The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (17 page)

The guard heard the noise and fumbled with his bow as he turned, only to let it drop in amazement as he saw Bahl standing there, bow in hand and mask on. For a few seconds the novice just stared in amazement, then he gave a yelp as Bahl strode down the walkway towards him. His bow abandoned, the youth scrabbled first with the drape covering the door, then the latch, but when at last he did open it, Bahl was almost upon him. Terrified, he fell to his knees in the doorway, mittened hands clumping together beneath his chin.

‘L-l-lord Nartis,’ he whispered with reverence. Bahl stopped with grunt of surprise.

‘Don’t be stupid, boy,’ he snapped, moving past to the ramp that led down to the stone courtyard. He stopped to get his bearings, looking around at the interior of the monastery. Five columns of smoke rose from other parts of the building, reminding him which parts were sleeping quarters. Behind him was the gate tower, flanked by wooden stables for the livestock. On either side were the dormitories, one for novices, the other for the monks. Straight ahead was the chapel, and the flicker of candles through its rose window showed that he had arrived in time: the light that still burned for the abbot would only be extinguished when the man had passed through Death’s gates.

The courtyard was only thirty paces across. A stack of cut wood was piled against the dormitory walls, as if for insulation. Cracks were visible in the stonework of the buildings; the skeleton of a creeper hung down, waiting for spring. Bahl walked to a smaller door to the right of the chapel entrance which led to the abbot’s rooms. The prior had adjacent chambers running down a common wall so the large fireplaces could be shared. Privacy was not something Nartis appeared to approve of here, though certain cardinals he knew had palaces to call their own.

A rolled carpet had been placed behind the door to ward off draughts. Bahl heard the soft whisper as it ran across the floor, catching straw as it went. It opened on to a dark reception room, a traditional canvas-roll painting of Nartis the only ornamentation. It was empty and cold, normally used only for monks to sit and wait to be summoned. Three pairs of heavy fur boots were on the floor, two dropped carelessly, one carefully set perpendicular to the wall.

Bahl placed his hand on the door latch, hesitated when he heard a voice on the other side, a droning murmur of prayer, then walked in. The abbot’s study showed the desk and shelves in the unused order of a dying man. On one wall were two columns of intricate pictures: twelve icons that showed the Gods of the Upper Circle. Bahl smiled at the sight of them; they were the abbot’s pride and joy, exquisite images collected over a lifetime.

In the next room, the abbot’s bedchamber, he found the prior standing at the end of the bed, his tall slim figure and shaven head giving him the appearance of a vulture glaring down at its dinner. He rounded on the door with a look of outrage when he heard it open smoothly changed that into a bow when he recognised Lord Bahl.

The monk sitting at the Abbot’s side, clearly the monastery’s healer, was less composed and gaped for a moment before following suit.

‘Get out,’ Bahl ordered quietly but firmly. The prior inclined his head and ushered the healer out with a sharp gesture. Bahl heard their footsteps go out of the study, then moved to one side of the bed. He glanced down its length to the fireplace. Through the flames he could see the prior, kneeling on the stone floor before a bow device hanging from the far wall, an imitation of prayer that would allow him to hear any conversation.

The Lord of the Farlan’s face softened as he turned to his old friend, bundled up in a nest of blankets that smelt of lavender, sickness and age. The table beside the bed that in past years had been stacked with scrolls and books now held bowls of medicine and a lukewarm broth. A strained cough from the bed summoned him; Bahl crouched down to listen. As he did so, a faltering smile broke over the abbot’s face. Bahl forced a smile in reply, hiding his shock at the near-translucent skin that looked so tired.

‘Forgive me, my Lord,’ repeated the breathless whisper.

‘For what?’

‘For my frailties; they shame me.’

Bahl sighed. The abbot had been tall and powerfully built in his youth. To see him like this, small and withered, made Bahl feel the press of centuries on his own shoulders. ‘Nothing shames you. Time catches us all.’

‘I know.’ The abbot paused for breath, trying to push the blankets away but lacking the strength even for that. ‘I had not planned to die this way.’

‘Most men dream of it: to die old, surrounded by family and friends.’

‘One friend, not much.’ Bahl couldn’t tell whether there was real feeling in that; the abbot was struggling to even make a sound for his friend to hear.

