The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (15 page)

Everyone was out today, going about the ten thousand different tasks that keep any city running smoothly. A portly man stamped heavily down the other side of the street from them; the thick gold chain around the man’s neck and clerks scuttling in his wake marked him as a successful merchant.

Then Amanas caught sight of a gutter-runner moving along the edge of the tiled roof high above the merchant’s head. Like all those who lived above ground, he was dressed only in rags and had little meat on his bones. They were scavengers who used the network of rooftops to travel quickly across the city. People often used them as the quickest way to get important information to its destination. The gutter-runners had a fierce code of honesty that ensured they were tolerated - even somewhat fondly - by Tirah’s citizens. It was perfectly possible that the merchant was the child’s employer that morning.

Amanas and his escort were waved through the barbican gate by the pikemen flanking it. When they emerged back into the daylight, Amanas hissed in irritation at the mud caking his boots. He insisted on stopping to scrape off the worst of it before he was ready to labour his way up the open stairs to the Great Hall.

Finally he stepped over the threshold, squinting, and for a brief moment he felt like a fish out of water; foolish and delicate in a world that was not his own. He could hear the laughter of men ringing in his ears. He had dreamed of this scene several weeks past, and though dreams themselves usually meant nothing, dreams of the Chosen before they come to power were different: they spoke of the Gods. He remembered her emerald gaze - eyes that could pierce the darkest recesses of the soul. He knew of only one Goddess whose eyes were green, and Fate was not a patient mistress.

The Keymaster tightened his grip and entered the hall. It was years since Amanas had last come here, and in the intervening period it had hardly changed: it was still a dark and smelly army mess, lacking even the meagre dignity one might hope for in an elite legion. Groups of men were clumped around the two rows of tables that led up to the high table at the far end. Even that was hardly grander than the others, just a little longer and set on a raised platform.

Amanas moved into the centre of the room and paused briefly to look around at the fading heraldry and flags that hung from the roof beams. Then he advanced a little further until Lord Bahl looked up. He stopped and waited to be addressed, but the old white-eye did nothing more than tap the young man beside him and return to his conversation with Chief Steward Lesarl.

The youth was clearly the new suzerain, a white-eye who towered over Amanas when he stood, but still conceded both height and weight to the Duke of Tirah. The Krann stared at the Keymaster for a few moments, then stabbed his eating dagger into the table top and walked around the table to reach the man, licking his fingers as he did. Amanas gave a short bow, cut short as his eyes reached the sword at Isak’s hip. When he saw that he gave a slight squawk, prompting a smile to appear on the Krann’s face.

‘Something wrong?’

‘Certainly, my Lord Suzerain; that sword that you are wearing is not
your
sword.’

‘So?’

‘So it belongs to the Knight-Defender of Tirah and should only be worn by him.’

The Krann looked back towards the high table in confusion. ‘I thought it belonged to Kerin? He’s the one who lent it to me.’

Amanas winced at the informality. ‘Swordmaster Kerin is the Knight-Defender of Tirah - that is the full title of the man who commands the Swordmasters.’

‘I still don’t understand.’

The question in Lord Isak’s voice attracted Lesarl’s attention. The Chief Steward spoke up before Amanas could reply. ‘He means, my Lord, that it’s a gross breach of protocol to wear a ceremonial weapon belonging to another man.’

‘Kerin didn’t seem to mind,’ Isak countered sharply.

‘Unlike some present,’ replied the Chief Steward, gesturing to the newcomer.

‘Enough. Argue when you’re elsewhere.’ Bahl didn’t look up, but gestured for Lesarl to continue their conversation.

‘Well,’ continued Isak after a careful pause, ‘if you have nothing more to criticise about my attire, Lord Bahl said you needed to speak to me about my crest.’

‘Normally, yes, my Lord Suzerain. In this case, however, it will not be necessary.’ With a flourish, Amanas slipped the covering from the shield and held it up to the light.

A gasp ran around the room as the Keymaster held up a polished silver teardrop shield and turned almost a full circle to show everyone present Isak’s crest embossed in gold.

