“That sounds like Inurian,” Orisian said, and though once he might have regretted reminding her of her lost lover, now that hardly seemed to matter.
She said nothing at first, and they strode on, side by side, beneath the leaning, leafless trees of Anlane.
Then: “It does.”
“Do you think of him often?” Orisian asked. “I do, now.”
“Yes,” she said very softly.
Orisian felt gentle sorrow walking between them, like a friend: not separating them but linking them.
“He would not want us to remember only the ending of him, I suppose,” said Orisian. “It was the movement that came before that mattered. And the manner of it.”
“Yes,” said Ess’yr again after a few heartbeats, a few paces.
And then she lifted her head and looked towards the sun, and lengthened her stride and moved on ahead of him, returning to Anlane’s embrace. Orisian watched her go this time without any pangs of regret or trepidation. This did not feel-as so many such moments had in the past-like a parting.
IX
Disaster came upon them slowly, revealing itself by increments as it emerged from the shadows and the wilds. It came first in the last dregs of the twilight, in the form of tracks through the mud at the side of a stream, that Varryn leaned close to, and tested with his fingers, and proclaimed half a day old at most. A White Owl family, with children, he said, moving north and west.
It came again, betraying a little more of its shape in the gathering darkness, as the scent of a distant fire that none save Ess’yr or Varryn could detect. None doubted their inhuman senses, though, and all followed the Kyrinin as they bent their course away from the unseen, fearful beacon and led their stumbling, blundering charges through the night-thronged thickets. Some of the warriors muttered mutinously at the unwisdom of traversing wight- haunted lands by nothing more than moonlight, but Orisian could read the urgency and unease taking root in Ess’yr and her brother, and he kept them moving.
They did halt, in time, if only briefly. A taut, restless interlude in which they blindly passed morsels of food from hand to hand to mouth and rubbed aching feet in vain attempts to soothe them. Ess’yr and Varryn went out into the night, of course, remorseless in their suspicious quartering of this untrustworthy ground.
While they were gone, K’rina began to moan softly. It was a troubling sound, like the mournful voice of the darkness itself.
“Keep her quiet,” someone hissed in sibilant anger.
“I’m trying,” Yvane muttered, and though he could not see her clearly, Orisian could hear her slight shifting movements as she reached for K’rina. Whether to comfort her or cover her mouth, he did not know.
“She’s unsettled,” Yvane whispered as the other na’kyrim’s restlessness diminished. “Agitated. Feels something or knows something. Because we’re getting closer, maybe.”
Ess’yr returned suddenly, as if stepping out from one of the grey tree trunks into their midst. She brought with her another fragment of threat, another traced portion of disaster’s outline.
“Someone is killed, far behind us,” she said into Orisian’s ear, so close he could feel the warmth of her breath. “We hear him dying. A Kyrinin. We must move. Death runs through the forest. We must run faster.”
But they could not run, for Anlane would not so easily open itself to humankind, or any kind perhaps. Not in the sombre darkness, not when its soils were soaked with meltwater, its streams swollen. They could only struggle on, none of them-Orisian least of all-knowing whether what lay before or behind them was more deserving of their fear. Ess’yr stayed close, guiding their every pace with inexhaustible patience. For all her efforts, they slipped and tripped and fell. But they kept moving, as if by moving they might hasten the departure of the treacherous darkness and eventually leave the night behind.
Orisian dreamed without sleeping, even as he staggered along, of Inurian, and of Rothe and others. They were formless dreams composed of nothing but the presence of the lost. He dreamed, or thought he did, of Aeglyss. He had no other name to give to that pitiless black fog he imagined drifting through the forest all around him. There was no malice in it, just a cold and bitter accusation of futility that sapped his strength and his will. He could feel not just his legs but his heart and his hope growing sluggish and torpid.
By the time dawn came, he had forgotten its possibility. All but a last, small stubborn part of him had surrendered, and accepted that the night and the forest had consumed all the world, and would be its entirety for ever. When the light came, wan and hesitant, he disbelieved it at first, and thought it only an illusory trick of his failing mind. But it was a true light. It brought no relief, though. Instead it brought a slow nightmare, shuffling in their wake out of the darkness, gathering itself, closing on them.
“We’ve lost someone,” Taim Narran said grimly.
They stood in bleary, numb assembly beneath a lightning-split oak. The great wound in the tree’s trunk was darkened by age, the exposed heartwood softened by rot. A gnarled knoll of rock and earth and thin grass stood nearby, a knuckled clenching of the forest floor.
“Kellach’s gone,” said Taim. “Did no one hear anything? No one see anything?”
There was only a shaking of heads, a casting down of eyes. Taim’s anguish was raw, sharpened by his exhaustion. It hurt Orisian to see it. He wanted to tell the warrior not to blame himself, but it would do no good. It was not the kind of guilt Taim could put aside, even when it belonged to his Thane, not him.
One of the warriors was weeping. His comrades watched him. They said nothing, showed nothing: no sympathy, no understanding, no contempt, no judgement. They merely watched, as if tears were now as natural and inevitable a thing as the clouds drifting above them. He did not weep for their lost companion, Orisian knew; he wept for everything. Because there was something rising in him that demanded the shedding of tears. Something that might, before long, demand the shedding of blood.
“We cannot go back,” Ess’yr said flatly.
No one looked at her.
Then Varryn was running down towards them, swinging around the shoulder of that bare knoll. He leaped from a boulder to land lightly at his sister’s side, already hissing something to her in the Fox tongue as he hit the ground. Tension sprang into her shoulders.
“The enemy,” she said.
And with nothing more than that, no more warning, there were White Owls amongst them. Figures spilled over the knoll and came rushing down like a loose flock of great pale birds. Orisian had time only to lift his shield and snap his sword free of its scabbard before there was movement and noise all about him, a storm of it. A solid blow on the face of his shield knocked him back a couple of paces, but the Kyrinin who had struck him swept on by. Orisian had a glimpse of wide grey eyes, the dark and swirling kin’thyn, a rictus of a mouth. He was not sure the White Owl had even seen him.
The next assuredly did, for a spear darted at Orisian’s thigh. He knocked it down and aside and its tip punched into the mossy earth. The Kyrinin who wielded it dropped it and ran on, bounding past the wild flash of a warrior’s blade. They had not come to fight, Orisian realised. The White Owls were pouring through the thin rank his men had prepared to meet this supposed charge, not pausing to offer anything more than the most cursory of assaults. In two and threes, they came leaping over the crest of the knoll, sped down its flank and danced their lithe way through the cordon of slow and clumsy humans, and then were gone, plunging back into the forest. It was like the dolphins that breached sometimes in the Glas estuary: emerging for only the briefest of instants into the world of light and air, then gone again, back into the limitless blank ocean.
Not all those making up that bewildered, impotent cordon were human, though. And one of them at least was fast enough, and impassioned enough, to weave a furious dance of his own. In a single sideways glance, Orisian saw Varryn, a fervent smile upon his face, moving with impossible, lethal agility. The Kyrinin flicked out his arm, and his spear punched a neat hole in a White Owl’s neck, and was withdrawn before the victim had even begun to stagger. Varryn lunged to his side and caught another on the forehead with the spear’s butt, streaking a red split across the white skin; he spun and the spear was suddenly in flight, blurring up the slope and into the stomach of a third descending White Owl.
A flicker in the corner of his eye had Orisian ducking and lurching away from a shadow, but the Kyrinin who
