Winterbirth (4 page)

'I thought we were in trouble for a moment,' said Orisian.

'I would have been, if you two had not been here.' Naradin drank from his waterskin, then spilled a little on his hands to wash the boar's blood from them. He offered the skin to Orisian. The water was cold and sharp, drawn from a forest stream only an hour or two ago. It had all the chilled clarity of the autumn day in it.

'Luck rode with us all today,' said Rothe. Orisian knew his shieldman well enough - they had been together for six years - to hear the words Rothe did not speak. The warrior would not presume to tell the Bloodheir what he thought of taking on an old boar with too few dogs and only three spears.

'We should call the others,' Orisian said. 'They'll want to see this.'

'In a moment, in a moment,' Naradin said as he got to his feet. The dogs milled about him. He went over to the boar and knelt. He laid a hand, in near-reverence, upon its flank. Something took his eye then.

'Look here. There's another wound. None of us put this mark on it, did we?'

Rothe and Orisian knelt beside him. There was a puncture wound in the boar's side, behind its shoulder.

Blood was caked on the rigid hairs around it. Rothe crumbled some away between his fingers.

'That's a day or two old, I'd say.'

'I thought it strange it should stand and fight like that,' Naradin mused.

Orisian leaned closer. He could see something nestled there in the flesh. He slipped a knife into the wound and twisted, feeling the resistance of something harder than muscle. Another turn of the knife brought it close to the surface, where he could draw it out and drop it into his palm: an arrowhead, flat and sleek.

'It was in deep,' he said.

'Can I see that?' Rothe asked, and when Orisian nodded he took the little piece of metal and held it up, frowning as he turned it. The lines crossing the backs of the shieldman's fingers were a first premonition of old age, but he held the arrowhead precisely, delicately.

Naradin looked a touch disappointed. 'It's not quite the same, to know he was carrying that in him already,' he said.

Rothe returned it to Orisian.

'That,' he said, 'is Kyrinin-made. It's a woodwight's arrow.'

'Woodwights?' exclaimed Naradin. 'Hunting here?'

Rothe only nodded. He looked around, surveying the silent trees, the still undergrowth. His mood had changed. He stood up.

'The White Owls have been causing trouble this last year, haven't they?' Orisian said to his cousin.

Yes, but we're not a day's ride from Anduran. They would not dare to come so close.' He examined the arrowhead himself. 'He's right, though. That's White Owl.'

Orisian had not doubted it. Rothe had fought the Kyrinin of Anlane often enough to know their weapons.

He looked up at his shieldman. There was a rare tension in the big man's stance.

'Time for the horn, I think,' Rothe said without breaking the roving passage of his eyes across the forest.

'We should not stay here any longer than we must.'

Naradin did not demur. He put the horn to his lips and sent out a long, low call, summoning the hunters to the kill.

The next morning Orisian gazed out from the battlements of Castle Anduran, watching the grey clouds gather around the Car Criagar to the north-west. The great mountain ridge loomed over the valley of the Glas River , though it was but foothills to the vast uplands that lay invisibly beyond. There were the remnants of ancient towns up there, long abandoned by their forgotten inhabitants. Now no one lived amongst the rocks and the clouds.

He had been here in his uncle's castle for a fortnight, and the weather had changed even in that short time. The sky had grown heavier. The land, the fields and forests, had darkened beneath it. The earth and the sky knew what was coming and eased themselves into it, shedding the gentle sentiments of autumn.

There would be snow, even here on the valley floor, in a few weeks. Winterbirth was close.

It was not the most auspicious time for a birth, but that had not dimmed the celebrations attendant upon the arrival of the Thane's first grandson. They had lasted for days, capped by the hunt to find Naradin his boar. Now that all was done, an air of contented exhaustion had settled over the castle and the town that lay beside it. It was a lull between storms, for the imminent revels of Winterbirth would match those just gone in intensity, if not in duration.

With the approach of that festival the time had come for Orisian to go home to Kolglas, to the castle in the waves. A flight of geese passed over, honking to one another as they tracked the valley sea-ward, preceding Orisian on his way. His gaze followed them for a while. He had come to this high place for a last look at the broad vista, with the valley his uncle ruled stretching out beyond his eye's reach. Kolglas had more limited horizons, in more ways than one.

