asked nothing of them, save one thing, and that one thing he requested every morning, every afternoon, every evening: he asked to be allowed to see his wife and his daughter.
There was no privation he could be subjected to that would disturb him, for he had been a warrior all his life, learned long ago that hunger, or cold, or discomfort could be set aside. But he was afraid now, acutely afraid, that he might die without seeing Jaen or Maira again, and that fear was almost intolerable. So he asked, every day, that they should be brought out from the city, and every day he was refused. And with each refusal, hatred for Aewult nan Haig and all his Blood gathered a little more of Taim’s heart within its ambit.
He became more and more acutely aware of a contradiction in his hopes. He wanted — needed — Aewult to emerge triumphant from the great confrontation with the Black Road that must now be imminent; at the same time, he longed for the Bloodheir to be humbled, sent scurrying back to Vaymouth with shame swarming about his head. It was a bitter, resentful strand in his thoughts that felt uncomfortable and unfamiliar. He was dismayed that it so preoccupied him.
One night, it snowed. Taim pulled his blanket over his head. He felt the snow piling up on it. He lay there shivering and wondered if the Haig Blood had so lost its collective mind that it would allow him to die here.
He heard footsteps coming over the hard ground. Someone kicked him in the back, and when he sat up, spilling snow, one of the guards thrust another, thicker blanket into his hands. A small fire was built, and the prisoners shuffled into a circle around it, as close as their chains would allow. One man did not stir. He remained curled up like a snow-covered boulder. The guards kicked him once, twice, before they realised he was dead. They levered up the spike securing his chain to the ground and carried the body away.
In the morning, Aewult nan Haig came and squatted down on his haunches in front of Taim. He stayed out of reach.
“Time to get you back on horseback, Captain,” the Bloodheir said, smiling.
Taim said nothing. Aewult stood up. He tapped the heel of one boot against the toe of the other to loosen snow from the sole.
“The Black Road is moving again. Seems they’ve found the courage to face us.”
“Let me go back to my men,” Taim said. He sat up straight, shrugging the blanket off his shoulders.
Aewult shook his head. “They’ll be fighting under Haig command this time. What’s left of them will, anyway. I’ve attached them to one of my father’s best companies, from Vaymouth. I’ll be keeping you as far away from them — as far away from everything of consequence — as possible. Oh, don’t look so disappointed. You can’t have expected me to do anything else, surely?”
“Despite everything, I will fight for you, Bloodheir. Against the Black Road, I will always fight. I only ask that you let me do that.”
“No.” The refusal was emphatic. “You stay a prisoner until this is done. Afterwards, we’ll see what’s to be done with you, but this is one battle you will watch with bound hands.”
Taim struggled to his feet. He was painfully stiff.
“What of Kilkry-Haig?” he asked. “You need Roaric’s strength at your side for this.”
Aewult’s face darkened, and he glared at Taim before spinning about and striding away.
“I’ll not ask that prideful whelp for anything,” he shouted over his shoulder. “If he chooses to come out and fight, all the better. But he’ll do it under my command, or not at all.”
Theor, First of the Lore, had spent a long and tedious day with his officials, seeing to the mundane trifles that kept the Inkall alive and functioning. Appointing tutors to see to the care of the Lore’s youngest recruits; agreeing the names of those to be sent amongst the Tarbains once winter was done, to ensure the survival of the creed in their savage hearts; deciding the process of interrogation and examination for those seeking elevation to the ranks of the Inner Servants.
Theor found it difficult to concentrate on such matters. They did not bore him — they were the stitches that held the Inkall together, and he valued them as such — but he was weary and distracted. At dusk he trudged across the snow-filled compound, pausing only to listen to the hooting of an owl somewhere amongst the pine trees. He was not in the mood for company and conversation, so ordered that he be brought food in his own chambers. He ate there alone.
