The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (65 page)

Isak could feel a dull throb in his hand, but it was mild compared to how the rest of his body felt. He carefully lifted his shield arm - and fought back a scream. To his absolute horror his left arm had changed completely: it
felt
the same: same size, and weight, but instead of his usual healthy colour it glowed an unearthly white, shining in the bright morning sunlight. The skin was perfectly smooth, and unbroken by even the slightest scratch. It looked as if every drop of blood, every hint of colour, had been leached from his arm. Panicking, he raised his other hand, but that looked normal, although grazed and bruised after the battle.

‘It’s only the left one,’ Tila said softly, soothingly, but her expression betrayed her alarm.

‘How far up does it go?’ He tried to twist his head sideways to get a better look, but the effort made him wince in pain and he let his head slump back on the pillows.

‘Just beyond the shoulder,’ Mihn said, appearing behind Tila. ‘It ends abruptly - it looks like you’ve dipped your arm in paint.’ He betrayed no emotion now. Isak remembered seeing him fighting on the wall, wielding only his staff. Mihn had surpassed even the men of the Brotherhood for agility and speed. He’d not been hurt, avoiding even the smallest cut, though his tears had flowed freely. He’d vowed never again to use a sword after he failed to become a Harlequin, but he had broken that vow to help rescue Isak from the White Circle; that was one more shame he felt on his soul.

Dipped in paint: that was an accurate description, Isak thought: the bit he could see wasn’t translucent, not drained of colour at all, just purely white. He remembered how the lightning had curled lovingly around his arm, its burning bright light first warming his skin, then seeping down to the very bone. Now he looked closer, he could see the fine hairs, and two moles on his forearm, still there, but snow-coloured. Although he healed exceptionally fast and almost inhumanly well, he had one scar, from when he’d fallen from a tree and nearly lost his arm: now that was barely visible. Isak stared at it in fascination. Blue veins were just visible under the skin. His arm wasn’t damaged, just touched by the divine.

He reached for Eolis, lying at his side, and touched the edge of the blade against his forearm. Despite the battle it was as sharp as ever: he watched, mesmerised, as a trickle of scarlet edged its way down his arm. The contrast against his skin was shocking.

‘If you’ve quite finished?’ Tila sound exasperated. ‘I’ve just bandaged every wretched cut on your body and you want to make more? Don’t mind me, will you.’

Isak looked up at the girl, grinning wider as a reluctant smile crossed her own lips. Her once-elegant green silk dress was now torn and stained with blood, and frayed at the edges where she’d ripped off the flounces for bandages and run a knife from thigh to calf to free her legs enough to move properly.

As he took in her appearance he realised with a jolt that his own chest was bare. His hand immediately went to the scar there.

‘Ah, yes,’ Carel said quietly, ‘and then there’s that. What in Nartis’s name is it, boy? Why didn’t you bloody tell me about it?’ Though the words were harsh, his voice remained at conversational level.

‘King Emin saw it too,’ commented Vesna, moving into Isak’s field of vision. Isak was pretty sure the pained expression on his face had nothing to do with the crutch he was resting on.

‘Did he say anything?’

‘He did, my Lord, and I hope it makes more sense to you.’

Isak narrowed his eyes at the formality. Clearly the count was hurt that he’d not been deemed trustworthy enough to tell.

‘He said he wondered why you’d chosen it.’

‘That’s all?’

He nodded.

Isak suddenly felt as though all the energy had drained from his body. He sagged back on to the bed. He didn’t even have enough strength to feel guilty yet.

‘Well?’ Carel demanded.

‘Please, not today. There’s too much to do, too many to grieve for.’ Isak coughed feebly, taking a moment to recover his breath again. ‘Can you leave me alone for a while?’

None of them looked happy, but Isak’s fatigue was obviously not put on just to get out of an awkward conversation. They moved away silently and crossed the hall to join Mistress Daran, who was supervising the nursing of the wounded Ghosts lying there.

Isak lay back and tried to identify the points of pain in his body. Once his headache had calmed a bit it was easier, using his supernatural awareness, to ensure that no great damage had been done. He had no broken bones; nothing had got past Siulents. There were deep bruises from where axes and swords had pounded against his armour, but his weakness was mainly from the overuse of magic.

