The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (43 page)

Isak held on to the man’s arm a moment longer, acknowledging that he understood the trust Bahl was placing in him. With the clandestine campaign Bahl and his Chief Steward had already embarked upon, letting the Krann out of his sight showed a great degree of faith - the count had explained how easy it would be for Isak to start a civil war once free of the lord’s watchful gaze.

Isak saw a flicker of understanding in Bahl’s eyes and smiled. ‘There is just one more thing,’ he said, and turned back to the newly made Marshal Carelfolden of Etinn. He beckoned to a page standing at the side, who brought over a curved sabre sheathed in a plain leather scabbard.

‘Marshal,’ he said to Carel, taking the sword from its sheath and presenting it hilt-first, ‘it is only fitting that your new rank is marked with a new weapon.’ He grinned and said, so quietly that only Carel could hear, ‘And I tried to temper it the way you tempered me!’

The joke relieved the high tension and Carel smiled proudly as he accepted the sword, a misty shine like smoke wreathing the blade.

‘Boy,’ he said softly, ‘this is the greater honour.’ Then, to the watching crowd, ‘I will wield it in your name, and the name of the Lord of the Farlan, and of our God Nartis.’ He bowed low and backed away, returning to Isak’s waiting group.

Isak turned back to Bahl, relieved to see the old lord’s smile of approbation. They gripped wrists firmly one last time, then Isak bowed low and backed away.

The rest of his company did likewise, and then mounted at Isak’s cue. They cut a fine sight, the colours of their new livery bright in the cloud-filtered sunlight. Isak stroked Toramin’s mane, then raised his arm to signal the advance. He sat tall and proud, his white cape draped over his shoulders. Though the battle’s mud and gore had been cleaned off long ago, this was the first time Isak had worn it since - he had insisted that the cloak be repaired instead of replaced, to remind him always of a creature that was little more than burning bloodlust made flesh.

He looked around at the smiling faces. Mihn rode just behind, his face as guarded as ever, but Isak had grown used to that. The man didn’t seem to be brooding, but he was among strangers, and he knew well how much interest there was in him. The onlookers smiled as they waved last goodbyes, and the mood of optimism and cheer extended even to the horses as they pranced after Isak.

A ringing clatter echoed down the barbican tunnel and Isak drank in the sights and sounds he wouldn’t experience for at least a year. The people of Tirah stepped back and watched, awestruck, as the splendid party cantered down Palace Walk and struck out for the south. As they made their way through the ancient streets, each rider fixed the images of home firmly in his or her mind: the bridges and towers, the engraved stones that adorned all but the meanest of buildings, every reason for loving their city.

Within what felt a very short time, they had reached the outskirts, where long straight roads led off to distant lands. The peaks of the Spiderweb Mountains rose on both sides; ahead were river-valleys and open fields. Isak smiled at the sight until he remembered what might be lurking in the shadows. They’d spent hours discussing each and every possible danger.

He sighed, and prayed for a dull journey, something he knew only too well from his previous life. These days, the prospect wasn’t as dismal as it had been then, but he still couldn’t bring himself to believe that it would be so easy this time.

 

The first day was easy enough. At times it felt more like a parade than the start of a long journey; they overnighted at a manor belonging to Suzerain Tebran, where they were treated like royalty. By noon of the second day they were still travelling at the same pace and Isak’s patience was beginning to wear thin.

‘It’s slowing us down,’ he said, exasperated. ‘Did you really think you could get to Narkang like that? Do you realise how far it is?’

Tila regarded him with a cold eye, refusing to dignify that with an answer.

Isak struggled to control himself - it was as if the girl knew instinctively how to infuriate him.

‘No matter how far it is, my Lord, she’s an unmarried woman,’ snapped Tila’s chaperone, a woman of fifty summers or so. She had introduced herself as Mistress Daran and given no first name, so, titled or not, Vesna and Carel had no choice but to address her as such, though it was a respect her station hardly afforded. Tila called her Nurse, and Isak was very proud of himself for managing not to say out loud the name he’d privately given her.

