reason, but we have nothing on the walkers in the dark.' Styrax's words immediately reminded Amber of the conversation he'd overheard in Thotel, between the necromancer Isherin Purn, Nai's master, and Lord Styrax. Without understanding it, Amber had nevertheless recognised there was a subtext to each man's words, hinting at tensions and allegiances he knew nothing of.
They watched the heads of the guards at the gate turn their way: nervous Litse faces looking like deer that had sensed wolves. The white-eyes were slowest to react. Three of them were facing out towards Ismess, feeling the wind that rose up Hit's Stair. One had his wings fully outstretched, though he would have to walk another ten yards or more to be able to fly. As large as they were, those wings would not be capable of lifting a man without magic.
'Caged birds,' Styrax said, nodding towards the white-eyes as they finally turned towards them. He appeared to be enjoying their discomfort. 'They're bound to this place; conditioned to stare past the bars but never slip through them.'
Amber admitted, 'I don't understand these people. Even their white-eyes seem alien to me, and I thought your kind at least would be the same the Land over.'
'They are a broken tribe, unaware even of their past glories. Without a man or woman of vision, they will wallow another thousand years in this festering place, until inbreeding or war destroys them.'
But which solution will we provide? Amber wondered as Styrax turned abruptly away, motioning for Amber to accompany him.
It had rained during the night and the ground was muddy, so they headed for the nearest gravel path. Gesh followed behind. The white-eye was dressed as he had been the day before, in formal white robes underneath ceremonial armour. It was strange to see so little colour in a man; with his pale skin, creamy yellow hair and white eyes, Amber thought Gesh hardly looked alive. His slim build and ethereal appearance put Amber in mind of tales of Elves, and the contrasting bright red and green javelins held in an oversized quiver at his hip only added to that unreal image.
'He's got some spirit, that one,' Lord Styrax commented, having followed Amber's line of sight. They continued down the gravel path as it meandered to follow a stream, then swung back towards the looming Fearen House.
'Give me some time and I'll find a way to get to him.' At Amber's puzzled expression Styrax gave a laugh. 'No, not like that! Lord Celao is an embarrassment and a fool; better he chokes on a fishbone and Gesh takes command of Ismess. I will not allow any vassal state to remain so weak.'
'They'll never love you,' Amber said, thinking aloud.
'True, but neither will they hate me, and their children will grow up knowing who restored their future to them. No, Ismess is a problem I need only time to solve – it is Byora that will require proper thought.'
'The duchess, Natai Escral, or that bodyguard of hers?'
'Both of them. Your information reaffirms my belief that Byora is the Circle City's tipping point, and we're clearly not the only ones to think that.'
'This is all beyond my comprehension,' Amber sighed. 'How do you second-guess immortals?'
'In some ways they are simpler to understand; their desires and fears are magnified to a far greater scale. I suspect Zhia is merely keeping herself in the game for the time being. She senses great things are afoot and she knows she must remain on the board if it is ever to be of use to her.' Styrax clapped a massive hand onto Amber's shoulder. 'You did much good in Scree, Major; you played the hand you were given well. Until then Azaer was nothing more than an obscure reference for me; now I see where its schemes have directly involved me. Zhia's legend also obscured the person behind it, but before the great traitor, before the monster, she remains a person, someone to be known, just like any other.'
Amber nodded. The debriefing when he rejoined the army had been exhaustive and exhausting, at times verging on interrogation as Lord Styrax and General Gaur hungrily deliberated and debated over every conversation and action he could remember.
'All I heard of Azaer was its legend.'
'One carefully fostered, but yes, it is Azaer I need to know better before I can understand it. The shadow warned me before I killed Lord Bahl that I would be facing rebellion when I returned. Why? Did it require my conquest to continue apace? Did it want me here as a witness, or had Salen betrayed it? What is it doing in Byora that may require a diversion? That will be your job in the months to come, to run a low-level observation of Byora and tell me what is happening there.'
'I'm honoured, my Lord.'
'I doubt you'll find much honour in it,' Styrax said with a smile, 'but you survived Scree and you know what you're looking for. Don't worry about your men; you'll be leading them next time they go into battle.'
'Thank you, my Lord,' Amber said, touched that his master understood his need to be with his men when they faced the enemy.
At the entrance to the Fearen House, Lord Styrax stood looking at the oblong monument again. 'Mysteries upon mysteries,' he said aloud. 'However, the first business of the day is the puzzle of the heart. I take it your skills do not extend to cryptography, Amber?'
Amber shook his head and Lord Styrax clapped him on the back.
'Never mind; let's see how fast you learn!' he said brightly, leading the way up the steps to the main entrance. Sighing, Amber followed along behind.
Suzerain Torl left his tent when the dawn was still grey, the sun nothing more than a glimmer beyond the horizon. The camp was unnaturally quiet, even though it was early. As he looked around he saw a few fires being revived, but there were few men about. He had been pushing them hard for the last few weeks, but fatigue was not the only reason for the heavy silence. It was a good thing that Lord Isak had kept his distance, for there was quite enough death after nightfall already.
To his left Torl could see the fires of Lord Isak's army. One of his aides had jokingly described it as the Farlan's Temporal Army. Crusade was not a word the clerics had liked; for all their venom and spite, they had insisted on more palatable terms: Soldiers of the Gods, Defenders of the Faith, even Spiritual Envoys; every cult and faction had a different name, and each had a different idea of their goal. It left as bitter a taste in Torl's mouth as their insistence on consultation in everything, even logistics.
'My Lord Suzerain,' called Lieutenant Zaler as he hurried over, 'good morning, sir.'
'Is it?' Torl growled. 'It's hard to tell.'
Zaler hesitated. 'Ah, which, my Lord?' He was a young man, the nephew of Torl's wife's cousin, and still oddly earnest despite having spent more than a year as Torl's aide. He was short and slim – he would never be much of a fighter – so Zaler tried to make up for it by being unfailingly helpful and efficient. Unfortunately, he lacked a soldier's common sense, and had not yet developed a soldier's cynicism.
'Good or morning?' Zaler repeated anxiously.
'Don't be bloody stupid, Lieutenant,' Torl said, exasperated.
'Sorry, sir. Shall I sound the reveille?'
Torl nodded, then realised from Zaler's expression he was once again screwing up his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He guessed he was looking as washed-out and old as he felt. A camp bed was no substitute for the huge feather mattress in the master bedroom of Koan Manor, his principal home. Though he was well used to campaigning, the years had suddenly caught up with him.
Zaler signalled the suzerain's bugler, who saluted sharply and raised his horn, producing a sharp flurry of notes that brought groans from all around even before the regimental buglers picked up the call and sounded it in all directions. Within seconds the notes echoed back from the other camp as General Lahk roused his own troops.
Torl looked down the rows of tents: his troops remained neat and disciplined, while the penitent legions were becoming increasingly ragged and disorganised. That meant the priests' men were not reaching camp before the light failed – but the only response the clerics had was to flog the slowest companies, which served only to make matters worse.
'Sir, should I fetch a healer? You look exhausted,' Zaler asked, sounding worried.
Torl shook his head. 'It's just fatigue. I can't have the men see the healer attend me two mornings in a row, it would send out the wrong message.'
'My Lord, are you sure? Your face is awfully pale.'