‘It was your own choice to come here; I know you don’t really regret it. The good you’ve done is worth that, I think, and I swore you’d not pass through alone.’

‘Cerrat.’ The word was gasped, any more swallowed by a spasm of pain that tightened every muscle in the abbot’s body. His lips drew back to show his teeth as he grimaced and fought it. Many years ago, in this very monastery, he’d been taught the mantras to overcome suffering. The Chaplains were the Farlan paradigms of bravery and resilience. Their lives were to serve as examples to the regiment they fought with. Only the strongest survived. Bahl could see the slight twitches on the abbot’s face as he ran those devotional words through his mind again.

‘Cerrat, is that someone you want to be brought?’ Bahl leaned away from the abbot as he raised his voice. ‘Prior, don’t pretend you can’t hear me. If I have to leave this bed to fetch you, I swear you’ll die before the abbot does.’

That got the desired result. The man scrabbled to his feet and peered over the fire’s flames. His calm manner was gone; the politics of a monastery rarely included direct threats of violence.

‘Cerrat, my Lord? He’s a novice here, training to be a Chaplain. The abbot’s always been fond of the boy; he’s an excellent student although rather boisterous-‘

‘Fetch him now,’ Bahl ordered. He didn’t need to hear any more. The face behind the flames disappeared and Bahl turned back to his friend. ‘Cerrat’s coming.’ As he said it, Bahl wondered how he could help with the pain. A white-eye’s magic could soothe a little.

By the time a tap came on the bedroom door, the moment had passed and the abbot was breathing again. A youth of some sixteen summers put his head around the door as Bahl called for him to enter. His alarm at seeing Bahl gave way to distress as he looked at the abbot.

‘Come in, sit by the bed,’ Bahl told the nervous boy. ‘He asked for you.’

‘Cerrat. My bow.’ The novice swallowed hard and fetched the wide, flat bow from the corner. From the way he held it, he’d done this before; he’d read the inscribed passage of Nartis’s words in praise of his tribe’s warriors. The bow was unstrung, so Bahl dug out one of his own spare strings and handed it to Cerrat. Even after so many years, the bow he’d presented to the abbot was oiled and still strong. The abbot reached out a withered finger and brushed the curve of the bow.

‘Lord Bahl gave this to me; now I give it to you.’ The youth’s eyes widened, but he could find no words to protest. ‘You show great promise; as much as Cardinal Disten did when I taught him. Bahl, when he is ready, give him the position I once refused.’

The Lord nodded, looking over at the young man who was overwhelmed at the gift of a bow. He had a child’s face, but already the build of a man, with broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms. The abbot was a reticent man; he wouldn’t have told Cerrat about the heroics that had earned that bow - any more than he would have spoken of the day he refused the highest honour a Chaplain could hold, and one rarely bestowed - that of Legion Chaplain to the Palace Guard.

Another rush of pain coursed through the abbot’s body and it was a while before he could speak again. Bahl cradled the man’s hand and waited.

‘It’s passed. How fares the Land, my friend?’

‘Winter is coming. I hope you’ve trained your chaplains well, I’m going to need-‘ He broke off as the abbot cried out in pain.

‘Oh merciful Gods!’ The words that followed were lost, but Bahl was sure he heard ‘the Master calls’ through the man’s torment.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ Bahl asked, hating the feeling of impotence.

‘An orb,’ panted the abbot. The pain was consuming him now, but this was a man who’d rallied a broken legion and led their charge with an arrow in his neck, trusting to Nartis that it would not tear the vein. He knew pain well enough; he had never submitted to it. ‘I want to feel power in my hands once more before I lose this battle.’ The effort of speaking was almost too much for him and he slumped back in his bed, a trickle of blood on his chin where he’d bitten his lip.

Bahl lost no time, for he could feel the shadows grow longer as the presence of Death encroached. Sitting the abbot up, cradling the man in his arms, Bahl began to draw his magic, letting the energies flow through the abbot’s body. The old man had been a fair battle-mage in his time, as unsophisticated as a white-eye, but fuelled by his burning faith. An orb was a basic tool of training: it drew energy and spun it into a ball, an excellent way to practise control.

