Corlas set his mug on the table. ‘And that was that,’ he said. ‘The day was won. Those of us left alive returned to the fort. It was badly damaged but it was ours. When I awoke there, I learned the wounded Shadowdreamer had ordered a retreat, spilling acid vats behind him to cover his escape. He left his war machines behind too, which were taken into the fort. They are still there now, in case he ever returns for them.
‘The Shadowdreamer did not die from his hurt, but then again neither did I. Maybe both our gods were looking out for us that day.
‘I heard that Brindle’s miners matched the soldiers for ferocity – and also that their dark clothes and pale skin from days spent under the earth made them easy to mistake for Arabodedas. Perhaps that is why so many of them survived.
‘The gerent and his guards were killed in the vortex blasts on the fort. I was sorry to learn he had died …but I will always be glad that we rode out of the trap and took the fight into our own hands.’
He flexed his hands as he stared at them, callused and coarse from the years they had seen.
‘So you see, Bel …this blood frenzy you experienced is no stranger to our bloodline. I know how disturbing it can be to realise that you lost control. Even to realise that you enjoyed losing it, and enjoyed the death you carved out around you. But it has purpose: to protect us, and make our enemies quake. As long as you do not seek to feed it unnecessarily, it is not an evil thing. It allows us to do what is necessary …to survive and to win .’
He sighed. ‘I took some time after that battle, just as you now seek to. In fact, I deserted my post. So I understand your desire to return to the keepers.’
Corlas felt suddenly tired, and realised his mouth was dry from an unaccustomed amount of talking. He raised his mug and downed his remaining ale. Bel sat silent, reflective, deep in thought – and, Corlas was pleased to note, calm.
Corlas rose. ‘It’s late. Time to retire, I think.’
‘Yes, Father,’ said Bel, and stood.
Twenty-six
The Mocking Bird
Borgordusmae reflected the first rays of the morning sun, the Auriel sparkling beneath Naphur’s hair. He’d come to sit and think alone on his seat of power.
Footsteps sounded on the sunken stairway that led up to the court. Baygis emerged to walk up the red carpet, his white-gold robe billowing around his feet. A year before his fortieth birthday, Baygis still looked youthfuclass="underline" the same slender build, the same twinkling eyes, the same mischievous face. He stopped before the towering chair and bowed lower than was necessary, as he always did. Naphur was too distracted to be amused.
‘Long night, Father?’ Baygis asked, arching an eyebrow.
‘Long rule,’ said Naphur, gazing off at the spreading light on the horizon. ‘You know, Baygis, you were once so keen to sit where I sit.’
‘I was younger,’ said Baygis. ‘The “trappings of power” did not seem such a literal definition. Anyway, I enjoyed making you watch your back.’
The Throne grunted. ‘And you like your freedom too, don’t you? Gallivanting about with your entourage of clever friends.’ The Throne smiled then, at something remembered. ‘I want to see the desert again, you know. Race some dune claws with the Saurians.’ He broke his northwards gaze. ‘Don’t foul your leggings, son. There are too many things that need doing for me to retire anytime soon. But in a few years, Baygis …in a few years, I might give up the Auriel. I deserve some time to myself while I can still appreciate it.’
‘What?’ said Baygis. ‘While you can still appreciate it? You’re an ox, Father, who’ll live another forty years at least, and I really will have to kill you if I ever want to warm my arse on Borgordusmae.’
The Throne smiled. ‘Baygis, I’m being serious. When the time comes …’
‘When the time comes,’ said Baygis, ‘then of course I’ll take the seat. I don’t know how you got it into your head that I didn’t still want it. Of course I do. All that power, and the women, women who love power …’ Baygis grinned.
Though Naphur knew he was being wound up, he couldn’t help but react. ‘Baygis! Being Throne is a difficult and serious task!’ he snapped.
‘I know,’ said Baygis. ‘Don’t worry. I serve you well enough, surely, to inspire some modicum of faith?’
‘And anyway,’ said Naphur, ‘I’m sure you already have more than your fair share of women. Many the poor servant girl, unmercifully seduced by his lordship on his travels. Oh yes – I know about you.’
‘Servant girls?’ said Baygis with distaste. ‘Only if whichever Trusted I was visiting didn’t have any virtuous daughters. Or happened to be the wrong species. The wasp Trusted’s daughters, for example, are out of the question on a purely anatomical basis –’
‘Baygis!’ said Naphur, exasperated.
‘I’m only joking, Father. Of course it’s just servant girls. Well, maybe some minor ladies, but never – ’
‘Baygis!’
‘Sorry.’
‘Harrumph!’ said Naphur. ‘You do realise you are long overdue to be married!’
This time it was Baygis’s expression that turned sour.
‘Do you ever plan to produce any heirs?’ asked Naphur.
‘I’m sure I already have one or two I don’t know about.’
The Throne went red.
‘Like to change the subject, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps,’ said the Throne through clenched teeth.
‘Very well. I got the morning missive saying you wished to see me. I assume it wasn’t just to cover this old ground?’
‘No,’ said the Throne. ‘There’s a weaver out there, hanging around the wards.’
‘A weaver? What do you want me to do?’
‘I won’t have the Shadowdreamer’s eyes on my capital. Send yourself or your mages, I don’t care which – just deal with it.’
‘Very well, my Throne. Though I think I shall go myself.’
‘There, at least, is a similarity between us,’ said Naphur, causing Baygis to raise an eyebrow. ‘Our love of the hunt,’ he clarified.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Baygis. ‘So it is.’ He smiled at his father and left.
Naphur’s eyes went north again and he thought about his brief youth, of battles and racing and travel, of the days before unending rule and responsibility. Baygis could take over once he’d sorted out this business with Bel. But how long would that take?
A while yet, perhaps , he thought.
Baygis hadn’t hunted for some time and now he felt the thrill of it again. He’d been following a slight flicker of shadow presence , far off and possibly imagined, for many hours over hills and fields. The creature was fast when it moved, but then it would stay in the same place for a while, allowing Baygis to draw nearer. Finally, about a league past the ward stones, he’d crested a hill, seen a small wood and sensed that the creature was somewhere inside.
As an ambassador, Baygis had become highly adroit at going unnoticed. It often aided his purposes to overhear private conversations, or mingle easily in kitchens and barracks, the mixing pots of common gossip. As he covered the open ground towards the wood, he concentrated on making himself too inconsequential to notice, until not even the ants in the grass felt the vibrations of his steps. If the weaver happened to be watching from the branches, Baygis was confident it would not see him.
As he stepped into the wood, he relaxed a little, his physical presence being easier to hide amongst cover. He moved between trees like a floating ghost, questing out thinly with his senses, trying to detect the creature without it detecting him in return. Animals moved under bushes or along logs, oblivious to his presence. He paused in the shade of a big birch. He was close to the creature now, he was sure of it. There was a gap in his magical perception, something of the shadow that he knew was there but could not make out, a blotchy silhouette. Easing slowly around a tree, he examined the branches above. Perched on the branch of a clawberry tree, pecking at the corpse of a finch, was the weaver.