A faint smile appeared on his lips as he remembered wielding the power of the storm. A tremor of that power still rang in his bones: an echo of the divine.

After a few minutes of staring up at the beautifully painted ceiling, listening idly to the distant voices, he began to feel a little stronger. Gingerly he lifted his head and raised himself up on to his elbows. The pain had dulled a bit: now it felt like an awful hangover - albeit one that affected his soul as well. His huge body felt heavy and awkward; even the smallest movement was an effort.

At last he managed to get himself out of bed. He stood there swaying as Mihn dragged over a chair for him so he could sit with a little more dignity. Isak caught sight of Tila, Carel and Vesna, watching from a little distance, allowing Mihn to help his lord. Tila sent someone off to find food and in a few minutes a servant appeared with a platter and a steaming jug of tea. Isak wrapped his hands around the pot, huddling over it to breathe in the warm vapour.

‘Where’s my brother’s body?’ The booming voice made Isak flinch as it echoed through the hall. A broad man stormed in through the far end of the hall, ahead of a small group of people. In stark contrast a tiny man, a palace official by his dress, was trotting behind, trying to keep up. His hands were clasped anxiously together as he pursued the larger man.

‘My Lord, Suzerain Toquin, if I could please speak to you alone—’

‘Damn you, man, no, you can’t!’the man snarled, casting a contemptuous look at the servant. His scarlet and white tunic was immaculate and expensive. Suzerain Toquin’s face reddened with rage as he looked down the hall, then spied Isak and strode on past the women in his group trying to calm him down. One had a young boy clutching at her skirts.

The nobleman glared at the white-eye as if daring him to complain about the intrusion. Isak recalled the name: Commander Brandt’s brother, and he remembered Brandt’s heroic actions on the wall, and his final sacrifice. Suzerain Toquin could hardly be faulted for being angry.

Isak pulled himself up as straight as he could and said, ‘My Lord, you must be Commander Brandt’s brother. I apologise for not getting up to greet you, but I’ve been in a bit of a fight.’

The man scowled, mollified slightly by Isak’s respectful tone.

‘You must be the Dowager Countess Toquin?’ Isak continued, looking at the older of the two women in the suzerain’s party.

She gave a small curtsey; her tear-stained eyes never left Isak’s face.

‘You, madam, must be Lady Toquin.’ He smiled gently at the younger woman and turned to the boy. ‘And you are the son Commander Brandt spoke of so proudly.’ The woman bobbed her head and clutched the boy closer; her grief was almost palpable, but it didn’t look like the boy had yet fully grasped that his father was never coming home. He was only nine, Isak thought, too young to fully understand what had happened yet.

‘Come here, Master Toquin,’ he said softly, and beckoned to the boy.

His mother tightened her grip for a moment, then released him and gave him a little push forward. Brandt’s son took a few steps towards Isak, unafraid of the white-eye until he closed on him and realised just how big he was - even hunched over in his seat, Isak towered over the boy.

Moving slowly so he wouldn’t take fright, Isak pointed at the ring hanging from a leather thong around the boy’s neck. He had no idea whether this was how one treated children this age, but the boy looked ready to flee back to his mother at the slightest provocation. He was a thin child, looking more like his mother than his father to Isak’s eyes.

‘Did your father give you that?’

The boy nodded.

‘Did he tell you it was mine?’

Another nod, then the boy’s trembling hand reached up and touched the silver ring about his neck. ‘Do you want it back?’ The boy sounded understandably upset at the thought of returning his last gift from his father.

Isak chuckled, but it turned into a painful wheeze that almost caused the child to bolt. ‘No, it’s yours to keep, and maybe even to give to a son of your own one day. Do you remember what your father told you when he gave you the ring?’

‘He said that we’re all men, and nothing more. But that didn’t mean we shouldn’t try to be as good as we can.’ The boy recited the lines carefully, making sure he remembered every word.

‘Good. You must always remember your father when you look at it, and remember that he died to protect others. He saved my life, your father did - and probably the lives of the king, the queen, and everyone else in the palace. Always remember that your father was a hero, and not just a hero, but one worthy of the Age of Myths.’