Bahl felt the abbot’s body relax as the sudden torrent of magic coursed through his body; that much would kill him in a matter of seconds, but for those moments it overshadowed the pain, and that was enough. With one frail hand in each palm, Bahl trapped the magic between them. The room shimmered with greenish-blue light while the shadows grew darker and colder. Bahl allowed the energies to swirl and dance, touching on the edge of his control before crushing them into an orb smaller than the abbot would have ever managed. This he split into three, letting them orbit each other with ferocious speed as the unnatural light flew in all directions, lapping around the edges of the abbot’s magical books and lovingly stroking the hilt of White Lightning, the broadsword strapped to Bahl’s back.

And then the shadows grew and the magic fled. Bahl felt a tremble in his stomach as the Chief of the Gods reached out to gather in the abbot’s soul and free him from pain. His friend wore a smile as he died; remembering happier times and honoured by a single tear from the white eye of his lord.

A light shone around his body, tracing the curve and line of his hardened figure, illuminating scars long faded and signs of injury he could not remember. He moved with dreamy lethargy to a silent song. His armour was gone, stripped away from his flesh, but Eolis remained, secured by a bond stronger than ownership. Terribly heavy and crusted with age, it looked frail and vulnerable. Despite that, he felt sustained.

The chatter and voices that assailed his mind were muted and weak. His shell of flesh and memory was impervious to their touch, but still they gnawed, hungry for attention, or thoughts to feed off. The only one he listened to was a whisper beyond his understanding, a girl’s voice that called out, searching for him in the dismal black of night. It was a language he did not recognise, words he could not fathom, but a voice he knew from deep within.

He felt the earth closing around him, as if falling into a grave, but he was not destroyed. He rose again as a shadow, unnoticed by the figures walking past him, wrapped up in their own lives. With Eolis in his hand he was suffused with calm; he patiently ignored the emptiness of death. Though broken and scarred, there was purpose in his bones, and he let them carry him forward towards the shore of a still lake and a figure, stiller than that. The breeze coming off the water brought voices with it, and the tastes of salt and cold blood. Silver shimmered in the sky and the smell of heather and wet stone was all about. He smiled as his blood ran into the earth at his feet.

‘My Lord?’

General Lahk’s voice jolted Isak from his doze. His eyes shot open in alarm, as vestiges of his dream made him forget momentarily where he was.

‘You were sleeping in the saddle again, my Lord.’ Though the words contained a reproach, the tone was bereft of emotion.

‘Well? What of it?’

‘Well, falling from your horse would hardly be a glorious death for me to report to Lord Bahl. If it started suddenly-‘

‘It won’t start suddenly.’ Isak reached out and patted the neck of the huge horse underneath him. ‘I know perfectly well that this is the best charger in the seven shires, and I’m not going to fall.’

He rubbed his eyes, trying to keep himself awake. They had been riding for several hours that morning, but still he couldn’t shake off sleep’s embrace. With his blue silk mask on and his fur hood pulled up, Isak had made himself a small pocket of warmth, even while the temperature dropped further every day. The nights on the road were far from peaceful, for the bright warmth of magic of the gifts that Isak kept in reach at all times attracted lonely voices in the night. For the time being, reviving deep sleep eluded him.

He pulled his hood off to let the breeze wake him up a bit. He was always more irritable when he was sleepy, and the general’s monotone brought out the worst in him. Scratching at the stubble on his head, Isak sighed and at last turned to look at the man, who sat high and proud in the saddle, his face as blank as ever. Isak had never yet seen him show emotion of any kind - what he would be like in battle was anyone’s guess. It was unusual for a white-eye to go through life like that; it was inconceivable that he would be the same on the battlefield.

‘So, did you wake me for a reason, or just concern for my health?’ he asked, grumpily.

‘I thought you would prefer to be awake as we enter the next town. It’s not seemly for the Krann to be asleep when his subjects come out to cheer him. I also have word from your knights from Anvee.’

‘What about them? Have I offended them by not sending them orders to accompany me?’ In his other life he’d found people took offence at most things, but a court rank had apparently enlarged the range of possibilities, and the things he
didn’t
do were causing him almost as many problems as the things he did.

‘They are your subjects. You may offend if it so pleases you.’

‘Enough scolding, General, I’m too tired.’

‘I lack the rank to scold you…’

‘Just shut up and tell me what they said.’

‘They were enquiring as to whether they could present themselves to you.’

Isak turned in his saddle, shifting Eolis on his back to sit more comfortably as he waited for further explanation.

