In the end he had succeeded, although Rannick’s displeasure and dissatisfaction still rumbled danger-ously close to the surface. And, though he kept it from his face, Nilsson was as pleased as he was relieved at this outcome. If Rannick accepted his guidance now, it would help entrench him further as his closest aide and thus, in due course, greatly increase his rewards and his own personal power. It was good.
The night, however, had been draining, and Nilsson now searched desperately for a reply to this renewed complaint; one that might end this debate once and for all. Then, suddenly, he felt afraid. A warning voice came from within: leave it – leave it alone – you’ve been lucky so far. Who knows what drives such a man as this? Who knows what powers he possesses? To be of value to him was one thing, but the slightest hint that he was dependent on you and…
‘Master, I can say no more than I have,’ he said with carefully modulated humility. ‘Your will is my com-mand. I am but your servant.’
The anger faded from Rannick’s face, though the unreadable, cold impassiveness that replaced it was, if anything, more frightening. He nodded then turned back to the window.
Despite himself, Nilsson fidgeted nervously with the papers on the table in front of him.
There was a long silence.
Then Rannick was behind him.
Nilsson tried to react naturally, but he felt his body stiffening in anticipation of some act of violence. The memory of his first encounter with Rannick and the ease with which he had been hurled from his saddle was still vividly with him. And older memories of the use of the power rose to chill him further.
A hand closed about his shoulder. Nilsson took a slow, deep breath. Then, to his horror, he found he could not breathe out. His fingers curled claw-like, nails squealing along the wooden table. Rannick’s hand patted his shoulder affectionately.
‘Destroying the village is more the province of you and your men than mine, is it not, Captain?’ Rannick said softly. ‘Some other time, then.’
Abruptly, Nilsson breathed out, though it was as if the air had been torn from him rather than released by his own need. He slumped forward, gasping as if he had burst through the surface of some deep and drowning lake. His face almost struck the table. Through the sound of his pounding heartbeat and rasping breath, he heard Rannick’s voice, now low and resonating, like something from the echoing bowels of a great pit.
‘Good…’ it said.
Gryss rode away from the castle in a daze. His mind was in turmoil. He gazed down the valley. Grey sheets of rain were swirling across it, so that familiar landmarks came and went, their ancient solidity now made ephemeral.
The scene echoed his own tumbling thoughts and feelings: bewilderment, defiance, anger, despair and, ever-present, guilt.
He let the reins hang slack, though his hands were gripping them tightly.
‘Grief,’ he heard himself say after a long, timeless interval. Rain ran into his mouth.
That’s what it was.
‘Grief.’
Through his long life he had seen many die includ-ing, inevitably, many that he had loved. And he recognized the symptoms he was suffering from. Grief. Grief for the sudden, almost brutal, loss of a precious thing. He guided his horse to a small headland and stopped there. Looking back, he saw the castle. Once no more than part of the landscape, old and affectionately familiar, it seemed now to be new and utterly different, alive with menace and threat. And in the other direction the valley came and went under the shifting curtains of rain.
Like tears, he thought.
He knew only too well that his distress would have to run its course. Grief was an incurable condition. Time and release alone would ease it.
And yet, that very thought seemed to clear his mind. This was not a death; no one had been lost. This was change, and he could either beat his breast about it or make the best of it. He turned his face towards the grey sky. Despite the rain falling on him, he felt a little easier.
Perhaps after all it was more self-indulgence than true grief he was feeling. He abandoned the debate. It was of no real importance. What was important was this brief time alone. It would at least give him the chance to begin to come to terms with what had happened and to clarify how it could best be presented to the villagers.
A tinge of humour entered the cold grey of his thoughts. The Council meeting that he would have to call would be very interesting.
The humour did not survive long, however, as he tried to anticipate what the various responses of his fellow Councillors would be, and then he heard the question that would be asked by someone who was not a Council member: Marna.
‘How do we know they’re not just bandits?’ she would ask.
He patted his horse’s neck. Foolishness, he thought. But his denial was not as convincing as he would have wished. Marna’s observations about the appearance and conduct of Nilsson’s men were accurate, and – some-thing that had not occurred to Marna, yet – Gryss had to concede that he had seen no document identifying them as who they claimed to be.
He grimaced with self-reproach.
And then there was the suddenness of this decision to use the castle as a permanent garrison. Hitherto there had been not the slightest mention of such a develop-ment. Now, following what, according to Farnor, had been some fearful confrontation in the woods with… that creature… and defeat by it, they suddenly decide that they’ll stay here.
Unable to leave to the north, unwilling for some reason to leave to the south, they’ve got to remain, he thought suddenly.
He stared back at the castle, his concerns now dou-bled. Who were these men?
He could turn his horse about and ask, of course, but the very thought made his stomach tighten with fear. Nilsson might simply produce some document of authorization.
But he might not, and then what?
A knife in his ribs? And, all pretence set aside, the village open and defenceless against whatever Nilsson and his men might then choose to do? Gryss knew the villagers could not stand against such a crew. Yet there was some comfort in this thought. If they were other than the King’s gatherers, they wished it to remain unknown. They had reasons of their own for remaining quiet and secret. Gryss felt some relief. Such reasoning would legitimately excuse him from the direct approach he had just contemplated.
Yet what was he to say to the Council?
He wiped the rain from his face. His every instinct was to tell them of his doubts, but what end would be served by that? There would be a rare commotion as it was and, despite any pleas for discretion, the idea would not only be all over the valley within the day, it would be grievously misrepresented; quite stripped of any subtle reservations he might have included in his telling. And who could say what the consequences of that might be? And, too, he could not avoid the feeling that, Marna having voiced her doubts, the same thoughts might be lying unspoken in many hearts, just waiting for the slightest encouragement to bring them noisily to the fore.
But he could not stay silent. Encouraging the people to submit to the will of these men who might be…