A message had come from Nyve that morning. The First of the Battle had received word from Fiallic, reporting the death of Temegrin the Eagle, in circumstances that remained unclear. It was news both encouraging and disquieting. Ragnor oc Gyre had conspired with the enemies of the creed to protect his own earthly power, and the Eagle was his mouthpiece, hampering every effort to pursue the conflict with the Haig Bloods to its necessary conclusion. His death was a sign that fate might, on this occasion, side with the Inkallim. Yet Wain nan Horin-Gyre had died, too. That was a sore loss. And the Thane of Thanes would not take the death of his Third Captain lightly. Theor anticipated difficulties in convincing Ragnor that the Children of the Hundred had no part in the deed.
The First set aside his half-eaten meal. His appetite was meagre these days. He reclined on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. According to Nyve, there was talk, far away beyond the Stone Vale, that the Horin Blood’s tame na’kyrim had had a hand in Temegrin’s death. That was a disconcerting thought. The very existence of such halfbreeds was an aspect of the hubris that had provoked the Gods into departure. Five races had been created, distinct and self-contained. Na’kyrim symbolised the inability of Huanin and Kyrinin to accept the boundaries laid down by the Gods. To have one playing a role in matters of such import to the creed was… unexpected. Puzzling.
Theor rolled onto his side and reached down to the carved box on the floor. He removed a fragment of seerstem, slipped it into his mouth and lay back. He worked it gently between his teeth, feeling its black juices thicken his saliva. A cold tingling stole across his tongue and his cheeks, leaving numbness in its wake. It was a familiar sensation, and one that in years gone by he had always greeted with vague pleasure. Now, though, he felt an undeniable sense of trepidation. His seerstem dreams had been less than comforting of late. It was something all his schooling had not prepared him for. There was, to his knowledge, no precedent in the Lore’s history for the powerful and unsettling visions that now came in seerstem’s wake.
He was not alone in his experiences. Every one of the few senior Lore Inkallim permitted the use of the herb had been suffering similar disturbance of their meditation. There was much inconclusive debate about what it signified. Theor was himself uncertain, though he had his suspicions. Might it not be possible that they were caught up in the turbulence caused by a fateful convergence of great events? Might this even be the result of thousands upon thousands of lives being channelled into a single, unified path that would carry them all to the Kall itself, and to the ultimate realisation of the Black Road’s entire purpose? He hardly dared to hope, and had taken care not to voice such thoughts.
Numbing tendrils spread across his skin, creeping over his scalp towards the back of his skull. He could feel his very thoughts slowing and retreating, leaving space behind them for other things to enter his mind. He closed his eyes.
Much could be gained from seerstem: a sense of the intricate immensity of life and mind, spread out across the world, the scale of the Gods’ creation; a humbling awareness of the insignificance of any individual within that pattern. Sometimes it was even possible to glimpse fate’s roots, the chains of events and deeds stretching back from the present into the distant past. Such had been the case until recently, at least. Theor did not expect what awaited him now to be quite so soothing.
He felt as if he was sinking into the mattress, as if he himself was a dwindling spark of light, fading. Anger flickered across the surface of his mind: not anger to be felt, but anger as a wind that blew upon him, anger that he tasted and heard. It was a rage without cause and without object, like a fire that burned without any fuel. After it came the sickening sense of a tumbling, plummeting fall. He was dimly aware that his hands were clutching the bed sheet on which his distant body lay.
And then he was adrift in a dark and howling waste; suspended in a limitless void, with titanic shapes moving far beneath him, rolling as they hunted through the emptiness. Then flashes: he was one amongst thousands, running along a hard road; he was spun through treetops, carried on a vast and monstrous consciousness; he was alone in darkness, where the very fabric of the air was made of loneliness.
There was the figure of a man, an indistinct outline that spread and broadened until it filled his field of view and shut out everything else. That figure’s head turned, great planes of darkness sliding over one another. Eyes opened — eyes that were first grey then black then nothing, voids — and their gaze was a writhing, piercing thing that burned its way in through Theor’s own eyes and his mouth and his nose and filled him and scoured away the last shreds of his own awareness.