The sound of footsteps drew his attention back. Rothe emerged from the narrow stairwell beside him.

'The horses are ready,' said the shieldman in his ever-gruff voice. It always made Orisian imagine that stones were grinding together somewhere in his throat. 'Your uncle is in the courtyard to bid you farewell.'

'Time to go, then,' said Orisian. 'It will be a cold ride back to Kolglas.'

Rothe smiled. 'Just as well that fire and food await us on the way.'

They descended the spiralling stairway and emerged on to a wide, cobbled courtyard. By the gatehouse on the far side, grooms held three horses that blew out clouds of steaming breath into the morning air.

Kylane, Orisian's second shieldman, was meticulously checking the horses' hoofs, oblivious of any offence the implied lack of faith might cause to the grooms. Orisian's uncle, the Thane Croesan oc Lannis-Haig, stood close by.

Croesan took Orisian's hand in his. He was more than a head taller than the youth and grinned down at him.

'Two weeks is too short a visit, Orisian.'

'I'd gladly stay, but I must be back at Kolglas for Winterbirth. My father should be out of his sickbed soon.'

Croesan's smile faltered for a moment and he nodded.

'Doom and gloom are deep-rooted in my brother's guts. Still, Winterbirth may lift his mood. In any case, do not let Kennet's ills cloud the festival for you, Orisian.'

'I won't,' Orisian said, knowing that it was a promise he might not be able to keep.

Croesan clapped him on the back. 'Good. And tell him to visit us soon. It might light a fire under him to see how things are changing here.'

'I will tell him. Where's Naradin?'

The question brought a broad grin back to Croesan's face in an instant, and the grand and grave Thane of the Blood was nothing but a proud father and grandfather.

'He will be here in a moment. He told me to keep you here until they come, to make sure my grandson has the chance to say farewell.'

'Well, I am glad we found him his boar,' Orisian smiled. 'I hope the baby appreciates it.'

'Indeed. Naradin will bore the boy with tales of its killing when he's old enough to understand, I'm sure.

He'll grow up thinking you and Naradin great heroes, and the finest hunters the Glas valley has ever seen.'

The thought made Orisian laugh. 'He'll be disappointed, then, if he ever sees me at the hunt.'

Croesan shrugged. 'Don't be so sure. By the time he's old enough to know the difference, you'll be a match for most of my huntsmen. Anyway, you'll return for the child's Naming, since you were here for the birth?'

'If I can,' said Orisian, and meant it sincerely. The Naming of an infant destined one day to be Thane was an event that would embody all the history, all the bonds that made the Lannis Blood what it was.

Nothing could more strongly signify a long history and a hopeful future, and after the depredations of the Heart Fever and the sufferings of his father, Orisian was learning to value both of those.

Naradin and his wife Eilan emerged from the keep. The Bloodheir was carrying his baby son in his arms, and walked with almost comical care and precision. He had not yet learned how to relax around a life that seemed so fragile.

Croesan leaned close to Orisian and murmured conspiratorially, 'Can you believe they have made me a grandfather, Orisian? A grandfather!'

'I can hardly believe Naradin is a father, let alone you a grand-father,' smiled Orisian. That, he reflected, was a half-truth, though an innocent one. Naradin had, for as long as he could remember, seemed ready and hungry for fatherhood. Nothing less was expected of one who bore the future of the Blood upon his shoulders.

Eilan embraced Orisian. She was a beautiful woman, but it was for her gentle and generous spirit that he loved her; and for the way those attributes reminded him of his own mother.

'Journey well, Orisian,' she murmured in his ear. 'Take my love to your sister.'

Naradin inclined the baby towards Orisian.

'Now, little one,' the Bloodheir said, 'say goodbye to Orisian.'

The tiny face gazed blankly out from the nest of thick blankets, lips working moistly and soundlessly. A pink tongue gestured vaguely in Orisian's direction.

'There,' said Naradin with satisfaction. 'I could not have said it better myself.'

'Probably not,' agreed Orisian. 'Look after him well, and salt some of his boar for me. I will see you at the Naming.'

Orisian swung up into his saddle, patting the horse's muscular neck in greeting. Rothe and Kylane flanked him as he rode out through the massive gatehouse. When Orisian glanced back over his shoulder, Croesan, Naradin and Eilan still stood together, each one raising a hand in farewell. With a last wave, Orisian and his shieldmen turned south through Anduran's crowded streets towards the road that would carry them down the valley and on to Kolglas and home.

