‘A coward,’ said Lorn.
The Liirian bristled. ‘I’m not a coward.’
‘You have no fear of a fight, I’ll give you that. But loyalty takes courage, too. Any man can sell his sword to the highest bidder. But you. .’ Lorn sighed, unsure what to say. ‘I am afraid of men with no loyalties.’
‘I am loyal,’ said Van. ‘To myself.’ He pulled his cape around his shoulders, annoyed with the conversation. ‘You’ve not done the things I’ve done, Akan, nor seen the things I’ve seen. I think your judgement of me is too harsh.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Lorn. Through the bouncing firelight he could see Van’s face. It looked sincere to him, trustworthy. ‘Then let’s speak no more of it. We are different, you and I, that’s all.’
‘Agreed. And when we reach Koth we will lose each other and have this argument never again.’
This surprised Lorn. ‘Will you ride with us to Koth, then?’
‘I’m good with a sword, as you’ve seen. If you’ll take my protection, I’ll have your company and food for the favour.’
The offer seemed fair to Lorn. He knew nothing about Koth, and this strange Liirian seemed a wellspring of information. If they rode together, he could find out more about the library and its defenders. Besides, he rather liked the fair-haired fellow.
‘Your offer is fair,’ he told Van. ‘We’ll ride the rest of the way to Koth together.’
The Liirian smiled. ‘Good. And no more talk of politics?’
‘If that’s what you want,’ replied Lorn. ‘But I would like to know more about Koth.’
Vanlandinghale leaned back and yawned. ‘Tomorrow. While we ride.’
Satisfied, Lorn ended his inquiry and returned to eating. He ate slowly, watching the Liirian pull his hat down over his face then quickly fall asleep to the sound of his own snoring. Lorn’s whole body ached from the fight with the thieves, but he did not soon join the man in sleep. When he was sure Vanlandinghale would not wake up he slipped his hand into his pocket and retrieved his ring, the ring he’d thought he’d lost forever. It was the only means he had to prove his identity; not even Poppy could do that for him. He would need the ring when the time came, he knew, and he wasn’t sorry at all that he’d killed the thief named Nolas.
9
Ever since Jazana Carr could remember, weather had been Norvor’s most unpredictable feature. Like the country’s tumultuous politics, Norvor’s winds were ever-changing, sometimes bringing the worst of winter, other times the sweetest spring breeze. That it could all change in an instant was simply something Norvans got used to, and so it didn’t bother them when rains came to ruin their journeys or storms blew the shingles off their homes. One did not travel easily through Norvor, or without preparation.
Jazana Carr had prepared herself for the long ride back to Hanging Man. She and her men had steeled themselves for weather’s fickle whims, bringing all the gear they needed to cope. In Carlion they had rested, enjoying the shelter of King Lorn’s huge home and the somewhat warmer temperatures of the south. They had remained there for weeks, securing the capital and feeding its starving populace while Jazana Carr called the nobles of the nearby cities to council, proclaiming her queenship over Norvor. It had been a good and heady time for Jazana Carr, but finally it had ended. After nearly a month in Carlion, she knew it was time to go home.
Home for the Diamond Queen was Hanging Man, the brooding fortress over the river Kryss that had guarded Norvor from its Liirian rivals for decades. Long ago she had usurped the fortress from Lorn, who himself had usurped Mor, Norvor’s last true king. It had proven a fine home for Jazana Carr, the perfect place from which to launch her protracted rebellion. And she missed it. Now, as she and fifty of her mercenary-guard rode northwest through Norvor, she could picture Hanging Man plainly in her mind’s eye and almost hear the roaring churn of the river far below the turret of her bedroom. After travelling for several days they were very near home. Soon, perhaps in the next day or so, they would be there. And when they arrived there would be more soldiers waiting for them and her ‘children’ would be there, too, those wards she had adopted from slain warlords who never gave her any love at all but simply took and took from her vast coffers. Almost everyone in Hanging Man was like that, and Jazana Carr did not blame her wards for emulating the mercenaries she hired. It did not make her miss them any less, though in honesty she seldom saw any of the children because they were raised by maids and nannies. Still, their presence lent the fortress a sense of home and family.
Family was important to Jazana Carr.
Today — perhaps the final day of her journey home — was surprisingly pleasant. Autumn’s overtures had abated, and Jazana Carr wore only a light cape about her shoulders as she rode, hanging back from her men at point and contemplating the wooded road. Tall trees lined the way as they wound through a thinning forest, the last such greenery they would see this far north. They were near the Bleak Territories now. The forest was called the Alden, and Jazana Carr knew it well. It was not so far from here that she had been a girl. A soiled memory flashed through her mind. Lately, she had been thinking a lot about her girlhood and the father who had forced her to be a woman too soon. Since becoming queen, his face haunted her. It was he who had called her back north, but she had not confessed that to Rodrik Varl or any of her other men. Instead she had kept that secret, saying only that the time had come for her to return home.
Home had a distinctive, frightening smell. Jazana Carr could sense it tickling her nostrils. Even through the pungency of the Alden forest she could sense the nothingness of the Bleak Territories, waiting not far beyond the trees, a vast graveyard of depleted diamond mines and decrepit villages.
‘Haverthorn.’
Jazana Carr whispered the name, careful that no one heard her. She had not spoken the word to herself in years. The name Haverthorn had become a curse to her. It was a sealed iron box, waiting to be opened at just the right time, a time of Jazana Carr’s choosing. When she had taken Carlion, that time had come. Since then, she had not been able to shake Haverthorn from her thoughts. Nor had she tried. Being so close to it made her shiver. She drew her cape about her shoulders, then blew into her wolf-fur gloves. Her eyes darted through the trees, staring northward through their ranks, scanning the gaps in them for any hint of home. How many times had she come to this forest? So often she couldn’t count. She had fled here, wept here, and vowed revenge here, only to return each time to her father’s hovel and his wretched bed. With nowhere to turn, the child she had been always crawled back.
But I am not a child any longer, thought Jazana Carr. She bit her lip thoughtfully, reminding herself that she was queen. I am a woman. I am no man’s slave.
The revelation overwhelmed her with memories. She closed her eyes to calm her galloping heartbeat. Like a little girl, her stomach fluttered with butterflies. She grasped the reins of her horse tightly, swaying in the saddle and fearing she might fall. Habran, her Ganjeese body-servant, saw her distress and rode to her. Habran and Faruna and all her other servants had made the journey home with her, always offering comfort at the end of the day. Habran himself wasn’t much of a rider, though he shunned the carriages the women rode in, proving himself to be at least half the man his mistress was.
‘My lady?’ he asked as he sidled alongside her. ‘How are you? You look unwell.’
Jazana smiled to cover up her misery. ‘Tired, Habran, just tired.’
‘We should stop, then,’ said the servant. His voice held a distinct lilt, always rising when perturbed. ‘We can take a rest and I can massage you.’
‘No,’ replied Jazana, shaking her head. ‘I don’t want to stop. Not yet.’
Habran’s nose wrinkled sourly. Constant ribbing from the soldiers had pushed Habran into saddling up a horse of his own, and he clearly regretted the decision. But he had continued, and for that Jazana Carr respected him. In his silk shirt and lavender cape he looked to be travelling to a harem, not a fortress, yet he did not let the other men see his discomfort. He simply smiled when they looked his way to sneer, forgetting his saddle sores.