Equally mysterious, and what troubled him now, was the way in which power sometimes failed. By rights, the obvious power of the Haig Bloods should have been enough to deter foolhardy ventures on the part of the Black Road. Ragnor oc Gyre himself, Mordyn remained certain, had no wish to challenge Gryvan on the battlefield. Yet here they all were, fighting a war that no one except a few idiots in the Horin-Gyre Blood seemed to have wanted. And anyone as young and supposedly unsure of himself as Orisian oc Lannis-Haig should, by rights, be easy to control. Was it just childish arrogance, blind eagerness, that had led him to sneak out of Kolkyre like a common fugitive? Was he so unafraid of incurring Aewult’s – or Gryvan’s – displeasure, or did he simply not understand that he was doing so?
Most irritating of all was the possibility that Orisian knew exactly what he was doing, that he was deliberately trying to deprive the Haig Blood of its proper authority, trying to take away its victory. Perhaps the young Thane understood the importance of appearances. Or perhaps it was all Taim Narran’s idea. It was not beyond possibility that he was the helmsman of Orisian’s ship.
Aewult stirred at last. He took a log from the basket and threw it on the fire.
“Did Orisian really leave by the Kyre Gate, then?” the Bloodheir asked.
“Yes, I believe so.”
“And Taim Narran went by the Skeil. Well, we know where he’s going, at least: Kolglas. What’s Orisian up to, though?”
Mordyn rose and went to stand nearer the fire. He flexed and massaged his hands, turning them in the warmth.
“Well, there are few possibilities if he’s heading east. He could be making for Ive, but I cannot think of a single reason why he would be doing that. He might simply be playing some silly game of misdirection, I suppose. He could get to Kolglas eventually, crossing over the Karkyre Peaks, but it would seem a particularly arduous bit of subterfuge. There’s always Highfast. Perhaps that’s where he’s going.”
“Highfast? Why would he be interested in Highfast?”
Mordyn shook his head. “I have no idea. He does seem to have a liking for na’kyrim, though.”
Aewult rubbed a hand over his unshaven chin. Mordyn could hear the rasp of the stubble. The Bloodheir was evidently too busy in the mornings to tend to his appearance. It was no great surprise, given that he shared his bed with that dancing girl he had brought up from Vaymouth.
“Well, Narran’s only got a few hundred men,” the Bloodheir muttered. “There can’t be many more waiting for him at Kolglas. Whatever games they think they’re playing, they still can’t do much without us.”
“That’s probably true. You know more about the fighting of battles than I do, but still, it might be best if we don’t allow them the chance to find out exactly what they can do.”
Aewult curled a lip at the Chancellor. “Generous of you to admit even such slight imperfection in your wisdom. Don’t imagine for a moment that I think it a sincere admission, though.”
Mordyn silently reprimanded himself. He should exercise a little more restraint in his dealings with Aewult. The man was not entirely stupid, and offending him not entirely without its dangers. A little more carefully crafted flattery, a touch more convincing deference, would be wise. But the man was so wearing, so… unrewarding. And, Mordyn had to acknowledge, he was tired. How gleefully surprised his numerous detractors would be to discover the many fallibilities and shortcomings of the Shadowhand they so excoriated. If his abilities matched even a fraction of those the great mass of people ascribed to him, he would have been lord of all the world long ago. But he was, in the end, nothing more than a man like any other; today, a tired and frustrated man. He bowed his head just enough to give Aewult an impression of regret.
“There is still ample time for you to overtake Taim Narran, Bloodheir. You can be in Kolglas yourself before he has any opportunity to test the strength of the Black Road. Once you are there, he would not dare defy your command. If you tell him to retire from the field, or to go and stand garrison in some forest village, he would have to do it.”
“So long as his Thane’s not there, yes.”
“Indeed. If you will allow me, I will see to Orisian oc Lannis-Haig myself. We – I – have underestimated that young man. Whether it is his stubbornness, his cunning or his stupidity that we have underestimated remains to be seen, but there is certainly something. I dislike my own mistakes more than any made by others, so I will give the correction of this one my closest attention.”
He tossed another log onto the fire. The flames crackled over the bark, curling it and peeling it back from the pale wood beneath.
“Our lives will be much more tiring if we do not get the measure of him,” he said. “We know the outcome of the present strife with the Black Road, after all: it is how things stand after your victory that will colour the next few years. And there are few things more troublesome than a Thane with a defiant streak.”
“He’ll have to learn the cost of defiance, then,” muttered Aewult.
“The boy is young, inexperienced. I suspect I can turn him back, wherever he thinks he is going. Unless he is the slow one out of that family, he should be open to persuasion, especially if I can talk to him alone. But failing all else, yes, some blunt warnings – perhaps even a threat or two – should clarify for him the importance of retaining your goodwill, and that of your father. It is time, I think, to find out how this new Thane of Lannis responds to the crack of the whip.”
Later, descending through the Tower of Thrones, Anyara stared at the back of her shieldman. Coinach was not overly tall, nor were his shoulders especially broad. Despite this, his was an impressive presence. He had a muscular bulk, and moved with the kind of restraint that Anyara associated with older, intensely capable men such as Taim Narran. For all his youth – he could not have been much more than twenty years old – he had an air of confidence. His face, though, was surprisingly gentle, for a warrior whom Taim had assured her was as skilled as any under his command.
Anyara still thought it foolish for Orisian to have forced a shieldman upon her, but the young man’s company was not unpleasant. Which was just as well for Coinach, since Anyara might otherwise have vented some of her many frustrations on him. She had been aghast when Orisian had told her he meant to return to Kolglas without her.
She knew his reasons, of course; better, she believed, than Orisian knew them himself. Only someone who had experienced the utter, dismantling grief of profound loss could understand the fear it engendered: the fear of its repetition, a constant anticipation that the cruel world might at any moment inflict a still more excessive, wanton punishment. Orisian meant to fend off that possibility by keeping her out of harm’s way. She understood that; understood the fear that haunted him. Almost every night, she experienced the consequences of loss herself. Her sleep was awash with evil dreams: dreams of darkness and fire and threat, dreams that had the same flavour as those she had suffered when the Heart Fever took possession of her. They had begun only after she had reached the comparative safety of Kolkyre, as if her mind, freed from the constant and immediate pressures of her captivity and then her flight to Koldihrve, had turned in on itself. Most mornings, Anyara woke drained, sometimes alarmed.
She had hidden it all from Orisian with meticulous care. She had no desire to add to his burdens, and therefore told him nothing of her dreams, or of the grief that was testing her inner defences to their limit. And she had not argued with him when he told her to remain here in the Tower of Thrones. Not for very long, at least. His face, as soon as she raised her voice, had betrayed the maelstrom of feelings that he could not express: regret, fear, guilt, love. But there had been an insistence there, too. She held her tongue. She allowed him to leave her behind, and hoped that doing so might ease his fears.