Winterbirth (6 page)

He had been standing beneath a great ash tree, unbreathing and still as he searched for sign of the deer he had tracked through half a mile of thickets and groves. A mark in the earth, perhaps the faintest imprint of a hind's foot, caught his eye and he bent to look more closely. The sound was so sudden and unexpected that at first he could not put a cause to it, and when he saw the arrow shivering in the tree trunk his incredulous mind instinctively denied its meaning. Yet it was, beyond doubting, a Kyrinin shaft.

And then he was off, casting bow and quiver aside, flinging his backpack away to lend speed to his flight.

There had been no sign save the arrow itself, no sound but its hissing flight and sharp crack into the wood. Still he knew they were behind him, and close, and that he had no hope save the strength of his legs.

He swept past a tree, a great gnarled oak that seemed familiar. He had not been this way for a long time but it was, he was sure, a tree he had climbed in as a child. If he was right, the track, the longed for path that might carry him to safety, was only two or three hundred paces further on. The thought lent new life to his tiring muscles and he leapt forwards with still greater urgency. The hope burned stronger.

He felt no pain, just a solid blow in the square of his back as if someone had thrown a stone. No pain, yet his legs were no longer his own and he sprawled face-down into the damp leaf litter. He clawed at the earth, struggling to rise. His legs would not obey him. He reached behind to finger the arrow buried in his back. He felt something rising in his throat.

Then there was a powerful grip upon his arm and he was turned over. The arrow snapped and sent a lance of pain clean through him, transfixing sternum and spine. He cried out and crushed his eyes tight shut against it. When he opened them again, blinking through the mist of tears, there was one last surprise. It was not into the pale face of a Kyrinin that he looked, as he had expected. Instead, he met the gaze of one of his own kind: a black-haired woman, clad in dark leather, with a sword sheathed crossways on her back.

'The woodwights have brought you down, but it is fitting that the killing blow should come from a truer enemy,' she said in a harsh, rough-edged accent Lekan did not recognise.

There were other figures gathering behind her. Lekan could not see them clearly. The warrior languidly drew her sword over her shoulder. She saw the confusion in Lekan's eyes.

'You should know why you die,' she said, 'so know this: the Children of the Hundred have come for you, for all of you. The Bloods of the Black Road will take back that which is ours, and where you go now, all of Lannis-Haig will follow.'

Lekan's mouth moved. There was no sound. The blow fell, and he plunged towards the Sleeping Dark.

THE SECOND DAY'S ride was easy going and Orisian and his shieldmen made good time. From the Dyke down to Glasbridge the road was well maintained. The flat ground close by the river was good cropland, and there were countless small farms. A chilling rain that fell for most of the day kept all save a few people off the road, though. Two or three riverboats drifted by. Orisian and the others could easily have found a boat to carry them down to Glasbridge, but few horses tolerated such a journey with equanimity and Orisian preferred, in any case, to stay in the saddle.

By mid-afternoon they were approaching the northern gate of Glasbridge, Lannis-Haig's second town. It was a bustling port, and the scent of the sea and the screeching of gulls filled the air as they rode down towards the harbour. The quayside was swarming with people. Kylane grew animated at the sight of the largest of the dozen boats berthed along its length: a long, fat sailship riding high in the water.

'Look,' he said, patting Orisian on the arm. 'She's a merchant-man out of Tal Dyre.'

The young shieldman had once told Orisian, when somewhat the worse for drink, that he had dreamed as a boy of taking service with the ships of Tal Dyre. Fanciful tales were told of the exploits of that island's sea captains and of the wealth of its merchant lords. Orisian was disinclined to believe such stories now, but three or four years ago they had stirred in him the same yearnings Kylane described.

There had been times when he would have given anything to escape the confines of Castle Kolglas and the memories it embodied. Then, as he had looked out over the great expanse of the estuary from his high bedchamber, to ride the waves as the Tal Dyreens did, to leave everything behind, had seemed an enticing prospect.

'The harbourmaster is waving to us,' Rothe said with a touch of despondency.

