'I haven't figured out what answer I want yet.'
'Let me ask it for you then. Which way once we reach the plains?' He glanced at Makon, and Makon nodded. 'And then, should we first head for the Strangers' Sooq or for my clan's traditional summer territory?'
'Yes,' Makon admitted.
'Like you I'm probably inclined to get to my territory as quickly as possible, but—undoubtedly like you—I think it's likely any survivors from my clan would have reached the Sooq by now, or at least word of what happened.'
'I am leaning more towards the latter.'
'As we get closer to the time when I will have to make the decision, so am I.'
'Your decision is final, of course.'
'Naturally. I am Eynon, Chief of the Horse Clan. You are Makon, commander of sixth tenths of my little army.'
'Three tenths,' Makon corrected him. 'I have responsibility for the Red Hands. The lancers come directly under your command.'
Eynon laughed to show he appreciated the joke. 'Let's not fool ourselves, Makon. I like you. You like me. That is why Lynan wanted you to come with me. But you are Lynan's man, not mine.'
'Lynan gave me explicit instructions to follow your orders.'
'Come what may?'
'Come what may,' Makon said seriously.
Eynon found himself believing him. Nevertheless…
'Until?'
'Until your task is completed.'
'And who decides when that may be?'
'We will decide it together,' Makon said easily.
'In a council it is always good to have an odd number in case there is an equal division.'
'I will bow to your greater experience in such a situation.'
'Yes,' Eynon said, now serious. 'You will.'
It was Makon's turn to laugh. Eynon had laid the rules by which their relationship would work, and he would abide by them. Both of them understood—without it needing to be said—that ultimately Makon's course would be decided by what best served Lynan's interests. As long as Eynon's own interests coincided, there would be no problem. When those interests diverged new rules would have to be established. Until then, Eynon was chief and Makon his underling.
Before evening fell they reached the end of the pass. In the setting sun the plains shone like gold, and the heart of every Chett felt lighter for seeing it. Behind them the Ufero Mountains marked the boundary between their world and the new world they had set out to win for their new king and the glory of their people. Each Chett knew if they survived the coming war against the Saranah they would return to the east to complete the conquest, but even if every province in the east was to fall to the White Wolf's army so that he could claim every city, every town and every farm, for the Chetts there was and always would be only one true home, and that was the Oceans of Grass.
With the sun shining on their eager faces, the column descended from the pass.
CHAPTER 16
He was rescued from drowning. For a long time Olio had felt he was immersed in something like water: seeing the world through a refracted, shimmering light, hearing sounds that were distorted and ponderous, separated from reality by a different kind of space and time.
Then he was pulled out of it, the sea falling away from him. Light as hard as steel pierced his eyes and he blinked back tears. Sharp sounds, almost percussive, assailed his ears. And then he smelled bedclothes and herbs and stone walls and late summer.
How long had he been asleep? What a godawful nightmare. He must have been drinking again. He looked down at himself. The Key of the Heart lay heavy against his chest. He touched it and he heard a single tone, like the sound of a distant bell, and felt his hand tingle. Had this been responsible? He looked around. He was in his bedchamber. Nothing was different.
And yet.
He sniffed the air again. Yes, late summer. Maybe autumn. The smell of ripening fields. But yesterday it had been spring or early summer. He was sure of it. He swung out of bed and stood up. Then fell down, his legs giving way beneath him. Startled, he tried standing up more carefully. He became dizzy and stretched out his fingertips to steady himself against the end of his bed.
I won't ever touch another drop of wine, he promised himself, and almost immediately realised his condition had nothing to do with alcohol. In fact, he distinctly remembered having already given up wine. He made his way to the south window. Curtains fluttered as they caught the edge of a westerly.
We don't get westerlies in spring, he reminded himself. Something was wrong with his view, but he could not put his finger on it right away. There was the harbour, with its forest of masts. There was the old city, and above it the houses of the merchants, and above them… His gaze wandered back to the old city. He rubbed his eyes, thinking sleep was blurring them. But the smudge was still there, like charcoal smeared across a canvas.
Charcoal. Fire.
'Oh God!' he gasped, suddenly smelling the smoke, feeling the heat of flames on his skin and hearing the cries of the dying and wounded. He automatically grasped the Key and fell backwards, collapsing on the edge of his bed, his eyes squeezed shut.
'No!' he shouted, and as quickly as his senses had been assailed he was free again. He opened his eyes and lay on his bed panting for breath, confused and frightened.
His door burst open and two guards rushed in. 'Your Highness, are you alright?' one asked. They looked around the room as if expecting to find an intruder. The second guard loped to the window and peered out.
'Yes,' Olio said, his fear disappearing. He wished the confusion would as well. 'I think so.'
The guards glanced at each other, obviously not convinced.
'Could you get Dr Trion for me?' Olio asked. 'I don't think I'm well.'
The guards bowed and left, closing the door behind them. He heard the lock click, and rather than being angry or upset about it all he could do was wonder why they had done it.
What had happened to him? What was it that had flashed in his memory? Something to do with fire and…
The old city had almost all been burned down. That explained the black smudge across the cityscape he saw from the window. But when had this happened? And what had he to do with it? He rubbed his temples with the palms of his hands, trying to remember, but it made no difference. Had he caused it, God forbid? Or been harmed in it?
The last felt more like it. He thought that if he had caused it nothing would stop him from remembering.
He heard people coming, more than two, and he wondered who else the guard had brought beside the doctor. The door was unlocked then opened, and there stood Areava.
'Good morning, sister,' he said, pleasantly surprised. 'I'm sorry they've disturbed you over this. I just wanted to see Dr Trion. Did you bring him with you?'
She stood aside and another entered, but still not the doctor. 'Edaytor? Did the guard bring anyone else? The cook, maybe? Or a stable groom?'
Areava and Edaytor stared at him. He could not decipher their expressions, which seemed to be a strange combination of awe, curiosity and relief. 'It's just that I seem to be feeling incredibly weak this morning. I don't know what I've done—'
'That would be because you have been asleep for nearly five days,' Areava said.
'Asleep all summer and more,' Edaytor corrected her.
Olio was not sure what to make out of that. 'Well,' he said, 'would one of you care to explain what you mean?' He sat up and waited.
'I don't know where to begin,' Areava replied after a while, and her voice started wavering. If Olio did not know her better, he would have sworn she was about to cry. The possibility disturbed him more than his own disorientation. Areava never cried.
She took a slow step towards him, then virtually leaped the remaining distance, gathered him in her arms and hugged him so tightly the breath was squeezed out of his lungs. So startled was he that he did not embrace her in turn, but hung in her grip like a cloth doll. He glanced at the prelate for some kind of explanation, but almost went into shock when he saw that the prelate was crying.