‘She could be a sniping old harridan for all I care, as long as she uses a real bloody saddle.’ Isak’s retort almost had the desired effect, but the women managed to hold back. They stood in a small circle, away from the soldiers, who were watching the entertainment with great amusement.

‘Isak,
all
unmarried women ride side-saddle,’ Tila repeated with exaggerated patience. ‘If you can’t work out why, then I’m sure your bondsman will draw you a diagram. It’s apparently something of a speciality of his.’

The count’s broad smile fell at this, but Carel chuckled softly. For her remark, Tila received a hurt look from Vesna and a slap on the wrist from Mistress Daran. She won back the first with a smile and ignored the second, planting her hands firmly on her hips as she squared up to Isak.

Isak shot a look of irritation at Carel, who ignored it and suggested, ‘Perhaps you should use Tila’s spare saddle as penance, my friend.’ The looks he received made him throw up his hands theatrically and stomp off to join his men, who were supposed to be changing horses and eating, but were more interested in the little drama playing out a few yards away.

‘Tila, we need to move faster, or it will take a few months to get there. Even if you
could
manage the pace on that thing, you’d be hurting so badly we’d have to stop for you to recuperate,’ he said more calmly now.

‘But there is no other choice,’ Tila explained again.‘You seem to have forgotten that the only reason my parents allowed me to accompany you was because they think it will mean a better marriage for me afterwards. That’ll be worthless if I’m damaged ...’ Her face was bright red and her voice trailed off. Did she have to draw the wretched man a picture?

‘And you seem to have forgotten how long and hard this journey is going to be.’ Now Isak was beginning to lose his temper. ‘Even using a normal saddle, the first week will be hard enough. You’ll be sleeping in a tent more often than not—’

‘My Lady will stay in a proper bed in a good inn every night,’ Mistress Daran interjected.

Isak glared at the woman. He didn’t like conversations with two people in the first place, whatever the subject, since he ended up not being able to concentrate on either. Mistress Daran was not as old as he had first assumed from her permanently sour expression, but she treated everyone - even Carel, a landed marshal, no less - like a foolish child.

‘What my Lady requires is of little concern,’ Isak snapped. ‘We travel until I decide we should rest, and
if
there’s an inn when we stop, then that’s where we will stay, but once we’re past Nerlos Fortress, there won’t be many and not all towns are going to welcome a party of armed men.’

‘Lady Introl was most specific as to her daughter’s requirements,’ muttered Mistress Daran, her lips pursing. Isak saw exactly what the woman thought of white-eyes.

‘Lady Introl does not interest me in the least.’ He checked his words for fear of insulting Tila’s family too much - however cross he was, Tila
was
a friend - but he couldn’t control the look on his face: the wretched woman would not last much longer if she continued to irritate him. ‘What does interest me is getting to Narkang before bloody Silvernight,’ he growled.

He was pleased to see Mistress Daran flinch, presumably fighting the instinct to admonish him for his language. He determined to see how often he could make that happen on the journey to alleviate his own boredom.

‘Isak, there’s nothing you can do about it, so if you want to make good speed, then let’s eat now and not tarry too long.’ Tila shifted as she stood; she was already feeling the strain of her new saddle.

Isak shrugged at her and walked off angrily to see to his horses instead. The argument would have to wait until Tila was too tender to be obstinate. Let’s see how she felt after her first night on the ground. He swapped the packs from one horse to the other and readied Megenn’s saddle.

Isak patted both animals affectionately, then rubbed down Megenn’s chestnut flanks where the packs had rested. They had very different temperaments: Toramin was a fiery young stallion of unbelievable strength, while Megenn was older, a gelding, and as biddable as could be wished. Both horses appeared to cope with his weight without complaint, but Isak felt only Toramin was desperate to gallop on. At times he could feel the muscles bunch under the rich, dark coat and he’d have to tighten his grip to remind the horse who was in control.

Isak turned to watch the others for a while. Carel had already won over the Ghosts with his humour and his undeniable skill, still sharp, no matter his age; Vesna’s reputation almost guaranteed respect in any barracks.

