The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (35 page)

‘I don’t understand,’ Mihn muttered.

The Harlequins’ masks hide them from the Land. Unlike a Harlequin, I can’t hide behind my mask forever. I have to be a part of the
Land - it’s up to me whether my influence will be for good or bad.
You might not be able to tell the stories, but you can influence them.
Tila is forever laughing at my ignorance, but it could be a crucial failing if the Gods involve themselves in our lives. You can fight better
than any normal I’ve met, but it’s your knowledge of the Gods, of the
entire Land and its languages, that I need - and I won’t find that in
any other soldier.’

Isak realised that he was trembling. The whole subject of being a
failure was a little close to his heart. ‘Think it over. We’ll be back in
the saddle soon, but you have until we leave Nerlos Fortress to make
up your mind. After that, we’ll be outside Farlan territory. You can
decide to become a ranger, or an assassin or a court jester, or whatever you wish, but if you want purpose in your life, here it is, for the
taking.’

As the first cold rays of dawn reached out over the Land, a figure made
his way on to a deserted stretch of battlements on the south-western
corner of Nerlos Fortress. He was dressed only in a rough black shirt
and billowing trousers, hardly suitable for the cool morning, but as he
padded on to the corner-platform between two stretches of walkway he appeared unperturbed by either the wind or the cold stone against
his bare feet.

He knelt, facing the sun as it crept up towards the cloud that covered most of the sky, then bowed and, eyes half-closed, whispered a mantra. The words drifted away on the wind as he repeated the bow
and the prayer ten more times, his voice smooth, almost hypnotic.

He sat back on his heels and beamed contentedly at the sunrise for a few minutes, then closed his eyes again and stretched out his
right leg, laying it flat against the stone pointing north, then extended
his left leg to the south, all with apparent ease. More words slipped
through his lips, less formal, perhaps, but still full of reverence, as he
leaned forward and placed his hands against the stone floor, tensing
slightly, and eased his weight on to his palms. His legs wavered for a
moment as he found his body’s centre of balance, then he drew them
together, pointing straight up.

He straightened his arms and moved his weight on to one hand,
twisting so he was facing down the empty walkway. In times of peace
there was only a single lookout on the highest tower and no one else
had risen with the dawn. He bent his body into a crescent shape, then Propelled his body around and back up to a standing position.

And what was that?’ The voice made Mihn pause and he peered in
to the darkened doorway suspiciously until Isak stepped out into the crisp sunlight.

‘I was praying.’

Isak raised an eyebrow. ‘Praying? I’ve never seen a priest do that.’

‘You don’t need to be a priest to pray, my Lord. Every child should
be taught the devotionals to each of the Upper Circle.’

‘No doubt they should - I can probably even remember some of them - but what was that last bit? If everyone had to do that at
temple I might have gone more often.’ Isak’s laughter died when he
saw Mihn’s grave expression.

‘That was a personal prayer, something we were taught in our tribe.
It’s different for each person, a way of giving thanks for something you
enjoy, or a particular ability-‘

‘So I should be killing someone each morning? That’s all they made
me
good for.’ Isak immediately regretted snapping, but Mihn’s calm
was not disrupted.

‘Not at all. I believe you have several things to be grateful for: your
strength, your health, your position. And there are your gifts-‘

‘Fine, I understand, just stop preaching. If you’ve decided to stay
and piously whine at me as your life’s calling, I take everything back,’
Isak shifted uncomfortably. It-hadn’t even occurred to him to say a
prayer of thanks for his gifts. There had been little chance when Nartis was invading his dreams, and then he’d got caught up in his new
life… one had to hope that the Gods weren’t like people. Isak had
seen family feuds grow out of those feast days where gifts were traditional. The idea of appearing ungrateful to the God of Storms was
not appealing.

Mihn broke into his reverie. Then I will try not to piously whine
at you every morning - but yes, I have decided to stay with you. For
a man whose first recourse is violence, you can be eloquent at times.
The casual listener might believe you had given the subject some
thought.’