‘They number five hundred - an impressive number for Anvee, which of course is the intention. They are most anxious to please their new liege. The problem is that a number of the knights and most of the cavalrymen are your bondsmen.’ He waited for a response, but got none.

Isak sat with a blank expression. As a wagon-brat he’d never had any reason to learn the laws of land-locked men. His father had called it a collar that choked honest men into slaves. Carel had laughed at that and not bothered to argue, his chuckles indicating that Herman’s opinion was so foolish it didn’t even merit a response.

The general persisted. ‘Lord Isak, Anvee has been without a suzerain for many years. It has therefore been of advantage to pledge a bond of service to the title of Suzerain Anvee itself, since the benefits of that bond come with few of the requirements one normally expects. They are therefore now a little unsettled that a suzerain has been appointed - they now have responsibilities to you, and they are trying to keep to the letter of the law until they can judge your disposition.’

‘And?’

He sighed. Isak thought it was in irritation for a moment, but the reply was as bland and patient as before. ‘And the law states that a bondsman must secure his liege lord’s permission before he can leave the shire. Technically, this constitutes desertion. They could be hung.’

Isak’s face turned from confused to incredulous.

‘And they are actually worried I might do that? Execute my own soldiers? Before a battle, no less?’

‘They thought it prudent for me to speak to you first. You are a white-eye.’

Isak felt the general’s words sink like a stone in his stomach. It didn’t matter that such a decision would be lunacy: they feared the monster inside him. Even General Lahk had not disputed the possibility that Isak might respond that way - it was as if Atro were still alive and every evil rumour about him had been true.

Isak felt too sickened to reply. He waved his hand in the direction of the general, telling him to get on with it, then nudged his horse away, unable to bear company. General Lahk spurred his own horse into a trot and disappeared behind the banners of Suzerain Tehran’s hurscals.

How does he live like that? They must think the same about him, worse perhaps. Is there
nothing
he cares
about?
Would he disobey any order from Bahl, no matter how obscene? Would he even notice? Maybe what they say is true; maybe Nartis did burn out his soul.

The Chief Steward had told Isak the strange circumstances of the general’s birth, and how Bahl had taken him to be tested in the Temple of Nartis. Lahk was far stronger than any other white-eye, but Nartis had rejected him, scarring his body with lightning instead of raising him to the ranks of the Chosen. He was left with two choices: reject Nartis and leave, or become a perfect servant of the God. He had taken the harder path, discarding those parts of his soul that would nurture the pain of his rejection. Isak almost admired him for that, however much the thought horrified him.

A few flakes of snow swirled around Isak as he stared through the banners to see where the general was going, but his idle gaze was soon lost in the flags and colours themselves. The livery of the Palace Guard was a dour black and white - no doubt it reflected Bahl’s uncompromising mind, but it seemed to suit Lahk more, especially after a few weeks of wear and dirt had dulled everything. Slowly, as they had marched through the shires collecting troops, passing through Tebran to Nelbove and Danva, then following the border of Amah and Vere, flashes of colour had begun to appear in the ranks. The Chetse called the Parian cavalry ‘steel peacocks’ - gaudy and arrogant, but fearsome, however much silk and lace they wore.

With the army now marched a total of eight suzerains, including the Krann himself, and eleven counts, some fifty marshals and six hundred-odd knights. The hundreds of banners and badges, pennants and tunics, clashed in a melee of colour across the dull canvas of a wintry forest. Every single noble had presented himself to the Krann and had his title announced, but it was only the suzerains that Isak had remembered. The rest had been just a blur of pomp and ceremony.

That old rogue Fordan had the honour of the vanguard, ahead of higher-ranking suzerains - a decision of Isak’s that had made Sir Cerse, Colonel of the Palace Guard, wince. But Fordan had proved to be both good company and a sensible advisor. Isak was less sure about Sir Cerse, the young ambitious knight from Tori who had surprised most by earning a Swordmaster’s Eagle-blade shortly after he joined the Ghosts. Fordan’s Red Keep banner was too far ahead to be seen, as were the Gold and Green Hounds of rich Suzerain Nelbove and the Green Griffin of the odious Suzerain Selsetin. There was something about that man that set Isak’s teeth on edge, even before Fordan had muttered something about both Nelbove and Selsetin being implicated in the Malich scandal. Without knowing quite what that meant, Isak did realise it made them far from friendly to his cause. The other nobles had nodded sagely at Fordan’s words; whatever it was, the scandal was obviously common knowledge.

