VII

Something had died, up amongst the rocks. An eagle clambered into the sky as soon as Orisian and his company came in sight, its huge wings hauling it up and away from the hidden corpse. The ravens were more determined, or more hungry perhaps. They hopped and croaked amongst the boulders without regard to the column of riders passing on the road below.

Orisian had fifty men with him, all of them veterans of the war against Igryn oc Dargannan-Haig. The road they followed was an old one, a trading route from the days of the Kingship. Neglect had crumbled away some of its fabric, but it remained a good surface. It had carried them up the northern bank of the River Kyre, through the flat coastal farmlands and on into the rolling pasture-draped hills where the Kilkry Blood bred its famous horses and grazed its innumerable cattle. Now those hills were becoming mountains. The road ran along a terrace cut into a steep, bare slope above the river. The Kyre, down there in the huge gutter it had carved for itself, rushed between great boulders, rumbling as it foamed, milky, through rapids.

They had been climbing for some time. If he twisted and craned his neck, Orisian could still just make out the sea far behind them: a vast grey slab across the western horizon. Looking ahead, on up the road, there was nothing but the long bleak valley of the Kyre, driving into the heart of the Karkyre Peaks. Somewhere in those mountains, Orisian knew, was Highfast, and he hoped it would offer something by way of warmth or comfort. The Karkyre Peaks were no loftier than the Car Criagar, but they were, if anything, still more unwelcoming. There was almost no vegetation, even on these lower slopes. A few stunted and ragged bushes hung on amongst the stones, and there were scattered patches of wiry, sparse grass; apart from that, it was a world of bare rock, scree and stone-dust. Ahead, a score of jagged pinnacles dominated the skyline, sharp-backed ridges splaying out from them. The mountains of the Car Criagar were massive, old, broad-shouldered; these Karkyre Peaks were like serrated blades newly stabbed up from out of the earth.

The desolation, and perhaps the leaden quality of the light, worked on the minds of Orisian and all his companions. There was no talking. The only sounds were the persistent flat roar of the river below, the clatter of hoofs and the occasional eerie cries of ravens. Ess’yr, Varryn, Yvane and Hammarn had all refused to ride. They walked in the midst of the column of horsemen. The two Kyrinin were cowled, the better to conceal themselves from the curious – and potentially hostile – eyes of observers. Orisian was surprised at how much human life there was along this road, even now that they had reached such barren terrain. In the last day they had passed a dozen hamlets or solitary huts. The inhabitants were uniformly silent and hard-eyed, watching them pass from the shadows of doorways, as if they resented this disturbance of their solitude.

Rounding a turn, Orisian’s eye was caught by a strange structure a short way above the road. It looked as though someone had tried to build a squat house out of great flat-sided boulders, only to be defeated by the sheer mass of their intended materials. Even at this distance, writing and symbols were faintly visible, cut into the weathered face of the rocks.

“What’s that?” Orisian asked.

Bannain, riding just ahead on a short-legged mountain pony, glanced up.

“It’s Morvain’s tomb. He died here, retreating from Highfast after the failure of his siege. Looted out long ago. There’s nothing left within. So I’m told, anyway.”

“I’m surprised the Aygll Kings let it stand.”

“Well, it was in the last days of their rule. It was Lerr, the Boy King, that Morvain rebelled against, and he’d already lost his grip on most of these lands. The child was dead himself within a year or two of Morvain’s death.”

“Hard times,” Rothe muttered from behind them.

“Yes,” acknowledged Bannain, then shrugged and gave his reins a casual shake. “No more so than these, though. This world’s not given to resting easy.”

They rode on. The road became ever more like a broad ledge cut into the side of a cliff. Walls of bare rock loomed above them. Below, a smaller river flowed into the Kyre: a tumultuous confluence that had fashioned a bowl in which to seethe. The road swung north and followed the lesser tributary up into the mountains.

Orisian rode beside Ess’yr. She was walking well, with no obvious sign of the broken ribs that had hampered her since their descent from the Car Criagar. Her face was hidden from him, lost in the depths of her capacious hood.

“I don’t much like this place,” Orisian said. “Not enough trees.”

She said nothing for a few paces, then: “No. Not enough. It is said the God Who Laughed never walked this land, because its edges hurt his feet.”

“A wise god. We’ll not be here long, I hope. A day or two, perhaps, and then on to Kolglas. You’ll be able to see my home.”

“I have seen it. From across the water. Close enough. And Inurian told me of it; the castle in the sea, he called it.”

“Yes,” murmured Orisian. “The castle in the sea.” What made him imagine that this woman would care what place he called home? She was a creature of the forest and the hills, her heart as unmoved by castles and stone walls as anyone’s could ever be. And she had been lover to a na’kyrim; a man as gentle and wise as any Orisian had ever known. There was nothing he could offer her that would compare with the memory of Inurian, or make good his absence. Still, he longed for her goodwill. He lacked the tools to secure it, but that did not blunt the desire.

“I owe you a bow,” he said to her.

That made Ess’yr glance at him, a quick tip of her head sideways and up. He glimpsed her cheek, the thin line of her lips.

“I should have thought of it sooner,” he said. “You broke it saving me from the Horin-Gyre Bloodheir; broke it on his face. If you hadn’t, I might not be here now. I would have got you another one in Kolkyre if I’d thought of it.”

He caught a grunt – possibly contemptuous – from Varryn’s direction. Ess’yr’s brother was walking a few paces behind them. It was easy to forget how acute a Kyrinin’s hearing was. Ess’yr turned her eyes back to the road and the hood once more hid her face.

“I do not need a Huanin bow,” she said. “I will have another in time. It will be a Fox bow, made on Fox lands.”

“Or a White Owl bow, from a dead hand,” said Varryn, just loud enough for Orisian to hear. He glanced back over his shoulder, unable to disguise his irritation. He did not want Varryn eavesdropping on every word he uttered to Ess’yr.

“You’ll have your chance for revenge soon,” he said.

“Not revenge,” Ess’yr said. “Balance. The enemy have killed many Fox. Therefore many of the enemy must die.”

“I don’t know if it works, that kind of balancing.”

“There is no other kind.”

Dusk came on quickly. Ravens were flocking in the darkening sky, tumbling around the peaks, plummeting in to ledges on the cliff faces. Their harsh cries carried a long way. The little river – now far below them – disappeared into the gloom that settled across the valley floor. Its voice, by turns hissing and chattering as it churned its way down out of the mountains, could still be heard, though. Somewhere high up on the other side of the valley, rocks came loose and tumbled, rattling, over scree.

Orisian was starting to become concerned, fearing a night to be spent under the cold stars, when distant points of light came into view ahead. Bannain had assured them that they would reach shelter before nightfall, but only now was Orisian able to wholly believe it.

The inn was like no other he had seen before. As they drew closer, he struggled to tell where the disordered, boulder-strewn mountainside ended and the building began. It was clear that the inn had once been a huge structure with workshops and stables and cottages built around and onto it. Most of them had collapsed into rubble and ruin, crumbling back into the rock of which they had been made. Amidst this wreckage, the inn itself still stood. Slate tiles had slipped off part of its roof, and lay in a grey pile at the roadside. Oil lamps burned in some of the windows; others were dark and shuttered.