ourselves — there is always another year to come. Every winter ends eventually.”
He laid a hand on Orisian’s shoulder.
“You do as you see fit, Thane. If you do not wish to follow at Haig’s heels like some lady’s tame dog, so be it. You will hear no complaint from the Kilkry Blood so long as I live, and none when Roaric is Thane after me, I think.”
“There’s one other thing I would ask of you,” Orisian said.
“Ask it. If it’s within my power, I’ll grant it.”
“Watch over Anyara for me. She’s angry that I want her to stay behind, but I won’t take her with me. I want her to be safe. I’d feel more sure of that knowing you — your family — are watching over her.”
Lheanor smiled then, though the smile carried more regret than pleasure. “That is something I would willingly do even if you did not ask it of me. We will guard her as jealously as we would a daughter of our own. But do this for me in exchange, Orisian: do not give up your own life too easily. You go into danger, of one sort or another, and there are already too few good people left. Come and see, in years to come, whether the trees I plant have bloomed.”
Jaen Narran was upset. She hid it, but the multitude of subtle signs did not escape Taim. Her lips were pressed tight together; she doled out the oatmeal gruel from the pot over the fire a little too fast, spilling wet lumps of it; she moved quickly from table to hearth and back again, taking small, sharp steps.
She would never shame him, and herself, by asking him to stay here with her. He would never embarrass them both by seeking to justify his return to the battlefield, so soon after he had come back from what they had both hoped would be his last such absence. She knew as well as he did that this was a battle that had to be fought, a call it would be unthinkable to refuse. And she knew that it would break his heart a little to leave her.
Taim stirred some salt into the grey sludge in his bowl. The quarters they had been given here in Kolkyre’s barracks were good: spacious and warm and dry. They were better than those that the warriors who followed Taim enjoyed, crushed into halls meant for half their number. For the sake of his family, he accepted that he could not share his men’s discomfort, but he could, and did, share their diet.
Jaen sat down on the other side of the rough table.
“I’ll mend what I can tonight, then,” she said. “There’s still a lot of holes and tears I’ve not had time to make right yet. The rocks down south must be sharper than they are here.”
“There’re seamstresses here who can help.”
Gobbets of gruel dripped from her spoon as Jaen held it poised halfway to her mouth. “I’ll do it. I’ve been doing it for better than thirty years. I’ll not stop now.”
“No, I wouldn’t want you to.”
They ate in silence for a little while. The fire crackled. The wind was rising outside, blustering around the squat stone mass of the barracks.
“Where’re the young ones?” Taim asked at length.
“Gone to the harbour. Achlinn’s trying to find work on a fishing boat. Maira went with him, looking for word of friends.”
Taim nodded. He was proud of his daughter, and of her husband too. Their flight with Jaen from Glasbridge had been so rushed that they had been able to bring almost nothing away with them. Most likely, they had no home to return to. In the face of all this, they showed nothing but determination.
Jaen was watching him, the way she did when she was pondering whether to say something. Taim raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“She’d want to tell you herself,” Jaen murmured, “but perhaps the sooner you know, the better. Maira’s with child.”
Taim leaped to his feet so carelessly that his thighs cracked the edge of the table and set his bowl rocking.
“Truly? You’re sure?”
Jaen smiled up at him, joyful and sad in the same moment. “Truly,” she confirmed.
Taim came to her and threw his arms around her. She dropped her spoon.
“I didn’t think it possible,” he murmured in her ear.
“None of us did, did we?” said Jaen as she pushed him away so that she could rise. She cupped his face in her hands. “We thought the Fever’d barrened her, as it did others. But not so. You’re to be a grandfather, Taim Narran.”
The warrior laughed out loud and planted a firm kiss on his wife’s forehead.
“Ha!” he cried to himself. “Ha!”
“So you see,” Jaen said, sinking back into her seat, “you’ll be needed home and safe at the end of all this. There’s to be no doubts about it this time. No excuses, no delays. I want you at my side when our grandchild is born.”
She gazed at him and Taim could feel her love, and his for her, in his chest like a beat, like another heart. Still so strong; as strong as it had ever been.
“I will be there,” he said. “I will.”
Old Cailla the kitchen maid had sharpened hundreds of knives in her life. No matter the purpose or value of the blade, she never did it with less than her full attention. In all things — choosing shellfish for the Thane’s table, sharpening a knife, seasoning a soup — she was precise, thorough.
The particular knife on which she lavished all her care now was unremarkable, save in one respect: it belonged not to the kitchens of the Tower of Thrones, but to her alone. It had a short, thin blade set in a stubby wooden handle. Someone leaning over her shoulder and examining it might think it a peeling knife, or one for cutting fruit. In truth, it had never been used for any purpose. Aside from the very rare occasions on which she took it out to check its edge, and refresh it if needed, it never left its plain leather sheath.
She was alone in the cramped quarters she shared with three other maids. She sat on the edge of the wooden cot where she slept, working by the light of a single whale-oil lamp. The blade of the knife rasped over the stone that rested on her knees. Her fingers were not as straight and strong as they had once been, nor as dexterous or quick. Still, they were skilled. When she was done, the blade would have as sharp an edge as it could ever hold.
As she hunched over the whetstone, stroking the knife smoothly back and forth, Cailla’s old, soft lips moved. They did so almost soundlessly, but not quite. Far too faint to be heard by any save the God for whom it was meant, she repeated over and over again a few short sentences: “My feet are on the Road. I go without fear. I know not pride.”
CHAPTER 2
Next there is the mighty fortress Marain built amidst the Karkyre Peaks. No other Blood, nor even the Kingships of the far south, can claim such a stronghold as their own. The perdurable mountain itself, cut through by tunnels and chambers, is as much a part of the fastness as its walls and towers. Not Abremor, not the Red Hand of the Snake, not all the armies of Morvain’s Revolt could breach its defences, though each tried. Whatever use my lord may find for this great place, it will not fail through want of strength.
What use that may be, I know not. The road this place was built to guard is a ruin, for since the great war against the Kyrinin none make the journey through the Peaks to Drandar. That way grew thick with bandits and with Snake raiders in the Storm Years. The cobblestones were torn up and used to build sheep pens, the drains clogged, the inns and way stations were burned or abandoned. Thus there is now no fit path beyond Highfast to either east or south, and none to the north save a mule-driver’s track across the mountains to Hent. There was a village of quarrymen and drovers close by the castle once, but it is empty now. The airs here are cold and carry wild rains; the earth is thin, the rock is hard. It is a place fit only for the hardy or forgotten, for outcasts and exiles.