The swooping Golden Falcon of the newly raised Suzerain Danva fluttered just ahead. His brother was dead only two weeks and a book was already running on the life expectancy of his infant nephew, who would take the title if he reached adulthood. The suzerain’s superb voice carried well over the breeze, and Isak could also hear an insistent debate between Suzerains Amah and Ked. The White Hart of Amah seemed to be faring well against the Yellow Lion, despite having to concede nearly twenty summers to his peer.

The last suzerain present was foremost in rank, being from the oldest family and one of the richest provinces, but to Isak’s surprise, the dour, excessively devout Suzerain Tori had presented himself only briefly before setting off to ride with the ranging scouts. His Ice Cobra emblem was as uncommon as the strange and secretive suzerain himself. Just as rare was his decision to wear simple leathers, with the badge of his family sewn to his breast as a sworn soldier would, instead of the grand armour a knight was expected to be seen in. His plate was carefully packed away, as was that of his hurscals, the unit of knights that acted as his bodyguard.

At first, Isak thought the man was a coward, dressing as a simple cavalryman to avoid making a target of himself like his fellow noblemen, but as he found out more about the man, he was deeply relieved that for once he’d not let his tongue run away with him. General Lahk, not one to overly praise anyone, told Isak that when it came to battle, Suzerain Tori was always to be found fighting side-by-side with the white-eyes of the Guard.

A heavy covering of cloud kept Tsatach’s eye well hidden, and a dry wind whistled past the armoured knights and the leather-clad troops to the pack animals trailing behind them. A vanguard flurry of snowflakes held a promise of far worse to come: when the ice on the road became too dangerous for horsemen, the beasts of burden would have to walk the path first, enduring the worst of the slick ground.

Isak’s sharp eyes picked out red-furred squirrels watching the army from a safe distance, their thick rusty coats quivering as they tapped at the oak bark in search of insects hidden underneath. It was comforting that some life continued around them, uninterested and unaffected by the army marching east. The people of the towns they had passed through had been nervous and scared, only hesitantly cheering the soldiers. The fear of the elves had a strong grip; they had seen real anxiety even before they left Danva’s borders. Seeing Isak astride his huge white charger, silent apart from the faint jangling of the harness and the chimes of the silver chains, rings and bells that adorned the creature, seemed to inspire confidence - perhaps that was enough; their belief in him was more important that his own. If his soldiers had heart enough, his own fears would go unnoticed.

It didn’t take General Lahk long to return. Trotting beside him was a black-garbed knight, his breastplate worn over his formal silks as was traditional. He was clearly wealthy: a gold damascene pattern overlaid the deep black of his armour, curling around the edge of the lion’s head that sat large and proud in the centre of the breastplate. Even in his sleepy state, Isak felt a flicker of recognition. He blinked the blur from his eyes and looked again, this time realising who the man was: the Roaring Lion crest and extravagant black armour were a rare combination, and Isak knew there would be a golden helm shaped like a lion’s head hanging from the man’s saddle.

As the horsemen came nearer, Isak could make out the two gold earrings: the mark of a count. If his skin didn’t heal too fast to make it practical, Isak would have had a similar piercing to hold the three rings of a suzerain. This was not some anonymous noble, but the renowned Count Vesna.

Vesna’s reputation preceded him: every child, noble-born or wagon-brat, had grown up hearing stories of his romantic exploits: the cuckolding of an army of noblemen, the duels and rooftop pursuits… Carel always said Vesna was one of the tribe’s finest soldiers, but necessity had required it. It was rumoured that Vesna had provided more than a few heirs to noble estates, children accepted because most feared to challenge one of the Land’s most accomplished duellists: Vesna had fought twenty-four duels, and won them all. Some - a few - had tried to kill him surreptitiously, or have him assassinated, but Vesna had inherited a minor elven blade, and had mortgaged his entire estate to buy that suit of armour from the College of Magic.

A single ruby glinted in the eye of the Roaring Lion, catching what little light the day had to offer. His black hair was pulled back from his face and tied back, showing off the handsome features that had brought both pleasure and trouble. Though undeniably good-looking, with laughter-lines fanning out from his eyes, there was a hard set to his jaw, and a strength in his knowing face.