‘Well,’ said Fahren, ‘we’ll know what happened to him soon enough.’
‘Ah,’ said Naphur. ‘There’s the wise counsel I was kept waiting for.’ He turned to Baygis. ‘You would know of this man, son, if you had slept and eaten in the barracks as I did in my youth.’
‘Father,’ Baygis said, ‘if we must have this argument yet again, I’ll beg you to remember that it was at Mother’s insistence I did not become a soldier.’
‘Wilful bloody woman,’ muttered Naphur. ‘Just don’t pretend you weren’t happy with her intervention.’
‘Actually, Father, I was quite disappointed by it. You know I’ve never been one to shy away from new experiences.’
Naphur eyed his son suspiciously for any hint of sarcasm. Before he could reach a conclusion, the messenger arrived back to announce that Corlas was on his way. As Naphur turned to stride back to Borgordusmae, Baygis added, ‘And I doubt I’ll ever grow tired of looking at soldiers.’
Naphur pretended not to hear.
The court fell quiet in anticipation as footsteps sounded on the sunken stairs. Gerent Ratacks emerged, and with him came Corlas. The court was silently impressed by the man. He was physically intimidating, tall and wide, his torso wrapped in powerful muscles. Although he didn’t wear the uniform of a soldier, he walked with the same attention, his axe moving about his thigh like an extension of his body. His brown beard, moustache and hair were all thick, glossy and well groomed, and his features were hard, angular and proud. He strode towards Borgordusmae with assurance, ignoring the folk on either side, dropping to his knee when he got there.
‘My Throne,’ Corlas said. ‘My name is Corlas, of the bloodline –’
‘I remember you, Corlas Corinas,’ interrupted the Throne, framed by the golden light of Borgordusmae. ‘Do you suppose I’d forget the warrior who bested me at the Autumn Games?’
A few murmurs travelled about the court.
‘Arise!’ commanded Naphur, and Corlas straightened immediately. ‘I don’t feel like painting a rainbow here. Let’s get to the point: where have you been?’
Corlas stared ahead. ‘It has been very strange, my Throne,’ he said slowly. ‘I was at Erling’s Vale, as you would know, healing from the injuries given me at the Shining Mines. Once I could walk again, I did – around the vale itself, the Grass Ocean and …near to Whisperwood.’
‘Yes?’ said Naphur.
‘They say it is a place of Old Magic,’ said Corlas, and now he did meet the Throne’s eyes. ‘I believe it, lord. I fear I strayed there once too often. One day I was sitting by a stream near the forest’s edge when a magical creature came to me. A Sprite woman.’
Again, murmurs through the court.
‘Even now I do not understand it. I was …entranced. She led me into the forest. I was held in thrall by her for many years. I forgot who I had been. I forgot where I had come from. I forgot my responsibilities.’ Corlas shook his head. ‘It is hard to recall now. It was like a long dream.’
‘And never once did you dream about escape?’ asked the Throne.
‘I was bewitched, lord,’ replied Corlas. ‘It was not possible even to imagine escape. I did not desire it.’
‘So what happened?’
Corlas shrugged. ‘I couldn’t really say, lord. I woke up one morning and she had gone. For a time I was confused, disoriented. Then I began to walk home. As I went, I remembered much that I’d forgotten. Now here I stand: returned and restored to your service, my Throne.’
Naphur leaned back in his throne, frowning. Then: ‘High Mage!’ he called, and Fahren stepped forward. ‘High Mage, you have heard the man’s story. Does one who understands magic ,’ he spat the word, ‘believe this could be true?’
‘My Throne,’ said Fahren, ‘it is true I cannot sense any enchantment about the man now. As for the story he tells, I have heard of stranger things where magic is concerned. It is also true that Whisperwood is an unpredictable place, seldom ventured into, about which we know little. There are many tales of strange happenings there. It is said the spirits of the Sprites live there still.’
Fahren nodded, so imperceptibly that only Naphur saw it, and they shared a private understanding. Fahren was an extremely intuitive mage, excellent at sensing lies (something which made him an irresistible challenge to Baygis) and if Fahren believed Corlas, Naphur was inclined to also.
‘So, Corlas,’ said Naphur, ‘I suppose the question is, what shall we do with you? Your old post at the Mines is taken by a gerent to whom I do not begrudge the position –’
‘Nor I, lord. Nor was I ever gerent.’
‘– and I would prefer to keep you here at the Halls for a time anyway. We’ll have to make sure this enchantment has really worn off.’
‘If I may speak, lord?’
‘Speak away.’
‘I had not expected to be granted my old rank, nor do I wish for it.’
For a moment it seemed the light coming off Borgordusmae beamed a little brighter. ‘Indeed?’ said the Throne. ‘So you’ve returned to tell me you didn’t desert but that you now intend to?’
‘No, my lord!’ said Corlas quickly.
The Throne sat back, a stern expression on his face.
‘I do not wish to desert,’ reiterated Corlas. ‘Only to request a new position. It will be soon enough that my hair runs grey, lord, yet I always wished to build a family. I have lost six years and now …I wish to stay in one place.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I thought perhaps I’d have something to teach the young here. About battle.’
Naphur blinked as he realised what Corlas was asking. ‘You want to be demoted?’ he said incredulously. ‘To taskmaster ? You want to be a teacher ?’
‘I have fought well for you, lord,’ said Corlas, ‘in my day. Let me help others to do it in theirs.’
‘You aren’t that old!’ said Naphur. ‘And, by Arkus, if you are, that makes me old too – which I’m not – and I won’t stop being the Throne when my hair goes grey, let me tell you!’
‘My Throne –’ started Fahren, but Naphur cut him off with a raised palm.
‘I did not ask for your wisdom, High Mage,’ he said, staring hard at Corlas. ‘I can always use a good commander. I don’t like to lose them. Especially not twice.’
Corlas’s gaze returned to the middle distance. Naphur studied his unflinching features and received an inkling of how tired the man was. Maybe it was something in the grey storm of his eyes, or the lines on his face. If Corlas could inspire on the battlefield, maybe he could inspire on the training grounds too. Besides, Naphur would know where he was if ever he needed to call him to a greater duty.
‘It will be an odd occasion,’ he said eventually.
Corlas looked confused. ‘Pardon, my lord?’
‘Tomorrow night. In the barracks.’
Corlas continued to look puzzled, as did many of the courtiers. Fahren watched patiently, a smile darting around the edges of his mouth.
‘Well, it will be a rather forked event, won’t it?’ continued Naphur. ‘A feast in honour of a hero’s return – and the announcement of his demotion.’