Isak grinned. ‘If you’ve quite finished, you can go and fetch me
some jugs of water.’

Mihn narrowed his eyes. For all of his power, Isak was still a young
man, and one who’d rarely had a chance to enjoy himself at that.
‘Some might think Carel’s observation that he found it hard to wake
up early these days was not intended as a hint.’

‘I know, but they’re the sort of people who pray every morning. I on the other hand, have no morals - by divine mandate. And who am I to defy the will of the Gods?’ Mihn sighed. ‘Who indeed?’

********

Jeil moved swiftly through the trees, his bow held ready. Over the rushing sound of the river nearby he heard a faint birdcall, the short
double-trill of a goldcrest, and he stopped to crouch behind an ancient hawthorn. Borl’s mimicry of birdcalls was brilliant, one of the reasons
he had been picked to escort Isak to Narkang. It was the perfect way
to keep his companions informed of enemy movements without giving himself away, and it meant Jeil, who was faster, could hunt them
down from his calls.

This was the first person they had encountered since disembarking
from the riverboat they had used to travel the border between Tor
Milist and Scree towards Helrect. It was an obvious ambush point, as
only coracles could traverse this section of the river, and they were no
use for transporting horses.

The goldcrest trilled again and Jeil tensed, ready to step out, when a second call sounded from somewhere up ahead. He swore silently:
either Borl’s mimicry was too good and had attracted a real bird, or their prey had caught on. Jeil hunkered down and kept completely
still, listening hard. The Land was unnaturally quiet - until a piercing
whistle broke the stillness, no bird sound, this, but a warning that Jeil
had been seen. The ranger rose and drew his sword, stabbing it into
the earth within easy reach before fully drawing his bow.

‘Enough of the birdsong,’ called a voice no more than thirty yards
ahead. ‘I know you’re there, so come out.’

He heard footsteps crunching over dead branches advancing towards him and stepped around the hawthorn, still certain that no one could have seen or heard him. The silk of his bowstring caressed his cheek as he caught sight of the speaker. He wasn’t much to look at: dressed in roughly patched leathers and a ragged wolf’s pelt, with a
longbow slung over his shoulder and a short-handled axe at his belt.
‘I’m alone,’ he said. ‘I’ve been waiting for you all morning.’ He
looked about fifty summers, with traces of white on the week’s growth of
beard. An easy smile hovered on his lips, one that put Jeil on
edge.

The border with Scree is a strange place to be waiting alone and on foot,’ Jeil replied, keeping his bow raised. ‘A boat couldn’t have
brought you to this stretch of the river and you don’t look much like a
local waterman to me.’

‘Send the other ranger back to fetch your Lord,’ the man continued.

‘I would speak to him.’ He didn’t sound like he was a native of these
parts. His accent was awkward, as if his own dialect were markedly
different.

‘What’s your business with my Lord?’

‘Someone sent me to speak to him. Look, boy, I knew you were
coming, I could have ambushed you all if I wanted him dead. Just send
your friend to tell them I’m here and then we can relax with a pipe
until they arrive.’

Jeil eased the tension in the bow enough to free up his right hand.
Without taking his eyes off the man, he raised his arm and motioned
in the air. A whistle told him that Borl understood. Still keeping his
eyes on the man, Jeil backed away and retrieved his blade; the arrow
stayed nocked.

‘Don’t get comfortable,’ he warned as the man squatted down on
the roots of an oak and pulled out his tobacco pouch. ‘We’ll go some
of the way back, this way.’ He pointed back to where he’d left his
horse.

The stranger sighed theatrically and pushed himself to his feet. A
mocking smile remained on his lips as he passed the ranger. Jeil couldn’t
help but wonder just what he had found instead of an ambush.

