mountain.”

  “Then all the more reason. Ishral saved you. One more thing, you must put your pettiness for Grinchell behind you.”

  “Pettiness?” Oben almost choked on the word. “He attacked my farm! My sister was killed because of him.”

  “And you poisoned a Ferra clan chief.”

  “I never…” The lie died on his lips as the Bria smiled coldly at him. He could see in her eyes that she knew the truth.

  “Grinchell was desperate to kill you, too, of course. But he understands he cannot. Nor shall Gulmorgon.”

  “Gulmorgon?”

  “Yes. Threlwich will be your next destination, come spring.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it is written. I’ve already sent word on the wing.”

  “And if I told you that I still seek revenge on Gulmorgon, as well?”

  “You will not act on it. You will need her, and she you. The Conduit’s fate is already bound to the other prisoners, to Grinchell, to Gulmorgon.”

  “Nothing is written. I still have a choice.”

  “You have the illusion of choice.”

  She flashed that cold smile again, and he knew he was trapped.

  “If it’s already written,“ he said, “if, indeed, I am who you think I am, you must know how it will end.”

  “I know many things and have speculated a great deal more. But Ishral works in unpredictable ways. You’ve seen yourself, with the discovery of the Thunder-Blade. Meanwhile, you’ve confirmed something else. The scripture states that the Conduit shall be born of vengeance.”

  He was about to object, but then he wondered why he was fighting it. It was his only chance of getting back to Skaligar.

  “You said my fate is bound to Grinchell?”

  “Yes. He will take you to Threlwich.”

  “And the prisoners?”

  “You’ll need oarsmen. Just because they live does not mean their punishment is over or their crimes forgiven.”

  It was something. Rak would not be pleased at having to row him back, but it was a small price for keeping his heart in his ribs. And Seri might have Grinchell’s obedience, but he’d rather not test it alone in the middle of the sea.

  “When is spring?” Months in dark cells and the bleakness of Taliskar had thrown off his farmer's instinct.

  “In three moons. You’ll be my guest.”

  Oben looked around for the first time. His eyes felt swollen. He looked longingly at the food and wine.

  He’d broken his promise to Delia already. A few more weeks wouldn’t make much difference. If all went to plan, he’d be back by summ
er. And being a guest was preferable to being a prisoner.

  He spared a thought for Rak and Blin in their cold cell. Maybe they deserved it. They hadn’t even tried to fight. Perhaps now they might listen to him. Perhaps they would help him kill Grinchell. He smiled at the idea of the Kazra chief’s face sinking beneath the black water.

  Seri noticed he was looking at the wine.

  “You must be thirsty.” she said.

  Oben nodded. Fortune was fragile. He might as well enjoy it.

  * * *

  The weeks dragged, and suddenly seemed to have passed quickly. Seri had told him ten weeks, but these became twelve as winter storms raged over the sea. At first, he was left to heal. His ribs took the longest, and his nose, even when set, felt bent. He’d have a nasty scar across his forehead and some of his fingers and toes would be black for a while.

  When he was well enough, they set him to work. Everyone in Eisalhelm pulled their weight. Even the Conduit. He worked in the tanners up against the black rock on the outskirts of the city, which left him stinking and filthy, yet kept his hands busy whilst his mind wandered. He marvelled at his luck but knew something simple could unravel it, snag and unspool it like loosely knitted wool.

  He kept his head down, worked hard, thought often of home. He stayed away from the cells to avoid suspicion, and stayed away from the taverns, gambling dens and fighting pits where he might encounter Grinchell and Brigal. On the occasions their paths crossed, no words were spoken. The Kazra chief’s hands were tied for the nonce, though he would frown deeply when he saw Oben. Hagar, the tanner, was surprisingly mild-mannered, even if his hygiene and social skills resembled those of a wild boar. He rambled endlessly and Oben found his Talis improving with each passing week. He ate seal meat cooked in fiery spices there were no names for in Edalian. He enjoyed spiced wine and sour ale, and even partook of mela once out of politeness, though he had had to excuse himself and lie outside in the snow until the dizziness had passed.

  One day Oben made the mistake of staring overlong at Mako and Tre combat training on a small grey beach next to the harbour. Tre called him out and gave him a beating that left him on his backside on the wet sand where the sea water had melted the snow. Seri found out, and two days later the large Kazra grudgingly offered to train him. Despite having spent days at sea together, they had barely spoken. Tre was a ferocious fighter, but generally mild-mannered compared to Brigal. Oben had thought Tre and Grinchell were good friends, but later found out they were cousins. Oben didn’t trust him. Still, he was thorough in his training, and after a time seemed to enjoy doling out the painful lessons. Mako would come and watch, usually supplying insulting comments from the side. Brigal too, though his words were more scathing than mocking, and Oben found it hard to focus when he was there. Grinchell watched once, but his expression was sour. He had spat on the sand and left.

  “He’ll come around.” Tre had said, watching him walk up the beach. Oben did not respond. He did not care if he came around or not, and secretly considered the irony that he one day might turn his cousin’s lessons upon him. For the first few weeks, Oben’s body ached like he had fallen off a cliff and been mauled by sea-wolves. Gradually he became tougher. Not necessarily better, just better at handling the pain. He learned how to block attacks, how to turn them and use the momentum against his opponent. He’d had little cause to fight on the farm, save when he'd traded blows with Kyrion, and had never gotten the better of his thicker-set brother. Although they were twins, Kyrion had always been the stronger. Brintok’s favourite. If only his brother could see him now. He had driven Tre back, who held up his axe.

