Anyara watched him for a moment or two. He did not look at her, but at the dozens of faces that they passed. His eyes ranged over the street scene like a hunter seeking birds in a field.
“Where did you leave from when you marched south with Taim Narran, though?” she insisted.
“Anduran.”
“Were your family still there? When the Black Road came, I mean.”
Coinach shook his head, gave her a short, inexpressive glance. “I have no family to speak of, lady. My father died when I was very young, drowned on the river. My mother, and my sister, died of the Heart Fever.”
“Oh.”
They rode a little further in silence, ascending the long, slow rise of Sea Street. Two men were arguing, facing each other over a broken barrel from which a slick of some dark liquid had spread. They jabbed fingers at each other, spat accusations. Nobody paid them any attention. Anyara took her right hand from the reins and flexed it. There was a bruise across her knuckles. Coinach had taken his task of training her seriously, and it had not been an easy or painless experience.
“You’ll have to stop calling me ‘lady’,” Anyara murmured. “It doesn’t seem right, coming from someone who’s going to be beating bruises into me with a training blade.”
In the dimming light of that dusk, Anyara was on Kolkyre’s northern wall, by the Skeil Gate, to see the last of Aewult nan Haig’s army disappearing up the road that would lead them to Kolglas and beyond. The long column of supply wagons had been out of sight for some time. Now only the rearguard – a couple of hundred mounted Taral-Haig spearmen – could be seen, and they would soon vanish into the distant gloom.
“It’s taken them all day to get themselves out of that camp,” Lheanor oc Kilkry-Haig said at her side. “You’d think none of them know that the days grow shorter in winter.”
“They’ll have to stop for the night before they’ve even had a chance to get tired,” Roaric agreed.
Seeing the Thane and his Bloodheir side by side, Anyara was struck by how alike they were in appearance. They were almost precisely the same height, and shared the same wide, firm stance. Lheanor was an old man, Roaric still a relatively young one, but the likeness of their faces would have been enough to tell any observer that they were father and son.
“Aewult’s a fool,” Lheanor sighed. “Still, he should have four or five swords to match against each one of the Black Road’s, so no doubt he’ll have his victory.”
“Unless Taim Narran has already won it by the time Aewult reaches Kolglas,” Roaric said. His amusement at the thought was undisguised. Lheanor shot his son a vaguely disapproving glance. The Bloodheir did not seem to notice it.
“You should have more care what you wish for,” the Thane said. “Or learn to read the currents rather better. If Orisian and Taim Narran cheat Aewult of his glory, we’ll all pay a price, I can promise you. It’s no part of the High Thane’s intent – or that of the Shadowhand – that any Blood but Haig should come out of all this stronger than it went in.”
“I know that well enough,” Roaric muttered. He stared at his feet.
“Come,” Lheanor said, turning to Anyara. “Let us retire to the Tower. This is one night at least when I mean to set aside worries about the past or the future. Whatever perils remain, today we are relieved of the burden of hosting uncomfortable guests. Those who remain are welcome, and we can feast amongst friends.”
They walked together back towards the Tower of Thrones, the three of them surrounded by more than a score of shieldmen and attendants. The streets were emptying out with the approach of night, but those who were still abroad stood aside without protest as the Thane processed through his city. Lheanor walked slowly – whether through age or weariness, Anyara was not sure. She matched her pace to his. For all his talk of setting aside worries, his demeanour was not that of a man with a light heart.
“Do you really think there will be trouble, if Aewult feels my brother’s cheated him of something?” Anyara asked him.
“There might be,” Lheanor said softly. “It’s not so much Aewult’s anger that concerns me, as what channel the Shadowhand might dig for it. The Chancellor and the High Thane are not well known for resigning themselves to disappointment.”
“You didn’t tell Orisian to stay here, though, did you?”
“No. I’m an old man, and one with more than a trace of fear clouding his eyes. I have no right to try to dissuade a young Thane whose Blood is fighting for its life from whatever course of action he chooses. Anyway, we – your Blood and mine – have an army of quarrels with Haig already. One more will make little difference.”
“He would have listened to your advice, I’m sure.”
Lheanor gave her a kindly smile. “I did give him some, though not on the matter of staying here. But whatever the subject, he needs it less than he – or you – might imagine. He’s no fool, your brother. He gave me some advice of his own, and it was welcome. And wise.”
The Thane hung his head then, and watched the cobblestones flowing beneath his feet as he walked. He appeared disinclined to expand upon what had passed between him and Orisian. Anyara restrained her curiosity. She could not guess what advice her brother had seen fit to give this powerful old, man. But then, she reflected with a touch of sadness, Orisian was Thane now. He had ceased to be just her younger brother, who she could by turns tease and protect. Now, he stood at the head of the Blood. He could march away into strife and leave her behind; he could exchange advice with Lheanor oc Kilkry-Haig; he could choose to risk the enmity of the High Thane himself. Everything, all the world in all its smallest details, had changed since the night of Winterbirth. Even Orisian.
They followed the flagstone path up the mound, through the wintry gardens, and into the Tower of Thrones.
Lagair Haldyn sat with his wife, both of them sullen and uncommunicative. They formed a cold island in the lapping water of merriment, their eyes resolutely downcast. Roaric was glowering at the Steward.
“I don’t know why they don’t just leave, since they make their boredom so obvious,” the Bloodheir muttered under his breath.
Anyara glanced over at Lagair. He had a slab of meat impaled on his knife, and took a bite from it as she watched. He caught her eye and flicked her an unconvincing smile before turning to his wife. An air of disapproval hung about the two of them, Anyara thought. Perhaps they were offended by the way the departure of the Haig army was being marked. If so, their stubbornly glum presence at this feast served as an effective reminder that Gryvan oc Haig was never truly absent; the High Thane’s shadow was not removed merely because his warriors had marched on.
“I don’t suppose they’ll stay much longer,” Anyara said to Roaric. “Just long enough to remind you they’re still here.”
“No, no,” Lheanor was crying in exasperation. “I want wine, more wine.”
A harassed girl, her efforts to fill the Thane’s beaker with ale thus rebuffed, hurried away. She looked, to Anyara, as though she was close to tears. Lheanor rattled his empty cup on the table and cast about for someone who could give him what he wanted. Ilessa, his wife, laid a gently restraining hand on his arm. He calmed at once.
“Some sickness, a disturbance of the guts, has sent half the kitchen girls to their beds,” he explained to Anyara. “We’ve had to borrow hands from everywhere else. There’s stable boys carving meat and washerwomen baking bread. Most of them have no idea what they’re doing.”
Now that it was pointed out to her, Anyara could see that the servants rushing about the hall did not have the usual air of proficiency. She could see old women and red-faced men, boys carrying overladen plates. As she watched, two of them almost collided in their haste to keep the supply of food and drink flowing.