The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (66 page)

Isak decided not to voice the opinion that sense might not have played too great a part; privately, he thought that prophecy might have supplanted practicality when the Fysthrall came to make their plans. Perhaps worse, prophecy itself had been supplanted - or more likely, perverted.

There was a commotion up ahead. Isak leaned out past his bearers to see what was happening.

Vesna, walking alongside, stepped away to get a better view. ‘There’s a carriage up ahead,’ he reported.

‘Can you see who’s in it?’

A burst of magic shivered out from the direction of the carriage - nothing aggressive, but enough to announce a presence.

‘A woman,’ Vesna said. ‘Her hood is hiding her face.’

Isak eased himself off the litter and set off without another word towards the tall black carriage blocking the road. He moved awkwardly to begin with, his muscles still feeling stiff and sore. Ahead he could see soldiers crowding around the coach, gesticulating to the driver and to the woman leaning out of the open door. A young lieutenant was crouching beside the king’s litter, talking in an urgent voice, as Isak passed.

‘A friend of yours?’ Emin climbed out of his litter, pushed past the lieutenant and joined Isak.

‘I think I met her yesterday, at the arena.’

‘Really? Well then, her departure may be swifter than she hopes.’

‘I doubt that; she’s stronger than I am. She didn’t fight at the palace though; she had her own reasons for being with the White Circle.’

A rare moment of surprise flashed across the king’s face, but he asked nothing further as they made their way to the carriage. The guards fell back quickly, glad the problem was no longer theirs.

‘Ostia.’ Isak received a thin smile in reply, but Emin’s flamboyant bow was received with much greater warmth.

Zhia Vukotic gave the king a coquettish smile from the shadows of her hood. When at last she spoke, her voice was rich and smooth, the rounding of her syllables sounding cultured, old. ‘King Emin, it is a shame we’ve not met already. I have greatly admired the way you govern your city.’

‘Yet you appear to be leaving it,’ the king countered.

Zhia’s smile widened further under the canopy of her silk hood, wide enough for Emin to see all he needed to recognise her.

‘I would address you by your proper title, but I doubt you are currently using “Princess”, so I hope you forgive the informality,’ he added.

‘Easily enough; such trappings are behind me now and the names I am called these days tend to be less than kind.’

‘Lady, it was the will of the Gods to make you thus; in this company I shall certainly not cast slurs on one’s nature.’

Isak gave a snort at the comparison but was ignored by both.

‘Well, you were discreet in your living arrangements,’ continued Emin. ‘I had no idea you were in the city. If you admire my politics, then I am flattered. Your reputation precedes you.’

‘As does yours. During the months of enduring the White Circle’s childish games, I frequently wished we could have been introduced. I’ve not met an adequate Xeliache opponent for years - not one with a true understanding of strategy. Considering your rise to power, I think you would provide me with true diversion, for a time at least.’

‘Xeliache?’ Isak asked. The word sounded disturbingly familiar.

‘Xeliache, the more accurate name for Heartland.’ Emin didn’t take his eyes off Zhia. ‘It comes from the core runes Xeliath, meaning heart, and Eache, meaning the Land.’

The vampire smiled, something akin to desire in her eyes. Isak looked from one to the other, but they were oblivious to his presence, too caught up in the prospect of a challenging intellectual conflict. He was glad. The connection between ‘Xeliath’ and ‘Heart’ had stunned him into dumb silence. He’d not suspected, but it made sense. The threads to his life connected - he should have already guessed this.

‘My Lady, the next time we meet, we will find time for a game,’ the king promised.

‘And if we are leading opposing armies?’

‘Would you really not have the time to spare?’

Zhia laughed, a seductive, velvety sound. ‘My kind always have time to spare. Very well, your Majesty. When we meet again, we will play. I hope it will not find us enemies, though.’

‘Can we be anything but? You can hardly have failed to notice the bees on my collar.’

‘Indeed I did not. Nor did I overlook the fact that you made no effort to cover them and save me a small discomfort. As for an enmity, that depends on others. My family has no wish to take your crown, but we cannot speak for the whole Land.’