‘So who are you?’ Isak’s hand rested very obviously on Eolis’s emerald’
studded hilt. Standing face to face he dwarfed the man, but the stranger showed no sign of discomfort. Either he was mad, or there was a lot more to him than met the eye. The man seemed vaguely interested in Isak’s gifts, but no more - the white-eye’s hooded face
drew more attention than either Siulents or Eolis.

‘Greetings, brother,’ the stranger said, with a laconic bow. Isak saw
his own confusion echoed on the faces of his companions. ‘My name
is Morghien, but that will mean little enough to you, I’m sure.’

The Krann grinned under the blue silk as he caught Mihn’s eye. The small man shifted in discomfort, but did not hesitate to speak.
‘You are called the man of many spirits.’

Morghien arched his eyebrows in surprise, the smile fading
momentarily, much to Isak’s satisfaction, but he didn’t falter for long-He shrugged his shoulders, causing the moth-eaten pelt to twitch as if
in the final spasms of death, then said, ‘Your man knows his stories. I
did not realise my fame had extended to the northern clans.’

It was Mihn’s turn to be surprised now, but Morghien simply chuckled and continued, ‘And now the introductions are out of the
way, perhaps we can get to business.’

‘What business do you have with us?’ demanded Carel. ‘How did you
know we were coming this way, and why did you call him brother?’

‘Explanations can come another time, but as for how I knew you
were coming, let us say the girl of his dreams told me so.’

Carel laughed, but he saw Isak tense. There was a strange assurance
about Morghien that worried the veteran. The man looked younger than Carel was himself, but he had an almost otherworldly air; he
suited the strange title Mihn had used:
the man of many spirits.

‘Should we talk alone?’ asked Morghien softly. Isak nodded and
waved the others back, never taking his eyes off the man. Carel rec
ognised Isak’s mood and moved off without a word; Vesna and the soldiers followed his lead, but Mihn didn’t move. He tightened his
grip on the steel-shod staff in his hand.

Morghien turned a sympathetic eye on him. ‘It’s all right, lad. If you
know about me, then you’ll know I wouldn’t stand a chance against
him.’

Mihn kept very still for a moment and then bowed his head in
acknowledgement. He joined Carel, but kept his eyes on Morghien.
When the older man reached out to touch his arm, Mihn jumped in
surprise.

‘What was that about?’

When he answered, Mihn’s voice was distant. ‘Have you heard of
the Finntrail?’

‘No, who are they? Another northern tribe?’

Mihn shook his head slowly. ‘No. I will explain later. Though I
don’t think he poses a threat to Lord Isak, that man is dangerous.’

Now we’re alone, tell me exactly what you mean.’ Any mention of
Isak’s dreams put the white-eye on edge. How a stranger could know
about the girl’s voice in them was something Isak couldn’t fathom.

‘ I’m not sure entirely,’ Morghien began, but the words died in his
throat as a silver gleam appeared at his throat.

‘No riddles, old man,’ warned the Krann in a low tone.

Morghien swallowed and nodded as best he could. ‘I am afraid I
may not have as many answers as you would hope. Four times now I
have had dreams that are more than dreams.’

‘You said the girl of my dreams,’ Isak said impatiently. ‘Explain that.’

‘My dreams have been of a girl, talking to me. She told me aboutyou and asked me to come here to meet you. I assumed you must have dreamed of her too, for her to know who you are and where to find you.’

‘Who is she? How does she know me?’

‘Her name is Xeliath. She tells me she has been looking for you for over a year now, hardly knowing for whom she was searching, until you put on Siulents.’ ‘She can sense Siulents?’

Morghien ignored Isak’s scepticism. ‘She is, I think, scared to tell me how. She said that Siulents is like a giant beacon, shining out through the Land when she sleeps, but that your dreams are guarded too well to let her enter them. She hopes that by telling you this, you would perhaps open yourself up to her.’

I’ll need more reason than that. Continue.’

‘She’s Yeetatchen, I think, though I have never been there: her skin is as brown as a hazelnut. Xeliath is young, perhaps as little as fifteen winters.’

‘What does she want with me?’