  “Woah. Easy there, farmer.” Tre had mocked. “I might have to start trying soon!” Oben had grinned, wiped the sweat from his brow, pictured Kyrion and swung again.

  * * *

  Occasionally, he was called before Seringil and Seri. They were interested in his past, though they twisted his words to match some prior interpretation or another. He ate their food, endured their scrutiny and did his best not to upset their tolerance of him.

  Seri was a peculiar woman. She told him she had been a witch before Seringil had brought her to his bed, but it soon became clear who wielded the power in the union. Her demeanour was like a calm sea that disguised dangerous depths. He never asked her age, but guessed her to be about sixty with Seringil at least ten years her senior. She let Seringil take the lead in public. Oben grew to enjoy her company, though he was ever wary of upsetting her.

  On one occasion they were joined by a tall, pale Skalg, who never uttered a word the entire time. Nor did he remove his eyes from Oben. It was only later Oben discovered the man was named Sylph. He was Seri and Seringil’s son, and heir to Eiselhelm. Hagar told Oben that Sylph had been the one who had eaten the hearts of the dead prisoners; that he had the warrior trait of his father and the clairvoyance of his mother. Sylph unnerved Oben more than any other Taliskan he had met, but fortunately he was hardly ever present.

  * * *

  Gradually, the winter storms grew less violent, the snow began to fall less thickly, and the day came when he was told to leave the tannery and start preparing the boats. For the first time since Shriving Night, he saw his old companions. They looked half-starved.

  Rak’s red hair was fainter, his beard matted, his eyes deeper under his heavy brow. Blin looked more terrifying without her face paint; less like a creature that might drink your blood. But she seemed jittery, as if all the drugs had finally left her system. Ortho’s hair had grown back, he looked a different man, younger, softer. He could almost have been a farmer, if he’d been a touch dirtier and chewed a straw.

  “Well, if it ain’t the honoured guest himself,” Blin said, looking him up and down. “You got slippers, too?”

  He ignored the comment.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, mostly because it felt like the polite thing to say. They didn’t particularly look all right.

  “Oh, just fine,“ she snarled. “Woke last night with a rat gnawing my hand. Nothing out of the ordinary. Haven’t had such a nutritious breakfast in months.”

  Oben did not know if that was true but would put nothing past her.

  “Still surviving, I see.” Rak said, his voice flatter than it had been.

  “Somehow, yes. You, too.”

  “I suppose we have you to thank for that.”

  “Don't thank me too much. You know we’ve got to row back to Skaligar.”

  “Might be good to stretch my muscles a bit.” Rak paused and stared at Oben a moment, then he shook his head. “I may have to start praying to your gods. I’ve never met such a lucky cunt.”

  “Well, let’s make sure we don’t waste it.”

  “Quiet down there!” someone snapped. They turned to see Brigal glaring. Oben nodded at his former cellmates and moved away. They would speak later. He had no desire to get them into more trouble.

  * * *

  Over the next few days they had more opportunities to speak. On the day before they were due to leave, Oben found himself alone with Rak. Spray from the white-tipped waves peppered them even as they stood someway up the wet, grey beach, still wrapped in furs against the bitter spring breeze.

  “Look, boy,” Rak began without preamble, “sorry about back in the cell. Things were… bleak that day.”

  “Forget about it.”

  “You spoke lightly of Ishral. I couldn’t accept that. I couldn’t risk it.”

  “You had given up, Rak. I saw it. You were prepared to die.”

  “Given up, no. Accepted. Embraced. There’s a difference.”

  “You believe in this Valareth so greatly?”

  “Valareth and Deriath. Aye, I do. It would have been an honourable end. I would have met my fathers. To have escaped and lived as an outcast would have been worse than death in the long run.”

  “Well, I hope you’ve changed your mind about that.”

  Rak paused and squinted at the choppy sea.

  “That depends, doesn�
�t it?”

  “On what?”

  “On whether you’re really the Conduit or not.”

  Oben smiled and glanced down at his wet boots.

  “It makes no sense to me, either. We should both be dead. Me, five times over.” He looked up and out across the sea. “I’ve got a nagging feeling this luck will change.”

  Blin stepped up next to Rak with a length of rope over her shoulder, Ortho just behind her. “Then we’d best get you back to Skaligar before it does,” she said. She looked drunk. A wineskin peeking from her furs showed that her thieving ways had not been curbed by her punishment. She elbowed Rak in the side. “You got an audience with the lord, I see.”

  “Aye,” Rak said. “After I bowed and kissed his stinking boots.”

  Oben scowled and glanced at the Kazra watching them from some rocks at the top of the beach. Tre was talking with Grinchell and Mako, while Brigal glared at them.

  “How I’m still alive is a mystery to me. And be thankful that I am. When they have no further use for me, you’ll be back on the altar.”

  “Then keep being useful,” Blin said. “Splice these.” She threw him the ropes and nodded at one of the boats. He caught them, shrugged, and set to unwinding the end.

  “You know we’re headed to Threlwich, right?” Blin said, kneeling beside him, looking busy. “I take it you know nothing of that place, so I’ll not shatter your delusions.”

  “Aye,” Rak said. “Your relief at leaving Taliskar may be short-lived.”

  Oben looked around at the jagged black rocks, the snowy backdrop of Sundered Peak in the distant north.

  “Can’t be much worse, can it?” he said.

  * * *

  Oben shared a final meal with Seri and Seringil that night. When they were done and he sat on a thick fur rug nursing his last cup of wine at the firepit, Seri moved to sit at his side.

  “Many trials lie ahead, Oben.”

  “I shall trust in Ishral’s wisdom,” he said, having no idea what that wisdom might be. It sounded good though. He was oddly pleased when she smiled.