hardly mattered. It was there, in his heart and his mind, and he must deal with it, whatever its source.
Before taking to his bed he looked down on the orchard once more. The fire was still burning, a little beacon beneath the creaking and swaying apple trees. There was no sign of Ess’yr and Varryn. They had probably retired to the shelters they had made for themselves.
He laid himself out on the mattress and closed his eyes. He no longer expected any night to bring easy rest, for they were always full of frightening dreams and sudden wakings. Still, he could hope.
III
Orisian broke his fast the next morning in the main hall. The trestle tables were lined with Guardsmen, and with the homeless and destitute given shelter in the barracks. Orisian sat with Taim and Torcaill and the rest of the Lannis warriors.
The hall was filled with cacophonous activity. Plates clattered; arguments raged; cooks and servants rushed back and forth. Orisian’s head ached, and he winced at each crash of a falling tray and each shouted insult. The night had not, in the end, been restful. Several times he had woken with a heart set racing by the horror of some forgotten dream. The wind had raged all through the hours of darkness, shaking the building.
“Two dead sentries on the edge of town last night,” Taim said between mouthfuls of salted porridge.
“No one saw anything?” asked Orisian.
Taim shook his head. “But one of them was savaged. Had his hand almost torn off, and his throat bitten out. Dogs, it looked like.”
“Hunt Inkallim,” said Torcaill. He looked as weary as Orisian felt.
“Seems likely,” agreed Taim. “There’s a good chance one or more of them got inside the town. Not a good sign.”
“I don’t mean to be chased out of here yet,” said Orisian quickly. Best, he thought, to anticipate the suggestion he could already imagine Taim formulating.
The warrior regarded his Thane for a moment or two, and Orisian could see his disagreement clearly in his expression, but when Taim spoke it was mildly: “The Hunt’d only be creeping around in here for two reasons I can think of. Either they meant to kill someone-you, most likely, if they know you’re here-or they’re scouting the place out for an attack. Neither choice bodes well for us.”
“I know,” Orisian said.
Although Ive was a substantial town, one of the Kilkry Blood’s biggest, it was ill prepared to stand against an assault. It had long been remote from any disputed land or battlefield; it had no castle, and the wall that once ringed it had long ago been dismantled, its stones turned to more peaceful use in the skeletons of barns and farmhouses.
For days now, labourers had been toiling all around the edge of town, trying to encircle it with a ditch and timber palisade. Until that work was completed, Ive’s only defence was the flesh and steel of the warriors gathered there, the Guard and the poorly armed townsfolk themselves. In all there were perhaps a thousand trained fighting men, and another two thousand untrained but willing and able to fight. More than enough to master the savage but disorganised raiding bands they had faced so far; too few to last long if the Black Road’s full might descended upon them.
“There might still be time to get to Kilvale,” Torcaill said, sounding almost hopeful. “For every score that turn up in Ive each day, there’s a dozen leaving and heading south. They think the road’s still open.”
“But they don’t know,” Orisian said. “Nobody knows who’s in control anywhere, not really. It’d take… what, two days to get there? If we’re caught on the road, we’d be finished. And there’s nowhere the Black Road will want more than Kilvale. It’s their birthplace. If we did reach Kilvale, and it falls, where do we run to then? Dun Aygll? Vaymouth, even? What kind of a Thane would that make me?”
He glared questioningly at Torcaill. The warrior studied his bowl, stirring the porridge within it carefully.
Taim Narran was less reticent. “A living one, at least,” he murmured.
Orisian looked at the older warrior, an angry retort boiling up towards his lips. But the momentary fury passed. He breathed deeply.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He pressed finger and thumb to his temple, willing the throbbing in his skull to subside. “I just think… I think we lack the strength to make any difference in whatever struggles are to come between Haig and the Black Road. And we-you most of all, Taim-could hardly expect a warm welcome from Aewult, in any case.”
“It’s true Haig has no need of our few swords,” Taim acknowledged. “Gryvan must wake to the danger now. Once he rouses himself and his people from sloth, the Black Road’s ascendancy will be at an end, Aeglyss or no Aeglyss. But we-you-still need to survive long enough to see that day. I’d not choose Ive to make a stand, if that’s…”
Erval, the leader of Ive’s Guard, came hurrying down between the lines of tables. He stumbled over a sword someone had rested against a bench, but rushed on regardless. He was red-faced, plainly agitated. Heads turned to follow his progress. He came to a rather disorderly halt behind Orisian and dipped into a hasty bow.
“There are messengers come in search of you, sire. I’ve got them waiting in the courtyard.”
“Who sent them?” Orisian asked.
The Guard Captain looked apologetic. “Aewult nan Haig, sire. They claim his authority, and through him that of his father, for the message they bear.”
“Let them freeze the rest of the day in the yard, then,” Torcaill muttered.
“I think they may have left their patience behind when they set out on their journey,” said Erval.
Orisian sighed and swung a leg out over the bench.
“There’s no point in delaying,” he said as he rose.
“It might be best,” Erval agreed, relief plain in his voice. “There’s a fierce mood in the town, and word’s already spreading that there’re Haig men here. You know how that will taste to people. The sooner they’ve said their piece and gone, the better.”
Torcaill and Taim were getting to their feet to follow Orisian.
“Not you, Taim,” he said.
The warrior frowned.
Orisian smiled at him. “You’re an escaped prisoner, aren’t you? A fugitive from Aewult’s version of justice?”
Taim sank heavily back onto the bench.
“I don’t want any trouble if I can avoid it,” said Orisian. “No more than we’ve already got, anyway.”
“Take a few of the other men, at least,” Taim said. “Let them think you’ve got some swords at your back. And remember they have your sister.”
“That’s not something I’m likely to forget.”
Torcaill quickly assembled a little escort party, and Erval led them all out of the hall. The place was silent as they left.
The wide courtyard was dusted with snow. Most of it had been swept up by the overnight wind, and packed into corners and crevices. There was no wind now, but it was bitterly cold. As Orisian and the others emerged onto the cobblestones, the nearest of the messengers was clapping his gloved hands together to warm them.
The Haig Bloodheir had sent ten men. Six of them were warriors, standing back and watching over the party’s horses. The other four were less martially attired, clad in fur capes, wearing gauntlets of what looked like velvet rather than leather. The one who stepped forward to greet Orisian had a gold clasp holding his cloak around his neck.
The man bowed more deeply and respectfully than Orisian might have expected from one of Aewult’s household. Any appearance of respect was quickly dispelled once that formal gesture had been completed, however.
“This man,” the messenger said with a jab of his chin in Erval’s direction, “seems to think our business is best conducted out here in the cold. Perhaps you could prevail upon him to change his mind, Thane?”
And in that one instant Orisian was vividly transported back to Kolkyre, to the entirely uncomfortable
