Stubborn contempt rose within Kanin.
“Do you really not know?” he asked the halfbreed. “Do you really understand so little of people?”
Aeglyss said nothing, but Kanin could see in his face genuine uncertainty, infantile hurt.
“If you wanted me to walk at your side,” Kanin said flatly, “you should not have taken my sister from me.”
A twist of some violent emotion distorted Aeglyss’ features for a moment. He bared his teeth.
“From you?” he hissed. “You think the loss only yours? You don’t know! What it cost me…”
He faltered. A tremor ran through his feeble frame, twisting his head to one side, tugging at his eyelids. Spittle bubbled out onto his chin.
The soft deadening of Kanin’s senses abruptly cleared. He blinked. Aeglyss slumped down onto one knee, coughing. Sudden hope blossomed within Kanin. The halfbreed’s head was bowed, jerking as he spat out phlegm from his lungs. Kanin’s hand went to his sword. The blade began to sigh out of its scabbard. He stepped forward, possessed by a vision of what was about to happen, what he could do in the next moment.
And Shraeve lashed her forearm across his throat. He staggered, choking. Shraeve stepped in front of him, shielding Aeglyss from his sight, and his intent. She reached up and lightly grasped the hilts of the two swords sheathed across her back.
“It is my belief, Thane, that this man serves fate, and our creed. I do not know if you could harm him, but I will not permit the attempt.”
Kanin gasped for air, croaking incoherently, clasping a hand to his throat. He took hold once again of his own sword. Breath came at last, ragged and rough. Aeglyss was only now rising unsteadily to his feet. He was still enfeebled. Vulnerable. But there was Shraeve, quite still and calm.
“I would regret killing a Thane,” she said softly. “It would be a fell deed. But the end of the world must be a time for fell deeds, if needed, don’t you think?”
Kanin did not believe he could overcome her. Perhaps if Igris was here, the two of them together might have a chance against this raven, but Kanin knew what would happen if he challenged her alone. She was too fast, too skilled. He could hear, in his memory, the sound of Cannek’s spine breaking. Once he had believed that fate could be generous to those who dared; now he was uncertain whether such laws still governed-had ever governed-the twisted world. Daring felt like recklessness, when the goal he sought was so all-consumingly crucial. He would be permitted only one attempt upon Aeglyss, and to fail in it would be to fail in everything, his entire life.
He coughed, and folded his arms across his chest.
“Your master seems unwell,” he said. “Perhaps I should leave the two of you alone.”
He spun on his heel and walked briskly away, his heart racing, his cheeks burning with the backwash of tension and fear and anger that was now released in him. He could hear Aeglyss groaning, but did not look round. He went out into the light.
VII
Nyve’s skin was old, with the hue of worn and faded hide. It had loosened as the years slackened the muscles beneath it and narrowed his shoulders. But still the First of the Battle had an air of resilient strength. There was enough breadth to him, and just enough firmness left in his skin, to give life to the raven tattoo that spread its wings across his shoulder blades. Theor, master of the Lore Inkallim, watched that black bird stir and ripple as a manservant drew a cloth slowly across Nyve’s back.
The First of the Battle sat naked on a low stool in the centre of the stone wash-house floor. The servant went silently about his duties, pausing occasionally to rinse his cloth in a pail of hot water. Now and again Nyve grunted at the pressure of firm fingers on some sore joint, but he made no other complaint.
The servant carefully lifted the First’s arm and stretched it out, and ran the cloth down it from shoulder to wrist. Drops of water pattered onto the stone tiles.
“I cannot undo what fate has decreed,” Nyve said softly.
“Of course,” said Theor. “I would never ask such a thing. You know how much it pains me to even raise with you matters that are internal to the Battle.”
“Yet you do.” Theor could not see his friend’s face, but heard the wry smile in Nyve’s voice.
“I do. It cannot be avoided. Such are the tempestuous times in which we live. Don’t pretend you don’t share my concerns.”
Nyve lowered his arm. The servant charged the cloth with water and then twisted it into a tight cord above the First’s head. Water splashed across his scalp and shoulders. It ran down over the great welt where his ear had once been.
“We set this horse running,” Nyve said. He gave his head a single dipping shake, scattering droplets. “Too late to try to rein it in.”
“The Thane of Thanes disagrees,” Theor muttered. He walked round to the stone bench that ran along one wall of the wash house and tested its surface with the palm of his hand. It was warm: hot charcoal could be fed into a hidden compartment. Carefully, he settled himself onto the bench. The seductive warmth spread through his thighs and buttocks. Outside, the snow was knee-deep. Every stream ran beneath a skin of ice. Even down in the valley, in Kan Dredar, there had been no night without a hard frost, no day without at least some snow, for two weeks.
“When was the last time he agreed with us?” Nyve asked.
Theor rested his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He truly was getting old, he thought, for how else to explain the intoxicating delight of such a simple thing? Luxuriant warmth in winter had never meant so much to him when he was young. Now, this warm stone bench filled his bones with delight, answering a need in them he had not known existed. Such were the seductions of comfort.
“If you need to sleep, we can always continue our discussions later,” Nyve said, a little louder this time.
Theor opened his eyes and winced apologetically at his friend. The old warrior was watching him, but there was no irritation or impatience in his gaze. Nyve would understand as well as anyone what it was to find the body ageing and faltering before the spirit within had prepared itself for the change. Nyve’s hands were all but crippled, bunched into claws that would barely respond to their owner’s command.
“I like this bench you’ve got here,” Theor observed.
“So do I.”
“I might have one made for myself.”
“Too indulgent for the Lore, surely?” Nyve grunted. “I doubt your people would approve.”
“Seeking approval does not really accord with the precepts of the creed. In any case, I find myself less and less concerned with the approval of others as the years pass.”
“Indeed,” Nyve said, and then glanced at the manservant. “Help me up.”
The First of the Battle rose, only a fraction unsteady, leaning on the servant’s arm. Once he was securely on his feet he dismissed the attendant with a silent flick of his head.
“Pass me that robe, would you?” he said to Theor once they were alone in the warm, humid stone chamber. Theor hung the robe on his friend’s shoulders and watched as Nyve made his careful way over to the heated bench.
Nyve settled onto the stone with a satisfied sigh. He stared at Theor. Those eyes, at least, were undimmed, unblunted. It was still the gaze of a fierce and potent warrior for the faith.
“You’re tired,” Nyve said. “You look sick, in fact.”
“I feel both. The world’s as unsteady beneath my feet as a foundering boat. I am… lost, I suppose.” Theor knew he should feel shame that such words were on his lips. He was the First of the Lore, custodian of the creed. Keeper of the truth. He, of all people, should be resistant to the kind of uncertainty and confusion that assailed him. Yet there was no point in pretending things were other than they were. Not in front of Nyve, at least.
The First of the Battle grunted. “Whisper such things softly, friend. There’s danger in honesty.”
“It seems to me we are beset by dangers of many kinds,” Theor murmured. “There are terrible temptations in success. It all too easily breeds pride, or error.”
“I see you are entirely determined to discuss Shraeve, no matter how it pains you to walk upon the Battle’s