‘I believe she wants only to help you. She persuaded me that I should too.’

‘How? What help do you think I need?’ Finally Isak lowered his sword, satisfied that the man neither could nor would do anything to harm him. Isak looked a little deeper into Morghien, feeling an unusual mix of power within the man. His strength was curious, unlike anything Isak had seen before, but it was not great enough to concern him.

‘Preparation for troubles ahead, Xeliath said.’ At Isak’s expression
Morghien raised a hand and continued hurriedly, ‘She has not told me everything, and though I think I understand what she meant, telling you might make matters worse.’

‘Worse? I’ve still half a mind to kill you so what will be worse than that?’

‘You having less than half a mind,’ replied Morghien simply.

Isak opened his mouth to respond and then saw the stranger’s expression. He was being deadly serious, even if he was as insane as he sounded. The white-eye looked back to the rest of his party, then walked over to the moss-draped form of a fallen tree, indicating that Morghien should follow. He straddled the trunk and sat down, facing
his
companions so Morghien had to sit with his back to them. He pulled off the silken hood and ran a gauntleted hand over his cropped
scalp. The cool whisper of silver on skin sounded like the breathing
of wind through the trees.

‘You want to help me, and you want me to trust you, without knowing what’s going on?’

‘It is a matter of destiny, and a man learns his fate at his own risk.’
Morghien shrugged.

‘Damn my fate,’ Isak snapped back, ‘I don’t believe the future is
fixed-‘

‘And it is not,’ interrupted Morghien firmly. ‘Which is why you cannot know what I mean. Xeliath is some sort of prophet or oracle, but it doesn’t take a prophet to know that a white-eye isn’t going to follow his fate willingly. Whether knowingly or not, you’ll fight
against any outside forces in your life; it is what you are. But you can perhaps be prepared for what is to come.’

Isak hardly noticed that he had bitten his lip. ‘What do you propose?’

‘Xeliath thinks herself your guardian spirit. She told me, “His
armour may keep his body alive, but I must watch over his soul.” It is
clear that the threats to you are greater than you know.’

‘I have enough enemies, I think,’ said Isak bitterly.

Morghien ignored him and continued, ‘Xeliath has seen your death in the future and hopes to avoid it. To that end, she has asked me to
help.’

‘What can you teach me?’ Isak snorted at the idea. ‘You don’t look
much of a swordsman to me.’

Indeed I am not. But your death is one of the mind, not the body. If you are to be attacked in the mind, then perhaps I
can
be of use.’

‘Why you?’

Because, as your man back there will tell you, I am possessed.’

A cough of laughter escaped Isak’s lips, but it died soon as he saw nothing but the truth in the man’s face. ‘You’re serious?’

‘Completely serious. I’m not inhabited by a daemon, and the posession was voluntary, but yes. Remember what your man called me?’

‘The
man of spirits? Something like that?’ Isak fought the urge to stand up and step back from this madman. His hand tightened for a
moment
around the hilt of his sheathed sword.

Morghien caught the movement and a smile of understanding crossed his lips. ‘The man of many spirits. Perhaps now is not the
time, for my story is a long one, but the short answer is that I took pity
on a local Aspect of Vasle. Her stream was going to be dammed, and when the water stopped flowing she would have faded to just a voice
on the wind. I offered what I had out of compassion. When the last
of the water stopped flowing, she entered my soul. The others - well,
they were similar stories. I have a generous heart.’
‘Mihn looked like he thought you were dangerous.’
‘Me? No, not I, but one of those within is a Finntrail, that’s true
enough.’

‘And that is?’

Morghien smiled uncertainly. Obviously his choices in life had
made him an outcast. Trusting his secrets to strangers was not a comfortable thing to do. Isak could sympathise there.

‘I-Ah, well, the Finntrail are a sort of ghost, I suppose. Not the
ghost of a human, but something older. I don’t know exactly what they are, for they cannot remember. What could have happened to
Seliasei did, I suspect, happen to the Finntrail. They are only shadows
of whatever they used to be, but to retain even that much means they
must have been very powerful.’

