Kingship, some say. Enough wagons on it every day to carry all the wealth of a King. That’s what I heard.” He gave an almost apologetic smile, a little shrug. “Now… well, you see for yourself. There’s no road, no riches. It’s just where folk like me get washed up.”
“And the na’kyrim? How many of them?”
The question clearly caught Herraic unawares, though he tried to hide it.
“I couldn’t say with certainty, sire. We see little of one another. They have the lower chambers, cut into the rock itself, and a few rooms high in the keep. Highfast is so large that… well, I meet with the Elect once or twice a month. Other than that…” He gave a faint shrug. His unease at the thought of those meetings with the Elect was evident.
Orisian knew well enough, from Inurian’s residence in Kolglas, that even sharing a roof for years was not enough to make some people comfortable with na’kyrim. No matter how self-evidently close the bonds between Inurian and Kennet, Orisian’s father, had become, there had been those who never reconciled themselves to the presence of a na’kyrim in the castle.
“You might want to give some thought to the lodging of those Kyrinin you brought with you, sire,” Herraic whispered, leaning close to Orisian. “It would be best if they took shelter amongst the na’kyrim while you’re here. There might be some… well, some unrest amongst my men if we quarter them with the garrison.”
Orisian looked across to Ess’yr and Varryn. They were both watching the Captain of Highfast. Ess’yr’s face was as placid, as calm, as always, but he could not help wondering whether somewhere beneath that fair exterior, lit orange by the radiant charcoal, anger and resentment lurked. She and her brother had saved his life more than once, yet still met with nothing but suspicion and hostility wherever they went in his company. Perhaps they expected nothing more; perhaps it was only Orisian who felt wounded on their behalf by such things.
“I don’t think you could whisper quietly enough to keep what you say from their ears, you know,” he murmured to Herraic.
The stocky warrior glanced in the direction of the two Kyrinin. They stared back. The tattoos on Varryn’s face had a savage look to them in that light.
“No,” Herraic muttered, nodding to Orisian. “No, of course. Still, you might want to think on it.”
“I will.”
Bannain reappeared in the doorway.
“Come, Thane,” the na’kyrim said. “The hidden Highfast awaits you.”
VIII
They went deeper, along narrow, rough-hewn passageways, down dark stairwells. There was a door, massive and thick, that took them into a wider corridor where there were oil lamps and a paved floor. And then Orisian saw something that brought him to a halt: a child. She was running towards them, smiling. She came on light, quick feet, arms outstretched and trailing the fine sleeves of an old, faded dress. A na’kyrim child; a pale, almost luminous presence amidst the shadows and weight of the fortress.
Orisian stopped so abruptly that Yvane walked into his back. She grunted in irritation and looked over his shoulder.
“What’s the matter?” she demanded.
“Nothing. It’s just… I’ve never seen one before.”
“One? The child? Ha! Did you imagine we sprang into being already haggard and aged?”
Orisian shook his head. He watched the young girl. She had wrapped her arms around Bannain’s thigh and grinned up at him as he ran a hand over her hair.
“It’s not surprising she’s the first you’ve seen,” Yvane said, more gentle now. “Too many walls between Huanin and Kyrinin these days. Half the babies that do get themselves born are probably killed as soon as they’ve drawn breath, still wrapped in their swaddling cloths. That’s the world we’ve all made for ourselves. That’s why, whatever its faults, I’d not unmake Highfast. There’s few enough places that girl could find safety: here, Koldihrve, Dyrkyrnon, one or two others.”
“How many children are there here?”
“I don’t know. When I left? Only three or four. We’re a rare breed, and growing rarer.”
The girl walked with them to the end of the corridor. She held Bannain’s hand. He halted outside a door and knelt to whisper something to her. She laughed and nodded, and then darted into the room beyond when Bannain held the door open for her.
“Our herald will announce our arrival,” he said with a smile.
Within, half a dozen na’kyrim were waiting. All were dressed alike in plain robes; all had the same still, erect posture. The little girl had run to the side of a woman who wore a crude, thick iron chain around her neck. The child spoke a few soft and excited words, then moved to stand apart, an expression of shy anticipation on her face. The woman took in Orisian and his motley companions with a single sweeping gaze. Orisian drew breath to speak, but she settled her cold attention upon Bannain.
“You left alone,” she said, “yet return with a multitude.”
To Orisian’s ears, her tone was level, impassive. It appeared that Bannain detected more pointed sentiments, for his shoulders sagged a little and he stepped forwards with none of the brashness that Orisian had come to expect of him.
“It seemed wise, Elect. It seemed prudent.”
“Prudent,” the Elect repeated. Her eyes were on Orisian now. “You are the Thane of the Lannis-Haig Blood?”
“Yes.” His voice came out with less authority than he would have liked. “I was told I might find good counsel here,” he went on with what he hoped was more firmness, “but if we are not welcome, we will not trouble you. There are other places I should be.”
“You are not unwelcome,” the woman said, though her tone hardly lent credence to the words. She signalled Bannain to stand amongst the little group of na’kyrim gathered around her, and he obeyed without hesitation. “I am Cerys, Elect of the Council of Highfast. You, Thane, I now know. And Yvane, of course. Who else has Bannain brought with him?”
“Rothe, my shieldman. Ess’yr and Varryn, of the Fox. And Hammarn, who came with us from Koldihrve.”
It was only Hammarn, Orisian noted, who seemed to earn some softening of the Elect’s demeanour. She nodded in the old man’s direction, to his embarrassment. He smiled, then frowned, then took on an empty, wide- eyed expression as if he had no idea what to do with his face.
“You have strange travelling companions, for a Thane of the Haig Bloods,” Cerys observed with a hint of a narrow smile.
“So I’ve been told before.”
It took Orisian a moment to realise that what he felt — a nagging sourness of the moment — was the crumbling of unacknowledged hopes. He had, without recognising it in himself, hoped he might find Inurian here: an echo of the warmth and understanding that he remembered. Ever since he had discovered that Highfast had once been Inurian’s home, he had vaguely imagined it to be a place of welcome and safety; a place suffused with all those things he had lost since Winterbirth, and since Inurian’s death. He felt, as those imaginings withered away, sadder and more like a child than he had done in a long time. He blinked at Cerys, and did not know what more to say.
“And what are these matters on which you seek our counsel, Thane?” she asked him softly.
“He came to speak of Aeglyss, Cerys,” Yvane said before Orisian could reply. “He’s as close to a friend as you’ll find outside the Tower of Thrones, and he’ll hear more of what you’ve got to say than Lheanor would.”
Slowly, deliberately the Elect turned her head to meet Yvane’s gaze with her own. To Orisian’s surprise, and unease, it was Yvane who looked away first.
“We did not expect to see you here again, Yvane. How many years have you been gone?”
“I told him he would be welcome here, even if I was not,” Yvane said. Still she kept her eyes down. “I’d rather you didn’t make me a liar.”
“Your preferences, and your reputation, are not our first concern here,” Cerys said.