By the time the three riders were beyond the city's edge, almost vanished into the distance, Croesan oc Lannis-Haig was watching them go from one of the highest windows of Castle Anduran's keep. As he often did, he felt a twinge of sorrow for Orisian, and that brought forth the familiar mixture of feelings for the boy's father, Kennet: the bond of love that brotherhood instilled, coloured by frustration and pain.

The sadness in Kennet's heart seemed only to have deepened and grown blacker in the five years since the fevered deaths of Lairis and Fariel, his wife and elder son. It kept Kolglas and all who lived there under a burden of loss. Croesan had lost his own wife many years ago, and thus knew something of what afflicted Kennet, but he had given up any hope of salving the grief that sometimes made itself his brother's master, and it pained him that the past weighed so upon those he loved. Orisian and his sister Anyara had, after all, lost as much as Kennet, and still found the strength to bear that loss upon shoulders much younger and less sturdy than those of the lord of Castle Kolglas. The Thane sighed and set those thoughts aside as he turned away from the window.

A manservant was waiting by the door. Croesan glanced at him.

'Find the Steward,' he said, unable to keep a hint of weariness out of his voice. 'Ask him to come.'

The servant nodded and left the chamber. Croesan ran a hand through his thick hair. He gazed around the room. A huge table, made in one of Anduran's finest woodshops fifty years ago by order of his great-uncle Gahan, ran most of its length. The walls bore three broad tapestries. Time and sunlight had faded them somewhat, but they still showed the delicacy of touch that marked them as the work of Kolkyre craftsmen. They had been commissioned by Sirian the Great himself, the first Lannis Thane, and showed scenes from the battle that forged the Blood. Croesan regarded the images for a little while.

They were, perhaps, not inappropriate as a backdrop for the conversation he was about to have.

Hard upon the heels of the servant trying to announce his arrival, the Steward swept in: Behomun Tole dar Haig, emissary of the Thane of Thanes within Croesan's lands. He gave a casual bow and Croesan gestured him towards a chair, simultaneously dismissing the servant with a curt nod. Behomun's sharp, clever features and ill-concealed arrogance never failed to aggravate Croesan. The man had the satisfied air of one who knew things others did not. A sneer lived surreptitiously at the corner of his mouth, eagerly awaiting any opportunity to creep out of hiding and cavort upon his lips. He was, however, the eyes and ears of Gryvan oc Haig, the High Thane, to whom Croesan had pledged allegiance, and as such he had to be treated with a degree of care. He was like an itch Croesan could reach but was not permitted to scratch.

'I gather young Orisian has left,' said Behomun, his tone solicitous. 'It was remiss of me ... I meant to enquire after his father's health. Have you heard how your brother fares?'

'I had word from the south yesterday,' Croesan said levelly. 'I am told the battles have not gone well for Igryn; that the Dargannan Blood will soon be subdued.'

'I have had the same word,' agreed Behomun, unperturbed by Croesan's disregard for his question. 'It seems the rebels will be brought to heel before winter is far advanced, and the Haig Bloods will be united once more.'

'I am also told,' continued Croesan, 'that the men of Lannis have acquitted themselves with honour in those battles. So much honour, I believe, that barely a handful will return to their homes.'

'Your Blood has always produced warriors of the greatest courage, sire.'

Croesan arched an eyebrow and stared at Gryvan oc Haig's envoy. 'Honour and courage will not feed the orphans of Anduran or Glasbridge through the coming winter. They will not guard my lands from the woodwights or from the Gyre Bloods. I have near one in six of all my people dead from the Heart Fever just five years ago, and the best quarter of the fighting strength I had left taken south, on the High Thane's command, to die so bravely.

'The last time we sent so many men south we had the armies of Horin-Gyre marching on our frontier within weeks. We won then. Who is to say what will happen if the Black Road comes across the Vale of Stones again? You know as well as I, Behomun, that there has been more skirmishing in the Vale these last few weeks than for many a year. And my own son killed a boar with a woodwight arrow in it not a day's ride from this castle. When have the White Owls strayed so far into my lands before?'