‘This is a troublesome Duchy,’ said Ahak, Lord of the Realm, Captain of Ten Thousand Lances. The Duke looked up into his red-rimmed eyes and could find no words; the shock of the King’s appearance, white-haired and grey of face, unnerved him. ‘Well? Have you nothing to say, kinsman?’
‘I am… heartbroken that you are distressed, my liege. Perhaps the reports have been unnecessarily alarming. We have identified all of Nomad birth, our taxes are collected and have been despatched to Furbolg. Where is the problem?’
Ahak shook his head and turned to Okessa. ‘Where is the problem, he asks. Is he slow-witted?’ Okessa shrugged and smiled and the King swung on the Duke.
‘Where? Is this not the castle from which the rebel Llaw Gyffes made his escape, to form his rebellious army in that cursed forest? Is this not the Duchy that saw your own Lord of the Feast — a man you recommended should supervise my visit, and attend my person — turn traitor?’ Okessa leaned towards the King and whispered something in his ear. ‘Ah, yes,’ hissed Ahak. ‘And what of this wizard Ollathair, who was allowed to escape? And you do not see where the problem lies?’
‘My liege, I cannot dispute we have suffered… misfortunes. But the man Llaw Gyffes was just a blacksmith who killed his wife. And yes, he escaped. But of the men who escaped with him, all but a mere handful were recaptured. And as for Errin, I blame the Lord Okessa for provoking him at the Council. The man was concerned about a woman he loved.’
‘A Nomad bitch! Who knows what foul treason they would have plotted? I am displeased with you, kinsman. But I will consider what action to take when I have studied your Duchy at close quarters. Go now.’ Dismissed from his own hall, he had not been summoned to the King’s presence since then. But he had seen others who were. Two nights ago three young women from the village had been led into the courtyard by one of Okessa’s servants. An hour later, as the Duke lay in bed unable to sleep, he had heard a terrible scream. The girls had not been seen since that night, but the Duke had watched as three sacks were carried from the royal quarters, their contents buried behind the stables. The Duke had slipped out into the courtyard an hour later and found the fresh-turned earth. Digging his ringers into the ground, he had come up with a small skull which he hastily reburied.
The following morning he had ordered his horse saddled for his usual ride across the hills, but was informed by his captain that the Lord Okessa had requested the Duke’s presence within the castle, in case the King should have need to call on him.
He was a prisoner in his own fortress, guarded by his own troops.
It was barely credible but then neither was the change in Ahak. The Duke had always known the King was a ruthless man. Six years ago the rumours had been strong that he ordered the poisoning of his uncle, the previous monarch, but in those days Ahak had been a powerhouse of physical strength, young and in his prime — his hair was raven-black, his eyes clear. Once, at a feast, he had lifted a twenty-gallon barrel of wine over his head and held it there for ten heartbeats. Now he was a shadow of the man he had been. And yet, how old could he be? Thirty-three? Thirty-four? Certainly no more.
As the coals in the brazier died down, the Duke returned to his quarters. His servants brought him hot water and, with the aid of a silver mirror, he shaved carefully around his thin beard, noting the grey hairs that were beginning to appear at his temples.
His face was lean and strong, the eyes deep and set close together above a curved nose. Not handsome, he knew, but powerful. He put down the mirror and rubbed at his face with a warmed towel.
Rebels in the forest! He wished to Hell there was a rebel army ready to sweep down. But all his spies informed him that the legend of Llaw Gyffes was exactly that: a fable. He smiled ruefully. Even if the legend were true, and the army swept into Mactha, he would still be a prisoner. He was a hated man; it was a lesson his father had taught him.
‘A man can rule using either love or fear,’ he had said. ‘But fear is stronger.’ And his words had been proved true. But now, as the Duke waited for news of his fate, he knew there was not a man in Mactha who would assist him and few tears would be shed when his blood ran,
‘Breakfast, my Lord?’ asked a slave-girl, whose name the Duke did not know.
‘No.’ He looked at the girl. She was young, dark and pretty. He knew he had bedded her at some time in the winter, but could not remember much of the event. He wandered to his bedroom. He was glad he had never married; he had planned to, of course, in order to sire an heir, but had decided to wait until he was fifty. At least now he would not have the worry of a family waiting to share his fate.
Hearing the thunder of hooves from the courtyard, he walked to the window. Five hundred of the King’s black-cloaked riders were galloping from the castle and he watched them for a while as they headed for the forest.
He summoned his captain. ‘Where are they going?’ he asked.
‘I understand the King has commanded them to enter the forest and ascertain the strength of Llaw Gyffes’ army.’
‘There is no army,’ snapped the Duke. ‘They will find a few settlements, and they will rape and kill. Gods! The world has gone mad.’ The man said nothing.
The Duke waved him away. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Go and report what I have said; I don’t doubt Okessa will reward you.’
The man bowed, moved back and closed the door.
The Duke heard the key turn in the lock…
Manannan pushed back the sheets, lifted the girl’s arm from his chest and rolled from the bed. He poured himself a goblet of the golden Ambria and watched the sun rise in glory over the mountains. Strength flowed through him and he swung round to see the girl awake; she smiled at him and sat up.
‘How are you feeling, Lord Knight?’
He chuckled and returned to the bed, stroking her shoulder and pushing back the long, flowing hair to kiss her neck. Her skin was ivory pale, her body soft. Arousal swamped him…
An hour later he watched her leave and lay back on the bed. Sunlight streamed through the open window, bathing his body, and the music of songbirds came floating from the perfumed gardens below.
Manannan drank more of the elixir, then bathed and dressed in robes of blue silk. Wandering to the terraced garden, he strolled there among the blooms and the flowering trees. He found a small group of poets sitting among the camellias, arguing gently with a number of artists on the question of beauty. For a while he listened, but the sound of distant music lured him to a pavilion where women were dancing.
And the sun shone with incredible brightness.
Ollathair had been right. The tunnel beyond the Black Gate was a nightmare to chill a man’s souclass="underline" glittering eyes in the darkness, the sweat of terror upon his brow. But beyond it was a land of surpassing beauty and a city the like of which Manannan had never seen. White stone buildings towered over the landscape, wondrous statues lined the streets, and there were gardens everywhere, and woods of flowering trees.
He had been met at the city gates by Paulus, a poet and a Magister. The man, tall and white-haired, had bowed low.
‘Welcome at last, Manannan. It is a blessing for us that you have come.’
‘You know me?’ he had asked, dismounting.
‘Know you, my dear man? Samildanach has talked of nothing else. Welcome indeed! He will be delighted to hear of your arrival.’
‘He is here? Alive?’
‘Not here,’ said Paulus, smiling. ‘But yes, he is very much alive — as are all your comrades. They chose to remain among the Vyre and help us in our troubles. But you are tired from your travels. Follow me to my home; there you can bathe and take refreshment.’