The soldiers kept apart from Mihn - the only company he sought out was that of the two rangers. Now the three were sitting slightly apart from the others, Mihn carefully positioned so he could see both Isak and the road ahead. Rangers were all strange, reclusive, often to the point of surly disregard for any who might not match their own high standards. Mihn fitted in perfectly. The bulky northerner, Borl Dedev, was the more talkative. Jeil was a native of Tirah, a wiry man only slightly taller than Mihn. Jeil had probably been orphaned to the palace as a child, judging from his lack of family name. A number of rangers and Ghosts in Bahl’s service had been left as babies at the palace gates by mothers who felt they couldn’t cope. Without a parent to claim them - or denied by a spiteful father, as in Isak’s case - they had no family name. Like Bahl and Isak, Jeil had had to make his own name.

Isak made up his mind: now was the time, before they got too far from Tirah. He called for Mihn, and the small man was already rising, his staff in hand, almost before Isak had finished speaking. Isak led him away to a place where they could speak without being overheard, ignoring the curious faces that watched them. Borl had cropped Mihn’s hair close to his scalp the previous night; it suited him better, highlighting the dark gleam of his eyes.

‘We’re going to be away for a long time,’ Isak started. ‘Longer than a year.’ He tried to think how to phrase what he wanted to say. His lack of eloquence was already annoying him. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen, and every day, I feel like I know even less.’ He sighed. He’d have to be blunt. ‘I want to know your history, Mihn. You’ve avoided telling anyone very much, and when I don’t understand my own shadow, I’ve no chance with the rest of the Land.’

‘My Lord,’ he said, quietly, ‘I’ve told you that I come from a small tribe on the northern coast—’

Isak bared his teeth in irritation. ‘That’s not what I mean. You’re saying so little you might as well lie to my face. No common tribesman speaks perfect Farlan. Your accent is more refined than mine. No normal moves the way you do - not even any man of Kerin’s, and he’s trained our best. I doubt many of the Chief Steward’s agents would survive long against you. And the man practically went down on his knees to Lord Bahl to get you working as an assassin for him - he promised he’d have the entire tribe swearing oaths of loyalty within six months.’

Mihn flinched; if anything, it looked like the idea sickened him, though Isak knew he didn’t have qualms about violence. Mihn wouldn’t meet his gaze and his fingers shifted and flexed round the shaft of his staff as he stared at the ground.

‘Well? Have you got nothing to say? I’ve seen you fight. Either you’re a very short true elf, a Harlequin or—’ The words died in Isak’s throat as Mihn’s entire body jerked at his words and his eyes went wide with shock. Isak realised that the man was caught somewhere between anger and terror, then the strength drained out of his body and Mihn sank to his knees, gasping for air.

Isak gaped at the change in his bondsman, then crouched down beside the man, placing a hand on his shoulder to steady him as much as calm him. Before he could think of anything to say, Mihn choked out a handful of words. ‘Please don’t send me away. I have nothing - I am nothing now. My life has been ...’ His voice trailed off into a language Isak didn’t recognise, his own tongue, perhaps.

Finally Isak understood. ‘You’re a Harlequin?’ It was scarcely possible to believe. No one knew very much about the Harlequins - not even where they came from, let alone how they were able to remember every story and song they had ever heard. The androgynous story-tellers who carried a pair of slender swords and dressed in diamond-pattern clothes and white masks were as mythical as the tales they told.

‘I am nothing,’ Mihn repeated, as if in a trance. He looked up to meet Isak’s eyes for the first time and calmed himself a little. ‘I’m a failure. They had such high hopes for me; all the elders said I would be the best they had ever seen. I had surpassed the masters with the blades by my eighteenth summer.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘I failed the last trial. There were only three of us. Those who are allowed to take the test should be certain to pass. But I failed.’

‘How?’

‘The last trial is to tell one of the sagas, in full, one that should last for a day at least, but I ... I could not remember my tale, not a single word, not a name, not a place. I had spent my life training for this, learning every language in the Land, all the dialects and accents and idiosyncrasies, repeating the stories the Gods taught us, practising each step of every play, the voices of animals and accents of man and woman. But at the test I could not remember one word of my favourite tale, one I had memorised before my tenth summer.’