Orisian looked towards the harbourmaster's rather ostentatious residence a short way down the waterfront. Renairan Tair dar Lannis-Haig was indeed leaning - somewhat recklessly, given his girth — over the edge of a balcony, waving vigorously and hailing them. Passing through Glasbridge on his way to Anduran a fortnight before, Orisian had promised to visit with the harbourmaster on his return. He would have preferred to pass the night quietly in the fine house Croesan kept here, but the harbourmaster was a difficult man to refuse. Given time, his remorseless jollity could have ground down the most obstinately doleful rock.

'Orisian!' Renairan was shouting. 'Here, here!'

'I suppose we cannot pretend we did not hear him,' murmured Rothe as scores of heads amongst the crowds turned towards the harbourmaster.

'This'll be a long evening,' said Kylane under his breath.

Kylane's prediction turned out to be accurate, though not for him and Rothe. Orisian was respectfully paraded before the guests Renairan had invited to dine with them, like a trophy from some polite hunt.

The harbourmaster hardly needed to prove his importance - his line had long carried great influence in Glasbridge - but the presence of a member of the Thane's family in his house had been too great a temptation to resist. Orisian's two shieldmen, much to their relief, had not been expected to attend. There was a trace of vanity in Renairan that excluded mere fighting men - even the guardians of his Thane's nephew — from a gathering such as this. Rothe had protested, but even he could not credibly claim that Orisian might be in danger amidst the great and good of Glasbridge.

The dining hall was decked out with holly, juniper and sprigs of pine: traditional decorations for the coming Winterbirth celebrations. In the grate at one end of the hall, pine logs were burning, filling the air with their sharp scent. The smell touched upon raw memories for Orisian, and cast a shadow across his mood. Some of his clearest recollections of his mother Lairis were of her glowing presence at the Winterbirth feasts in Castle Kolglas. Those images were wreathed about in his mind with the poignant scent of pine. She had been the heart of those festivals, her voice their sweetest music.

Orisian did his best to play the honoured guest. He gave a report of the festivities surrounding the birth of the Thane's grandson, and Naradin's killing of his boar. Curiosity satisfied, the conversation drifted to the sort of matters that always preoccupied the people of Glasbridge: the fishermen's catches in the last week, the promise of storms on the season's breath, and the prices obtained by the last merchant to sail south to Kolkyre. They were things, in the main, that Orisian knew little about. He had to concentrate to avoid overlooking any of the moments when a smile, a nod or some approving remark was required of him. Before long he was wishing he was with Rothe and Kylane, hidden away in the kitchens or wherever they had found themselves.

As the evening progressed Orisian became convinced that Renairan's wife, Carienna, and his young daughter were talking about him. Now and again, across the landscape of wine jugs and meat and bread, he noticed Carienna watching him with an unguarded, penetrating gaze. For no reason he could name, it made him uncomfortable and he tried to keep his eyes on other things.

The one guest who caught Orisian's interest was the captain of the Tal Dyre merchant ship, Edryn Delyne. He had met Tal Dyreens before, when they stopped off at Kolglas and paid courtesy visits to his father, but this man was the most impressive of the breed he had ever seen. He was tall and fair-haired and boasted the short, pointed beard that, in the tales at least, was the mark of every Tal Dyre adventurer.

Delyne regaled the party with stories of the fighting far away in the south. Many men of Lannis were there, fighting under Gryvan oc Haig's command against the rebellious Dargannan Blood, and the interest around the table was keen. Delyne assured his audience that the fighting would soon be over and Igryn, the recalcitrant Thane, dead or taken. Renairan and his guests, Orisian included, received this news with only muted enthusiasm. There was no love lost between the Lannis Blood and that of Haig. Orisian had heard it said more than once that the two thousand men Taim Narran had led south in answer to the High Thane's summons would be doing better service if they were marching against Gryvan's palace in Vaymouth, rather than the mountain forts of Igryn oc Dargannan-Haig.

Orisian's eyes grew ever more heavy-lidded as the evening crept on. Though he watered his wine carefully, the heat of the fire and the heavy scent in the air combined with it to lull him towards sleep.

Renairan's booming voice caught him unawares. He attempted an alert expression. The harbourmaster's laughter told him that his efforts were in vain.

'Too much good food and wine for our young guest, I think!' Renairan said.

Orisian smiled apologetically.