 

Isak gaped at the shield. It was the work of a jeweller rather than a blacksmith. Even in the faint light, the glitter of the gold momentarily dazzled him. It took him a while to properly take in the image on the shield itself, the crest that he would wear on his clothes for the rest of his life and would fly from his banners when he rode to war.

Rearing high on its hind legs, claws ready to tear and rend, was a dragon of purest gold. Isak could see the fangs curving down from its mouth and a set of horns curling back past its head. He could feel the anger in the set of its shoulders, the sweep of its wings, something he recognised only too well. This was the taste of his own familiar rage given form.

Then his hand started to tremble as something else drew his eye. He reached out to take the shield from Amanas. A crown hovered above the dragon’s head and as he saw that, foreboding sank into Isak’s stomach, as heavy as gold.

‘Careful, my Lord, the silver is still quite delicate,’ Amanas warned.

‘That’s solid silver? Then why—?’

The Keymaster held up a hand to suppress the question, then bent down and placed the green velvet in which the shield had been wrapped on the floor. He placed the shield face-up on the material, then stepped back.

Isak opened his mouth to speak, but before he could think of anything to say he felt a pulse of warmth come from the pile: magic ... He turned to Bahl. The old lord had also noticed; he fixed his stern gaze on the shield.

Without warning, the cloth underneath burst into flames. Isak flinched back in surprise, then stepped forward again as he felt no heat coming from the fire. The orange flames turned to green, all the while lasciviously caressing the lines of the shield. A furious cloud of magic grew up around the shield, swirling tighter and tighter as the green flames burned the velvet away to nothing. Isak suddenly realised that the magic was being drawn into the silver of the shield while a finger of energy wormed through the cracks in the flagstones and disappeared into the floor. And then it was over. Amanas was gone, the fire spent; only the shield, astonished faces and confusion remained.

‘Pick it up,’ Bahl commanded in a distant voice.

‘What? But-’

‘Do it.’

The Krann shrugged and touched his finger to the silver. An expression of wonder ran over his face as he stroked the mirror surface with the palm of his hand, then picked up the shield to show the room.

‘It’s cool, perfectly cool,’ he marvelled. Turning the shield over in his hands, Isak suddenly stopped and rapped his knuckles against the surface. ‘This can’t be silver, it’s too strong.’ He took each side of the shield in his hands and pushed together, gently at first, but then with all the enormous strength he could muster.

‘It’s far too strong to be silver,’ he repeated.

‘It’s silver.’ Bahl’s confirmation brought a frown from Isak. ‘Silver absorbs magic better than any other substance. That’s a gift from the Gods for you, and emerald is the colour of the Lady, Fate herself.’

 

Amanas had slipped out of the room long before anyone remembered to look for him. He was pleased, and returned to his wife with a satisfied smile on his face and a refusal to discuss what had happened earlier that evening. It was only when the Duke of Tirah paid them a visit the next day that she discovered why.

‘I can’t do it. I can feel it there, but nothing’s happening.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing. Can’t you tell?’ Isak struggled to control his boredom. Running through the drills Kerin had devised for the last fortnight was dull enough; standing and staring at a wooden post for a whole hour was infinitely worse.

‘To me, it feels like you simply won’t relax and let go.’ Bahl’s voice was irritatingly calm and steady, as if the man was used to spending his days like this. They were out on the training ground. Nearby, a cavalry squadron was perfecting a variety of complicated formations. This one involved a wedge of soldiers of the Palace Guard who stood in the centre, flanked on either side by wheeling lines of light cavalry. The cavalry might not have been professional soldiers like the Ghosts but they were made to work hard for their annual stipend.

‘Why would I not let go? This isn’t exactly entertaining.’

Bahl’s eyes flashed. ‘Watch your tone, boy. Even if you did manage to use the magic inside you, I could still cut you down like a child. Do you think I’m trying to teach you conjuring tricks? Magic can turn the tide of the battle; you must be able to command it at will, or you’ll be as dead as your men on the field.’