‘And they are dangerous?’

Morghien looked thoughtful for a moment, searching for the right word. ‘They are angry, perhaps that’s the best description. As long as
they are capable of anger they exist as more than just a faint echo; it sustains them, whatever else it does. But, they are all subservient to
me; even the Finntrail has accepted my dominance. The sensation of being alive again more than makes up for that.’

‘So what do you propose? I’m not sure I want to know how you can
help me with some vicious little shade running around in your head.’

‘Call it a new experience. Trust me, it will hurt me more than you
- there’s no doubt of that. I don’t pretend to be able to read those
runes on your armour, but Seliasei fears them. All I ask of you is that
you hold back as much as you can - and perhaps put your sword out
of immediate reach.’

Isak stared at him for a moment, suspicious again, but then he closed his eyes and opened his senses to the world. An awareness of the Land about him began to filter slowly into his mind and a spreading numbness flooded through his body, a cool breath of fresh damp leaves and moist earth. In only a few seconds he began to feel the gentle shape of the ground about him, the faint pinpricks of life from his companions, the curious medley of souls about Morghien that justified the strange name Mihn called him.

Isak smiled to himself as he experienced the peace of opening him
self to the Land. From the comforting immovability of the earth beneath his feet to the vibrant swirl of air high above; all this took him
away from the pulse of anger buried under his skin, however briefly.

‘I’ll trust you.’ He forced his eyelids open to disperse the dreamy
contentment in his head. Drawing Eolis, he threw the weapon over
arm and embedded it in a nearby elm. The silver blade drove a foot deep into the trunk and sat quivering, emitting a low hum. Even in
the dull light of a cloudy morning, Eolis sparkled as if dusted in morning frost.

Satisfied that the blade was out of reach, Morghien took a moment
to calm himself. Isak felt a pulse of something, maybe the Aspect’s
concern at what was to come. Even a weak spirit would be aware of
what it could lose.

‘I’m no scholar,’ Morghien began, ‘and I don’t pretend to understand much of spirits or daemons, for all that a friend in Narkang has tried to explain matters to me, but I can feel from the spirit’s point of view. The first thing you must learn, Lord Isak, is that they are not as powerful as people believe them to be.’

Isak’s focus returned somewhat at Morghien’s respectful use of his
title. The man had felt just how strong he was; the mocking smile was
gone and Morghien now looked like Kerin did on the training field.
Isak reminded himself what that meant: just because he could kill Morghien with little effort said nothing about what he could learn
from the man.

Morghien, unaware of Isak’s mental discussion, carried on, ‘Part of a
spirit’s power derives from how it is perceived. The myths you learn,
the fear and awe you experience when you encounter them - magic
is a force in itself, and though different in every way to nature, it can still create a form of life… perhaps
existence
is a better word.

‘So in the fashion that you and I are created from the same matter as the earth and trees, so Gods and daemons have a common source in
magic.’

‘How is this helping?’ The mages from the College of Magic, in their attempts to educate the Krann, had not found fertile ground. They had made the mistake of telling him that theoretical understanding
of magic would be of small use to a white-eye. Isak had taken that as
a reason to pay no further attention.

Morghien’s look of irritation faded quickly as he remembered his ultimate goal. His brow furrowed as he sought a more appropriate
explanation. ‘When you fight, there is more to know than stabbing a
man, no?’

Isak shrugged and Morghien continued, ‘Of course there is - not
only must you know your strokes, your stances and your weapons, you
must also know your enemy and the land around you.’ ‘Now think of
magic as this battle.’

‘Your weapons and strokes might be spells or curses. They must be practised and refined so your crude swipes become deft cuts and
concealed moves. Knowing your enemy - how his armour slows him
or how great his reach is - is as important as knowing how the mud
underfoot will slow you, whether you will slip on a particular stone, or
can kick him off balance after he has struck.