'What are you going to do?'
'What can I do? It's just another mystery about me that I can't do anything about. Maybe it's just designed to drive me insane wondering about it. But I will find out one day, there's no doubt about that, and all I can do is be ready for whatever's waiting.'
The following weeks saw the army getting ever smaller as knights and hurscals slipped away in small groups to their own holdings. The rest of the troops searched the horizon for the peaks of Tirah's towers as the miles passed away beneath their tramping feet. When they reached
Fordan, the sombre mood deepened. The new suzerain, a greying man of forty summers, had struggled into his father's armour despite a deep wound in his shoulder. Now he walked before the coffin, leading the cortege home.
That evening, the suzerain crammed as many as possible into the manor's great hall and spoke for a few minutes with dignified grief about those they had lost. As a last gesture to his beloved father, he ordered up the contents of their cellars, and barrels of beer and wine were rolled out for the endless toasts to the regiments who'd fought and the men who'd died. Everyone knew the late Suzerain Fordan would have hugely approved of having a hundred drunken soldiers as his memorial.
Isak sat back from it all, feeling out of place, though he'd been as much a part of the battle as any of them. A pang of guilt ran through him as he saw a tear in the new suzerain's eye as he raised a glass to his father's memory. That was something Isak would never be able to do – not even if his father managed some great feat of heroism. Isak doubted he'd feel much at all when Herman died.
His hands tightened into fists as part of him cried shame. Rising abruptly, he slipped away from the increasingly drunken mourners, following a servant's directions to a tight spiral staircase that led away from the hall. He told himself he didn't belong there, belting out marching songs, and stepped out on to a high terrace overlooking the fields. The crisp quiet of evening, with the hunter's moon dropping behind the distant pines, was a better place to remember the dead.
Isak idly caressed the emerald set into Eolis's pommel. The cut surfaces were silky in the sharp winter air; the silver claws that held the stone were wet with cold. The wide river that cut through the neat lines of fields looked calm in the moonlight, but it ran both swift and dangerous. Isak watched the phantom clouds of his breath push out over the crenellations, then they were swept away into nothing.
A finger of cold suddenly flashed down Isak's spine and he flinched in
surprise. Then an icy prickle on his neck made him look abruptly over his shoulder. The terrace was only ten yards long, and it remained resolutely empty. Alterr's light from high above had cast a deep shadow on the wall behind him, but no one – or thing – loitered in it, as far as Isak could see. There was no window where someone could observe him, and when he embraced a sliver of magic, he was assured that there truly was not a soul nearby.
Still Isak felt uncomfortable, as if there were a physical presence standing at his shoulder. The bite in the air crept inside his clothes, and the shadows grew deep and ancient. His hand closed tight about Eolis. Still he could see nothing. A flicker of panic set in. As a cloud moved over Alterr's face, Isak shuddered: this bitter, dark place was not for mortal breath. He turned and hurried back inside.
From the shadows, the boy's precipitous flight was noted with some amusement. His uncertainty, melancholy and jumbled fears left a sweet aroma lingering in the air.
So blind, still, but have no fear. Not yet. You hardly know who you are - you're not yet ready to know my name.
CHAPTER 2O
Isak was glad of the silk mask covering his face as the column of horsemen clattered their way through the streets of Tirah. The crowds had braved a brisk wind and swirling eddies of snow to line the streets all the way to the palace. Under scarves and caps skin was reddened and raw, but lifted by the smiles and cheers that greeted the troops. A victory parade through the city always brought out the people, if only to gawp at the Parian cavalry in all their colourful finery. Even the Ghosts had made the effort to look their best, and the knights were as gaudy as ever, but it was Isak who drew everyone's attention.
At Bahl's request, the Krann was in full armour, the only conces-sion to the cold a bearskin around his shoulders, He managed not to shiver too obviously. No matter how uncomfortable, he could not deny the effect he was having on the people – his people. They might still be fearful of what lay behind these particular gifts, but the sight of Siulents and Eolis, and the proud emerald dragons decorating the flanks of Isak's hunter, were irresistible.
The people of Tirah cheered their army, and they cheered Isak at its head. Bahl was beside him, but Isak felt their eyes on his back long after he had trotted under the barbican gate. Flaming brands lit the thirty yards of dank stone tunnel, then the column emerged into the
familiar surrounds of the palace grounds, to be received formally by the entire staff and residents of the palace and barracks. Guardsmen and recruits, all in full dress uniform, stood in neat ranks off to the left, with the palace staff lined up on the right. Fearful wives and
children, still not knowing who had survived and who had died, huddled behind the ranks.
Swordmaster Kerin, standing before his men, saluted, beaming, as the troops clattered past to the sound of his men cheering. Even the noblemen and officials grouped beyond the palace staff added their voices to the tumultuous reception.
Bahl, having acknowledged his Swordmaster, ignored the rest and slipped from his horse as soon as he reached the steps. Lesarl had already broken away from the group of officials, a pair of clerks in his wake, and fell in with Bahl as he strode into the palace. It was left up to Isak to acknowledge the greeting, bestowing on each group a regal wave or a smile before he was able to dismount.
The Swordmaster took that as the signal to dismiss everyone and his curt order was echoed by the bellow of a sergeant-at-arms. The orderly lines melted back to their barracks and duties as a stream of weary knights trotted past and on to the stables on either side of the south gate.
Isak gave his horse one last pat on the neck and smiled at Kerin, who saluted him again as he passed, on his way to Sir Cerse. The colonel of the Ghosts turned with a smile as Kerin patted him on the shoulder, then Isak's attention wandered to the hundreds of reunions going on across the ground, with friends, families or lovers. A touch of sadness stirred in his belly as he watched some collapsing in tears, others laughing in relief.
He was about to head off to his chambers when he noticed a figure out of the corner of his eye, standing motionless in the teeming crowds. The man was staring straight at him, not moving a muscle, even as a woman behind him bewailed the loss of a husband. With a shout, Isak tore the mask from his face and sprang forward as the man broke into a broad smile and stepped forward to meet the bounding giant.
'Gods, boy, look at the size of you – I wasn't sure it was really you for a moment there!' exclaimed Carel as Isak reached him.
Not waiting for any formal greeting, Isak discarded his gauntlets and reached down to hug him. Carel was now significantly shorter than him. Isak lifted him off his feet with fierce affection.