Isak looked up at Bahl’s tone of voice and saw his hand tighten slightly. This was the first time it had contained even a trace of anger. He turned and bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry, my Lord, I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I don’t understand what I’m not doing.’

Bahl didn’t reply immediately and an awkward silence descended. When Bahl spoke again, his irritation was entirely absent. Isak knew he was in sore need of learning that particular skill.

‘Then we will have to get around the problem. I will ask the High Priest of Larat to come and see whether he can shed any light on the matter.’

‘Larat? No, not a chance—’

‘There will be no arguments about this,’ said Bahl firmly.

‘But what about the light in my dream?’

‘I said no arguments. The High Priest is a good man and understands the nature of magic as well as any. If I ask the College of Magic, they will try to turn it to their advantage; the Temple of Larat is poor, so they will be glad to receive our favour.’

‘But-’

‘Enough.
It’s lucky for you I am not Atro. He was not so forgiving when questioned.’

‘Luck? I don’t know whether I believe in that any more.’ Isak looked up and stretched his shoulders, flexing muscles that were aching from uncomfortable nights and daily weapons practice. He caught Tila’s eye and smiled. She was sitting off to one side, so bundled up against the chill of the wind that only her eyes were visible.

The girl had been reserved around him for the first week, jumping at any sudden movement, but the familiarity of Isak’s company soon began to wear away at her resolve not to forget the death of Sir Dirass. Isak had even made her laugh - the first time it had happened he was not sure who had been more surprised, but it was not the only time he had brought a smile to her lips.

‘How did you manage?’

‘Hmm?’

‘With Atro - how did you manage to live around such a bastard?’

‘I kept quiet and ignored what he did. I wasn’t like you when I came to the palace; I had joined the Guard as a child, as soon as my family could get rid of me. I was twenty-four when the Tyrant of Mustet appeared at the barbican gate and announced I was Chosen of Nartis. While I had no interest in being Atro’s tool, I didn’t care that he was destroying our tribe either. I was more like General Lahk than you.’

Isak nodded. He’d seen the stern-faced white-eye stamping around the palace, but the general had offered neither friendship nor conversation. The guards said Lahk had been taken to the Temple of Nartis by Bahl twenty years back. Lahk was the only white-eye other than Bahl to have reached a position of some power, but Nartis had rejected him as Krann. His body had been scarred with lightning, and it was whispered in the barracks that his soul had been burnt out too, for the general cared for nothing but serving his lord.

‘Until you met Ineh?’

A flicker of pain ran across Bahl’s brow, but he just nodded sadly. ‘Ineh.’ He savoured the name as he said it, as though it left a sweet taste on his lips. Isak was desperate to ask more, but he was nervous of going too far.

‘Are they right in what they say?’

‘Which is?’

‘That it’s better to have loved and lost?’

Bahl gave a short, bitter laugh. There was no humour in his eyes when he answered, ‘You really are a strange one. I can’t think of that occurring to any other white-eye. No, it doesn’t matter; just be careful not to pry too far. Is it better? Perhaps, I felt more alive then; she gave me a reason to be more human. Atro was a tumour in the belly of this tribe, but it was only when I met Ineh that I cared. Only then did I bother to notice the hurt he was causing. To live with such loss I would not wish on any man, but to live without the joy that came before ... if a man can stand before the Gods and choose not to have known the one he has lost, he never truly loved her.’

‘I’m sorry.’ The words sounded absurd, worthless, and Isak almost winced as he said them. Bahl didn’t reply, other than for a tired sigh. For a minute he looked like a sad old man, then the blank visage reasserted itself, burying all emotion deep inside once more.

‘Don’t be sorry. Regrets are no use to a Lord of the Farlan - which reminds me, Lesarl tells me you have a problem with keeping your own counsel during meetings. That’s another skill you could happily study.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean what you called the Marshal of Quetek. However apparent it was, that observation cost Lesarl severely.’

‘Well, the man was being paid enough already,
and
he was demanding that Lesarl help him arrange a marriage. He was practically drooling at the thought.’

‘The girl’s a maid in the palace, no? I’ve seen her. You’d probably drool yourself.’