Battu came to a stop before her, penetrating her with his deep, pitted gaze. ‘It wasn’t easy, Lalenda,’ he said, ‘taking Refectu from a Shadowdreamer too complacent to raise a hand against our enemies.’ His features twisted in hatred. ‘The gods should have been pleased with his demise. How could I have known?’ he muttered, almost to himself. ‘And the dream has become even more ambiguous of late. It shows me nothing of my future . Do I have reason to be concerned, Lalenda?’
Lalenda was too terrified to blink. Battu stamped his foot, making her jump.
‘This boy!’ he hissed. ‘He is to end the war.’ His hands shot out and clenched her shoulders. ‘Is he destined to become the Shadowdreamer?’
‘I …have seen nothing, my lord.’
‘Do I raise a usurper to my own throne?’ Battu demanded, shaking her so hard that her teeth snapped. ‘You must have seen something! Anything! ’
All she could do was shiver uncontrollably.
‘What good is a prophet,’ he roared, lifting her into the air, ‘who knows nothing of the future!’
He drew back a hand, blue energy collecting across his fingertips. Lalenda cried out, and in his crib the boy twisted, echoing her cry.
Tyrellan glanced at the child sharply, saw his eyes widen in distress over what was happening. Was it possible the saviour child did not want Battu’s rag doll harmed? Perhaps he was simply reacting to violence and shouting, but Tyrellan did not think so. The boy had seen worse than this on their journey home and not uttered a sound.
‘My lord!’ Tyrellan said. Battu turned slowly to his servant, fingers still poised with blue energy crackling. Tyrellan bowed deeply. ‘Forgive me, lord, but I have heard that prophets grow more in tune with their gifts as they grow older. Perhaps in time she will prove useful.’
Dazedly Lalenda stared at him, no doubt wondering why he had intervened. She went still in Battu’s grip as the dark lord decided what to do. Suddenly he dropped her, and instinctively she spread her wings for the fall.
‘Get out!’ Battu bellowed. ‘OUT! ’
She scrambled to her feet and ran headlong from the chamber. Battu stood breathing hard, his jaw set as he considered the boy. Tyrellan watched him carefully, quietly, a finger playing atop the hilt of a dagger in his belt. If Battu raised a hand to the child …
‘Is this my fate then?’ Battu said finally. ‘That I have strived to bring this boy to us, to raise him in my castle, teach him as my heir …only to bow to him in the end?’
Tyrellan knew how jealously Battu guarded his power. Even if the Dark Gods themselves ordered him to, Battu may not willingly give away Refectu. The boy would remain in constant danger as long as Battu thought he represented a threat to his rule. Tyrellan flexed his jaw, choosing his words carefully. ‘He was born to serve the shadow’s will,’ he said. ‘But we do not need chaos or unrest. I do not imagine it is his destiny to overthrow you.’
‘No?’ said Battu, running a hand along the crib.
‘He’s to lead our armies into Kainordas. For a push like that, we’ll need unity in Fenvarrow. A hero on the frontlines with a strong leader behind him. If you teach him well, my lord, you will foster his loyalty and respect.’
Battu pondered this. ‘Maybe so.’
‘You are also in a position to learn how he can be controlled. If he’s to be your instrument, you must familiarise yourself with him.’
‘My instrument …’ echoed Battu. ‘Yes. Maybe that’s what they meant when they said I’d be rewarded for all my years of patience.’
‘Lord?’ said Tyrellan.
Battu waved a hand dismissively ‘None of your concern.’
Tyrellan watched his master depart. He knew Battu understood that he couldn’t kill the child – such a crime would be punished forever in the afterlife. Nonetheless, Battu could act rashly when in a rage. How long would Tyrellan have to monitor his master’s fears? It would be better if he didn’t have to remove Battu; Fenvarrow needed him while its true leader grew strong.
Nine
A Rush of Blood
Corlas sat on a hill under a tree with arms resting across his axe handle. In the valley before him stood a farmhouse: painted bricks, and smoke wisping from the chimney. In the yard were carrot tops, tomato plants and a henhouse probably full of eggs. In the past two weeks it was the closest he’d come to settlement, having steered clear of roads, towns and farms. During that time he’d eaten little and now his hunger bit him painfully. He’d steadfastly ignored it, for his true pain was above and beyond all earthly concern. To attend to hunger seemed somehow like stooping.
‘You’re hungry, aren’t you?’ came Iassia’s voice on his shoulder.
The bird had been with him since they’d met, his only source of comfort. Iassia had helped him through days when it had been so hard to rise, almost impossible to put one foot in front of the other.
‘Do you read minds now, little bird?’ rumbled Corlas.
The bird twittered in amusement. ‘It doesn’t take a mind-reader to hear the growls of your stomach.’
Corlas grunted.
‘Your goal beckons so strongly,’ mused the bird, ‘it’s no wonder all else has faded to irrelevance. But, Corlas, you are still a man, with day-to-day concerns. To acknowledge your hunger may be to accede to that also. It can be hard to admit it to oneself after such troubled times, but life goes on.’
Corlas frowned. From the start the bird had been able to read him so perceptively. This time Iassia had echoed his own thoughts almost exactly. Yet Corlas could not go down to the farm. He would either have to steal or beg, and he was not a man for either.
‘You wouldn’t have to beg,’ said Iassia. ‘Look at all that unchopped wood out the back there. You could offer your axe in return for a meal.’
Corlas turned the idea over in his head, but there was something else that kept him from going down there. Now that he’d returned to the world, he felt apart from it. These were not his people any more. These were enemy lands.
‘They are simple folk, Corlas,’ came Iassia’s voice. ‘Don’t let your anger at those in power trickle down to them. They are but farmers living as best they can. It wasn’t their decision to take everything from you.’
Corlas shut his eyes, remembering the farm where he had grown up. To his younger self, a soldier’s life had seemed glamorous and worthwhile, better than scraping a life out of the dirt. Now the dirt seemed more honest, or at least less ignorant. As a soldier, Corlas had been an unthinking instrument. These people were merely working to live. Somewhere inside himself, dully and emotionlessly, Corlas forgave the farmers.
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘These people are not my enemies. There is no shame in asking them for work. Will you accompany me?’
‘I think not,’ said the bird. ‘Talking birds tend to complicate things.’
Corlas started down the hill just as someone emerged from the henhouse. She was a young woman, strong and vital, who stopped short and clutched her basket when she saw him. He realised what a frightful visage he must make, tattered and filthy, especially with the monstrous axe swinging at his side.
‘Greetings, madam,’ he called out. ‘I mean no harm, and will leave if you wish it. I am simply a traveller with an empty belly. I thought perhaps my axe and I could see to your woodpile in exchange for a meal?’
The woman seemed to relax somewhat at his polite tone. She glanced at the woodpile then back to him. The farmhouse door banged open and a little girl with curly brown hair came barrelling out.
‘Back inside, Essie!’ snapped the woman.
The girl stared wide-eyed at Corlas, then slowly did as she was told. Corlas suddenly doubted the farmwife would let him anywhere near her family.
‘I see you have a small one,’ he said, ‘and would be understandably concerned about strangers in the home. I will bother you no more, madam.’