‘Which others?’

‘But of course, you’ll not have heard,’ Zhia purred.

Emin’s eyes narrowed; he was fully aware of the advantage over him that she was enjoying.

Isak was barely listening now, until he realised the importance of Zhia Vukotic’s news.

‘I hear the Temple of the Sun is in flames. The Menin have returned from the East and Lord Charr rushed out to offer battle. His army was slaughtered and there were too few soldiers left in Thotel to defend it. The city fell to the first attack. The Chetse have been conquered.’ Zhia smiled at them both and pulled the carriage door closed again. ‘Until we meet again, your Majesty, my Lord.’ She inclined her head gracefully and tapped on the carriage partition.

Ten days later, as sullen clouds lingered in the sky, the Farlan party made their way towards Llehden. The death of Lord Bahl had cut short their stay in Narkang, for time was now against them. The spectre of civil war was growing stronger every day Isak was absent from Tirah.

The group riding towards Llehden was much depleted. Three Ghosts too badly injured to ride had been left behind, and more than half of those who had saddled up that morning had injuries that promised to make the journey miserable.

Eight of their number had died in the battle, and their bodies had been cremated. After some debate, the funerary urns had been placed in the Temple of Nartis, on display beside Commander Brandt’s tomb. None of the men had had much in the way of family, and the temple seemed to have become a memorial to the battle’s dead. The Farlan were seen as the city’s deliverers, and their dead were being treated with reverence by the population.

The light was a strange, dull grey, more low autumn than spring. Half the day had already passed and the oncoming dusk was preying on Isak’s mind. He’d been born this day, on Silvernight, eighteen summers ago. His mother had gone into labour as the light began to fade, and as Arian’s sparkle etched every surface she had screamed her pain and fear to the uncaring night. The trees glowed ghostly silver, standing careless guard as her blood had flowed: the terrible haemorrhaging that came with the birth of a white-eye. Isak had been born coated in the life’s blood of another. It was one death he felt the guilt for deep in his bones.

A twisting river, the Meistahl, writhed its way north-east, marking two-thirds of Llehden’s shire border before it joined the Morwhent five miles from Narkang. The far side was marked by a line of gigantic pines that ran for more than thirty miles down towards a deep, still lake. Huge, broken round boulders lay scattered under those trees, making it hard to pass that way on horseback.

‘They’re called twilight stones,’ King Emin told Isak. ‘If you come from that way at dusk you’ll see the gentry standing on them and watching the sun fade. It’s the only time you’ll see them - unless they want you to.’

‘You’ve seen them? I didn’t realise they actually existed.’

He’d expected Emin to smile at his ignorance, but the king’s mouth had stayed set while his blue eyes glittered. Isak had debated long and hard before telling King Emin where they were going, and why, but he eventually decided that he would find out sooner or later, and with the Land on the cusp of war, it was better to show some trust.

‘They are not part of our Land; few of us are part of theirs. They care nothing for the Gods and less for men, just for the woods they live in. They’re the soul of the forest,’ he said. ‘I don’t know whether they even conceive of themselves as individuals. What I do know is that you don’t cross them. Your new Devoted friends might find themselves in real danger if they come across the gentry. I don’t believe the Order approves of free spirits, and the gentry have short tempers.’

 

There was only one bridge across the river, which ran too fast to ford. Major Ortof-Greyl was waiting for them on the far side, sitting high and still in his saddle. He was wearing partial mail and some kind of uniform, but it looked ceremonial: wide scarlet sleeves and trousers detailed with mother-of-pearl, and a fox-fur hood.

At the bridge Megenn shied away at first, staring down at the dark silent water and twitching his ears nervously. None of the horses seemed very happy about entering the shire, but with calming hands and gentle voices they were coaxed over. The wind shook the trees as Isak crossed, as if the forest shied away for a moment and then reached out to embrace him. Isak scowled, but he was glad enough for their cover when he reached it. Isak ignored the major as he rode alongside and tried to engage the brooding white-eye in conversation. Only when Vesna plucked at the man’s sleeve and frowned did the major move ahead and allow the grim silence to return.