'Forgive me,' he said. 'Two days' riding takes its toll.'

'Of course, of course,' cried Renairan. 'You must retire, Orisian. You have another day in the saddle tomorrow.'

'Thank you for a fine meal,' said Orisian as he rose. The other guests stood up as well, acknowledging his departure with small bows or nods. He found Renairan's wife and daughter closing upon him as he headed for the door, and he had to resist a powerful urge to spring forwards and make a dash for the sanctuary of his bedchamber. As the meal was noisily resumed behind them, Orisian was held by Carienna's cheerful, yet somehow insistent, gaze.

'Such a shame that we did not have a proper chance to speak,' she said, 'but you must spare a word for my daughter Lynna before you retire.'

She eased the young girl forwards.

'Lynna!' prompted Carienna, and the somewhat flustered girl cleared her throat.

'It was a very great pleasure to meet you, master Orisian,' she said, giving him a delicate smile and a practised curtsey.

'Ah,' said Orisian.

'Lynna is almost fifteen,' said Carienna in a voice that spilled implications from its edges like honey from an over-full beescomb.

'Really,' said Orisian, 'I'm . . .' He realised that he had forgotten how old he was.

'Sixteen, I believe,' said Carienna happily.

It took Orisian a while to find a kind form of words to take his leave. Rothe was waiting outside his room. The shieldman smiled sympathetically when Orisian told him what had happened.

'Sixteen is a perilous age for the only available man in the Thane's family.'

Kylane was quiet the next morning, nursing the after-effects of drink and what had evidently been a costly gaming session with members of the harbourmaster's household. Rothe, cheered by the prospect of being back at Kolgias by nightfall, and perhaps by his comrade's misfortune, was livelier. He and Orisian talked happily of hunting, of Croesan and of the growing grandeur of Anduran as they passed along Glasbridge's streets, over the broad river running through its heart and out through the western gate of the town.

They followed the stone-surfaced track along the southern shore of the Glas estuary. This was a well-populated stretch, with many farmhouses and hamlets lining the way. Little watermills, their wheels creaking round, stood astride the streams flowing down to the sea. Here and there small fishing boats were drawn up on the rocks. At one roadside house they stopped to buy some oatcakes and goat's cheese, and ate them as they rode onwards. Kylane's mood lifted a little, his spirits renewed by the food.

He recounted tales, harvested over dice the night before, of bawdy goings-on in the harbourmaster's house.

In the late afternoon they rounded a small headland and came within sight of Kolgias. The town lay on the far shore of a shallow bay studded with rocky islets, closely hemmed in by the forest. Castle Kolgias stood tall on its isle a hundred yards offshore: a weathered stone bastion so old that it seemed as much a part of the natural landscape as the rocks breaking waves beneath its walls. The tide was out, so the narrow causeway running from the town to the castle was exposed. They could see a small cart moving along it, carrying firewood to feed the castle's hearths. A broad smile came to Orisian's face.

'A race back!' he cried, and kicked his horse into a headlong gallop along the track.

He heard Rothe's exasperated cry, and then the pounding of hoofs as the two shieldmen came rushing after him. The dash around the curving shore did not take long, but the horses were blowing hard as they slowed at the edge of Kolgias.

The main street and most of the little tracks that ran off on either side were busy. Kolgias always sucked people in at Winterbirth, as surely as a full-laden fishing boat drew gulls. The stalls around the edge of the market square were doing a roaring trade in everything from candles to snowboots, and so much money changing hands had created an infectious air of good humour. Some of the stallholders called out and waved as Orisian went by.

The area around the cairn in the heart of the square, by contrast, was almost empty, with only a screaming gang of children chasing one another round and round the small tower of stones. The monument was a memorial to the Battle of Kolglas. Sirian had been only master of Kolglas then, holding it in the name of the Kilkry Thane at a time when the exile of the Gyre Blood and its followers was still young, their hunger to return still raw and urgent. It had fallen to Sirian to turn back the armies of the Black Road when they poured south across the Vale of Stones and down the length of the Glas valley. His reward for the victory: the right to found his own Blood, to rule over the valley he had defended, and to hold it in perpetuity against the exiles in the north.