Morghien pressed on, not even trying to understand the mind of a being so old and powerful. He just had to hope the God's blinding wrath was not all-consuming, that there was some sense of the divine judge left.
'Then please, accept my apology and permit us to go about our mission.' He took a slow breath and played the last card he held. 'At the end of the Wars of the Houses you appeared before Aryn Bwr as he was about to slaughter his defeated foes. You spoke to the fallen princes; you heard their words, and you forgave their deeds as honestly done. You prevented Aryn Bwr from wiping them out, and thus healed the rift between the noble houses.'
Death did not answer immediately. Morghien felt his chest tighten as the enormity of what he was doing struck home. Bar-gaining a truce with Death? What am 1 doing?
'You appeal for clemency? Very well, it shall be granted. I shall not destroy you or your nation for what you have done. But no more are you welcome in my temple. Your war is foolish and my servants shall give you no aid. Neither ally nor enemy, until the day of your judgment.'
Both men bowed, neither trusting themselves to speak in case they disrupted the fragile balance in the air. With an effort Morghien cut the flow of magic to the circle and reached out to scuff the chalk with his hand. It was a risk, but they had to take it.
Death remained motionless. Morghien could feel the God's gaze on him, even with his head bowed low. In the next instant it was gone, and they looked up to find an empty room. The sheet lay where Emin had let it fall, but the shadow imprinted upon it had left the linen charred and crumbling. A gust of freezing wind blew in the window. A few flecks of ash skittered away over what remained of the sheet, revealing a sooty stain on the stone underneath.
'By the Dark Place,' Emin whispered hoarsely, 'what have we done?'
CHAPTER 17
Mihn realised he was lurking outside the Chief Steward's office. He kept to the shadows and ignored the men and women who walked past — he was not exactly waiting, nor exactly hesitating… He was glad the palms of his hands had at last stopped stinging. His feet were another matter, but he'd already padded his boots with wool and there was very little more he could do beyond easing from one foot to the other, an occasional, small reprieve.
For the twentieth time that day he inspected his hands, squinting in the poor light. It was late evening now and most of the staff who worked here had gone home, braving the icy streets. Mihn had spent most of the day in Lord Isak's chamber, keeping an increasingly frustrated Xeliath company, or sitting with Isak himself.
The white-eye wasn't a garrulous person at the best of times, but the last week had seen him turn even further inward. Now he was spending hours sitting on a ledge above his own ducal chambers, with his feet hanging over the edge and the bitter wind constantly buffeting him, watching the Land pass by. The slippery stone and treacherous swirl of winds meant he had been completely alone until Mihn had clambered out to join him.
Now it had become a strange little ritual, one that left even Lady Tila and Carel shaking their heads in incomprehension. Mihn would make his way up to the roof a while before dusk to find his lord there, a strange sort of gargoyle perched on the edge of his ledge and puffing on a pipe. Without a word Mihn would claim whatever space was left on the ledge and sit for as long as Isak was there. Isak remained silent while Mihn sang whatever songs occurred to him, from laments to lullabies.
The only response Mihn ever elicited from his lord came when he spoke the short prayer that accompanied the setting sun. Each day Isak frowned at the words and each day Mihn ignored it entirely, refusing to allow the upheaval in the cults to affect his own habits.
Without warning the office door jerked open and Mihn looked up with a guilty expression, quickly hiding his hands behind his back. Tila started out of the door, exclaiming in surprise when she saw him.
'Merciful Gods, what are you doing lurking out here?'
Mihn let her imperious gaze wash over him without reaction before he replied, 'Waiting for the Chief Steward, of course.'
'If he sent for a painted lady I think you might be something of a disappointment,' she said, trying to elicit a smile. There was a famous pair of statues overlooking the largest of the river's docks; a man and a woman, side-by-side, known to the locals as Fisher and the Painted Lady. Someone had made the comment on the training ground the previous day, having seen Mihn's hands, and by the next morning it had spread throughout the palace.
'Or perhaps something rather more serious, judging by your expression,' she added, giving up.
'Something rather more serious,' Mihn agreed. He knew he frustrated Tila. She could be a charming girl when she wanted to be, and combined with her looks, it meant most men in the palace did exactly what she wanted. Aside from Isak, Mihn was the only man she couldn't influence, and she didn't conceal her annoyance on that front.
'You do realise one day you're going to have to trust me,' she said sharply. 'I spend all day as Lord Isak's representative while Lesarl runs the nation. I'm party to state secrets and yet you won't even trust me with what you had for breakfast!'
Mihn gave her an encouraging smile. 'Then to make amends I will make a point to tell you that every day. This morning it was porridge. Yesterday it was also-'
'Oh shut up,' she said, more amused than exasperated. 'How about giving me something a little more substantive than that?'
Mihn screwed his face up in thought. 'More substantive than porridge?'
'Information! Don't try your pantomime skills on me, I'm too tired.' She gestured towards his hands. 'What about those? Tell me about the circles.'
The emotion fell from his face and his expression was blank again. 'There is nothing to tell.'
'Hah. It's just as well I'm too much of a lady to respond as Vesna or Carel might to that.'
Mihn bobbed his head in acknowledgement. 'And I am grateful for it.'
'Might I at least see them?'
Her voice was softer now and Mihn hesitated, running the sounds of each word through his mind. Harlequins were trained to speak every dialect, to mimic every mood. Few were as adept at scrutinising intonation as they, and after a moment's thought he nodded. She wasn't trying to charm him now; her words contained only honesty.
He held out his left hand and let her take it and turn it palm-up. It was a strange sensation for a man who had been effectively celibate his entire life. Harlequins kept their gender a secret, and Mihn's subsequent exile had not given him much opportunity to explore or worry about such things.
Her soft fingers on his sent a tiny electric tingle up his arm. Tila, oblivious, bent low over his palm. She was taller than he, but slender, even compared to his lithe frame. Fascinated, she brushed a finger in a gentle circle over the tattoo covering most of the palm of his hand. Only his physical training stopped him twitching at the touch, but Tila still glanced up at him as though he had flinched.
'And Ehla did this for you?' she asked.
'It would have been hard to do myself,' he replied, noting that she, like many of the Farlan, was uncomfortable calling the witch of Llehden by her title — despite the fact that the tribe was noted for its attachment to titles. Instead of referring to her as 'the witch', they had all latched onto the name she'd provided. Fernal's words returned to him: 'A name shapes, just as it is comes from shape.'
How true, and more people know her as Ehla — light — than her real name. But has she made herself vulnerable by allowing a name to be bestowed, or does she have a purpose in mind for what that name might change in her?
'Why an owl's head?' Tila asked, breaking his chain of thoughts.
The tattoos, on the soles of his feet as well as the palms, consisted of three concentric circles, and in the centre of each was a stylised owl's head. The two outer rings contained writing, angular Elvish runes for the inner and a stylised form of the witch's own western dialect for the other, mantras she had chanted as she tattooed his skin, imbuing his body with words of silence and stealth.