There had been no mention of Isak’s birthday, other than Tila’s delicate kiss on his cheek and Carel clapping a knowing hand on his shoulder as they breakfasted - that was all Isak needed, to know that he had friends to remember it, and that they knew him well enough to not mention it.

Ahead of them, the third moon, Arian, sat high in the sky. Arian appeared for a week every three years, and the middle day of that week was Silvernight. For two days either side, the night was merely a little brighter, but everyone knew they were bad days to be abroad. There were tales galore of all the evil deeds of the past three years that had risen up from the ground in this week. True or not, there was no doubt that spirits and unnatural creatures certainly roamed the Land when Arian was high; no man of sense would enter open country. Each time Arian appeared, there would be fresh tales of horror and murder told in the taverns and inns and whispered at hearths and bedsides. It was an unchancy time.

For all that, Silvernight itself was so enchanting that every town and village held a festival to celebrate it. On that middle day every surface touched by the bright moonlight appeared to be coated in silver. It was impossible to resist the lure of being outside after dusk, and unlike the days before and after, no fell creatures stirred that night, so it was a time of safety as well as joy.

As they travelled further into Llehden, the light began to wane and open ground gave way to increasingly dense woodland. Hawthorns stretched their twisted branches out towards the road, fat oaks rustled their brittle twigs and sinister yews reached down low to cover the ground about themselves with a concealing skirt of night. They saw few creatures. A solitary kite passed overhead and small birds and early bats darted past their eyes, but only a bandit lynx had paid them any attention. The large cat watched them lazily from a high elm, paws hugged about the smooth bark of the branch. Isak could see tufts of grey fur protruding from the cat’s chin like the wisps of a beard. Coppery streaks on its back meant the lynx disappeared when it dropped down into the twilight of the undergrowth, long before the soldiers approached. No sound reached even Isak’s keen ears. The lynx just melted away to add another set of eyes to the shadows all around.

The road was nothing more than a wide track, overgrown and old, but easy enough to follow as it threaded a path through the trees. They passed a few isolated farmhouses looking dark and abandoned, though cattle lowed from the barns. Even for a farmer, Silvernight meant society and merriment. Only Isak was unmoved.

Two hours of travelling took them deep into the ancient heart of the woods. The last vestiges of day gave way to silvery twilight. All along the road the trees leaned close over their heads, the moons casting a flurry of leaf shadows underfoot, until the path opened out and became the neglected approach to a large stone house. Tall weeds almost obscured the low wall that surrounded the grounds, a hundred yards of lawn gone to pasture, and at the back, a darkened building that looked derelict.

The gates were gone and as Isak reached the gap and looked down the driveway he reined in and stared.

Major Ortof-Greyl had started on down the road when he realised his party were no longer following. They had stopped before the open gateway. The old grey walls, set against the black background of a tall laurel hedge and the encroaching trees on each side, shone in the moonlight. Crawling trails of ivy reached up the cracked stone wall. Isak set off down the driveway towards the house, his companions following behind. In an open window on the upper floor he saw an owl, bright in the moonlight and as still as a statue until Isak was only twenty yards away. It suddenly stretched its wings out and hooted, breaking the evening silence. The owl’s haunting call prompted a strange chattering sound to ring out around the grounds as voices echoed from the shadows.

Isak turned to look around, unsettled by the sudden stir. He drew Eolis half out of its scabbard. He couldn’t feel any other presence nearby, not even what was making the noise - then a woman, swathed in a long dark cape that covered a long robe that looked black in the moonlight, stepped out from the trees. She called out in the Narkang tongue.

‘They’re welcoming you,’ Mihn translated, unbidden.

‘What are?’ Isak felt immediately ashamed that he’d shown his blade, even half-drawn - it was traditional not to draw weapons on Silvernight, whatever the reason. Old soldiers swore that Arian would burn and corrode the surface of any blade exposed on this magical night. He looked down. Eolis shone all the more brightly, unearthly and dangerous.

‘The gentry,’ Mihn said softly after she had replied.