ruined the life of a loyal tutor, a man long in his employ. Sagander’s excitement upon discovering he would be making this journey now returned to Arathan with a bitter sting. It was no wonder Draconus was furious.
The latrine pit was behind some bracken and as he edged round the spiny bushes he halted in his tracks. The pit was shallow and indeed rough.
Sagander’s leg was lying in it like an offering, in a nest of blood-soaked cloths. Others had been here since and their wastes smeared the pallid, lifeless flesh.
Arathan stared at the mangled limb, the bared foot white as snow, motionless as the day’s first flies crawled upon it, the hard, misshapen nails yellow as the petals of the gorse flowers, the deflated tracks of veins and arteries grey beneath the thin skin. At the other end jutted splintered bone, surrounded in hacked flesh. Bruises had spread down around the knee.
Pulling his gaze away, he stepped round the edge of the pit, and continued on through gaps in the bracken for a few more paces.
Of course they would bury it, as the camp was packed up. But scavengers would find it none the less. Foxes, crows, wild dogs. As soon as the wind picked up and carried off the smell of blood and death, long after he and his companions had left, the creatures would draw close, to begin digging.
He listened to his stream splash through spiny twigs and sharp leaves, and he thought back to the last hand that had touched him down there. The stream dwindled quickly. Cursing under his breath, Arathan closed his eyes and concentrated on the pain rocking back and forth inside his skull. Moments later he was able to resume.
As he made his way back to the camp he saw Rint standing nearby, a short-handled spade resting on one shoulder. The huge man nodded, his eyes thinning as he studied Arathan for a long moment, before setting off to fill in the latrine pit.
At the cookfire, Feren was scraping food on to a tin plate. Raskan had joined Lord Draconus with the horses. Pulling the blanket tighter Arathan made his way to the woman.
She glanced up, but only briefly, as she handed him the plate.
He wanted to say something, so that she would look at him, meet his eyes, but it was clear, after a moment, that she had no desire to acknowledge him. I wasn’t very good. I did it all wrong. She is disappointed. Embarrassed by me. He carried his plate off a little distance to break his fast.
Raskan strode over, leading Besra. ‘This one today, Arathan.’
‘I understand.’
The sergeant frowned. And then shook his head. ‘I don’t think you do. Hellar is returned to your care. You have found your warhorse, a true destrier. But she needs to walk some on her own, to work out the violence that your touch might well incite all over again. She is to wonder — by your inattention — if she has failed you. Later this day you will go to her and take the saddle, and she will be relieved.
‘Speak to her then, Arathan, words of comfort and satisfaction. She will know their meaning by the breaths upon which those words reach her. To communicate with a horse, think of truth as a river — never fight the current. Ride it into the beast’s heart.’
Uncertain as to the sergeant’s meaning, Arathan nevertheless nodded.
Raskan handed him the reins. ‘Now, give me that empty plate — it is good to see that you are with appetite — and go to your father. He wishes to speak with you.’
He had known that this moment was coming. As he set out, pulling Besra after him, Raskan said, ‘Hold, Arathan…’ and he took the blanket from the boy’s shoulders. ‘I will tie this up.’ He half smiled. ‘You had the look of a peasant.’
A peasant. Yes. About to stand shamefaced before his lord.
‘Mount up,’ said his father when he reached him. ‘To begin this day, you ride at my side, Arathan.’
‘Yes sir.’
He felt weak pulling himself into the saddle, and as he settled his feet into the stirrups a clammy sweat broke out, and he realized that he was not wearing his armour or his helmet. ‘Sir, I am unarmoured-’
‘For now, yes. Rint has your gear. We shall take the lead on the trail. Come.’
The sensation was strange — to be riding at his father’s side — and he felt hopelessly awkward, displaying none of the ease that seemed so much a part of Draconus.
‘Sagander owes you his life,’ his father said.
‘Sir?’
‘Twice, in fact. Though stunned by his blow, you still had the wits to pull Hellar away. Your horse would have crushed the fool’s skull with a single stamp, shattering it like an urthen egg. That was well done. But it is the second time you saved his life of which I will speak.’
‘Sir, I misspoke-’
‘You wondered if you were my weakness, Arathan. There is no dishonour in that question. How could there be? The matter concerns your life, after all. Is it not your right to wonder at your place in the world? Furthermore, it was perceptive — and this encourages me.’
Arathan was silent.
After a long moment, Draconus continued. ‘Until now, there is little that has impressed me about you — tell me, do you imagine your gnawing upon your fingers well suits the man you have become? This habit has even damaged your ability with the sword, and should it continue, Arathan, it may well see you killed. The hand holding the sword must be firm, lest what you will is failed by what you achieve.’
‘Yes sir. I am sorry.’
‘That said,’ Draconus grunted, ‘women will appreciate your touch in tender places.’
Something slammed down inside Arathan, and he knew then that Feren had reported to his father. In detail. She had done as her lord commanded. She belonged to Draconus, just as did Rint and Sergeant Raskan — everyone here, except for Arathan himself, was but an extension of his father’s will. Like weapons, and my father’s hand is surely firm. Will is bound to deed and no room for failure. ‘I am sorry that Sagander was injured,’ he said in a dull tone.
‘You have outgrown him, Arathan. Hellar was right in dismissing him — she knew your mind before you did. Remember that, and in the future trust in it.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Have you pain in your head, Arathan? I believe Rint has some willow bark.’
‘No, sir. No pain at all.’
‘You are quick to recover, then. Perhaps that is yet another of your gifts, so well hidden until now.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Understand, Arathan. If you were to have remained at my keep, you would have been vulnerable. I have enemies. Your half-sisters, however, are protected. Though their mother is no longer with us, her family is powerful. The same cannot be said for your mother. To get to me, my enemies could well look to you. Especially now, as you come of age.’
‘Sir, would it not have been easier to kill me when I was a child, unskilled with the blade, too trusting in adults?’
Draconus glanced across at him. ‘I was not speaking of direct violence, Arathan. Your being dead would remove the vulnerability that you pose to me and my interests.’
‘They would kidnap me?’
‘No. You are a bastard son. You are meaningless and worthless as a hostage.’
‘Then I do not understand, sir. What would they want of me?’
‘Arathan, you will be a young man with grievances. Against your father, who refuses to acknowledge you as his rightful son. Being young, you possess ambitions. My enemies will approach you, feeding both your anger and your desires. They will guide you into betrayal.’
You send me away to protect yourself. I am indeed your weakness. Because you do not trust me. ‘I have no ambitions,’ he said.
‘I might well believe that — no, I do not think you are lying. But time twists every path. You cannot claim to know your mind in the future. And we must be honest here — you have no cause to love me, or feel any manner of loyalty towards me.’
‘I did not know, sir.’
‘You did not know what?’