The boy nodded miserably. Reality began to sink in and his lip trembled. He tightened his eyes against the welling tears.

Isak reached out and gently nudged the boy back towards his mother. Lady Toquin knelt and sobbed unashamedly into her son’s hair as he buried his face in her neck, her scarf bunched tightly in his little fists.

Isak drew himself to his feet, wincing slightly, but unable to remain still now. ‘I don’t know whether you have any traditions of your own, but the commander’s body would be welcome at the Temple of Nartis if you wish it. He deserves a hero’s grave.’

Suzerain Toquin blinked several times as he took in the offer. From his reaction, Isak assumed few were permitted interment in the temple here. Isak didn’t care what objections the priests might have - he couldn’t imagine even the most senile refusing the new Lord of the Farlan. It might still be a matter of heated debate whether Nartis’s Chosen was in fact the head of the entire cult, but even the most fervent secessionist could guess King Emin’s position on the subject.

‘Thank you, my Lord,’ replied the man stiffly. ‘My Order requires burial to be completed before sunset, which the priests may object to, but if that is possible, we would be very happy to accept your offer.’

‘It will be arranged for this afternoon, when I go to sacrifice at the temple with the king. Burial under moonlight is preferable because Nartis attends, but I must grow used to being his representative in the Land anyway. It will be done as you wish. Until then, if you would excuse me - we have much to do here.’

‘Of course, my Lord. You do my brother a great honour. Thank you.’ The suzerain bowed and turned, looking deflated now his anger had dissipated. It was a less imposing man who left to grieve, one arm supporting his trembling mother, the other around his nephew, who was clinging tightly to his mother.

‘The commander’s body has been found, I assume?’ Isak murmured to the small palace official once Suzerain Toquin had reached the door of the hall.

‘I, ah ... It has, my Lord, but it was, um, badly burned.’

‘Then find a casket, and nail it shut so no one can view the body. Mihn here will go with you. You are to get the body prepared and down to the temple. Explain to the priests what is going to happen, and ensure they are ready for the commander’s funeral this afternoon. Mihn will hurt anyone who gets in your way, and continue to hurt them until they agree to help. If they still do not agree, you will be lifting the casket over their corpse. Understand?’

The servant stared at Isak, quivering slightly at the coldness in his voice until Mihn grasped him firmly by the arm and led him away.

 

It was late afternoon by the time Isak and the king managed to extricate themselves from the chaos of the aftermath. The shadows had begun to lengthen as a line of litters started out from the temple quarter, back through the shocked silence of the city streets to the palace. Mounted soldiers clattered along on either side of the gently swaying litters. Isak watched the faces of those he passed: the bloody and the scared, the tired and confused.

King Emin’s reign had brought more than a decade of peace to the entire kingdom. A professional navy dissuaded even the raids of the Western Isles pirates. War was something that happened in other countries.

Now, talk of the Saviour and rumours of strange events in Raland that had left part of the city aflame had restored to Narkang a grim uncertainty that everyone had devoutly hoped would be a thing of the past.

Emin had insisted they use the litters to go to the temples as a symbol of normal life for the rest of the city. It seemed to work, for the procession brought people out of their houses despite their fears and the risk of more fighting. Even with the dead at the palace - the Fysthrall soldiers who’d not died at the breach had fallen on their swords - there were hundreds of people still unaccounted for.

Fleeing mercenaries tried to hide in alleys and sewers, but Narkang’s criminals, directed by the Brotherhood, had dealt with them, leaving corpses all over the city. Herolen Jex’s body had not been among them so far, but King Emin was still hopeful.

The arrival of the relief troops, delayed for several hours by White Circle mages, had helped matters, but still there were too many questions unanswered. The first Emin had asked himself when walking in the corpse-strewn gardens with Isak:
Why had this happened?
Getting together a division of men, secretly, showed organisation and determination. There had to be a purpose behind attacking such a powerful nation, but too much didn’t make sense. Emin concluded - because he could see no other explanation - that the massive effort had failed only through bad luck.