As the memory of his first morning in the palace rose in Isak's mind, a cold chill ran down his spine and his mouth went suddenly dry. A face in the crowd as he sparred with Swordmaster Kerin; a pain in the back of his knee; the bubbling anger as he sprawled flat on his back on the packed earth of the training ground; a savage blow as he lashed out at the man who had caught him, and the thumping connection with an ankle that was so hard it had jarred his wrist.
Isak hadn't even looked at the man, intent as he was on besting Kerin. Only afterwards had he noticed the man, face contorted by pain as he held his leg just above the shattered ankle – the ankle that still hadn't healed.
'Oh Gods.'
'What is it?' Vesna asked. 'Can you place him?'
Isak ignored the question and asked the abbot, 'Can you not do anything for him? Have you tried to heal it with magic?'
'Of course, my Lord,' the abbot replied, 'we are a dual-aligned abbey, dedicated to Nartis and Shotir.' He brushed the yellow cuff of his habit: Isak now realised it was the colour of the God of Healing. 'Unfortunately, our best efforts – and we do have a number of talented healers here – have proved fruitless. The damage done to Hobble's ankle is no normal injury, and our magic has had no effect. I suspect Hobble believes the hurt done to him was a divine judgment, that he has something to atone for. Certainly that impression is sustained by the vigour he goes about any task he is given, but considering how selfless the man is, I cannot begin to imagine what that might be.'
Isak stared down the road at the man limping through the crowds of townsfolk. 'Tsatach's balls,' he muttered under his breath. 'An angry boy's moment of petulance, nothing more, and he takes it as a divine judgment?' Now he knew why the last king had been so amused.
'My Lord?' said the abbot anxiously, trying to catch Isak's words.
'What does he do at the hospital?'
'He is experienced at dressing wounds and spends much of his day tending to the poor folk afflicted with leprosy. He will not turn from the most menial of tasks.'
'Leprosy?' Isak exclaimed, wide-eyed with alarm.
The abbot chuckled. 'My Lord, calm yourself. We have tended lepers in these parts for decades; I am certain there is no risk of con¬tagion. Brother Helras has been in charge of the hospital for ten years now, and has persisted in good health the entire time. You are quite safe.'
'Did Brother Hobble know that when he volunteered for the duties?'
The abbot paused. 'I'm not sure… perhaps. If not, it is a testament to the man's faith, no? Now, may I show you around the abbey and offer you refreshment?'
'The consequences of this life,' he muttered under his breath, too softly for anyone else to hear. He tells me to be thankful for what I have, yet every step of the way 1 hurt someone else. In my wake I hardly notice the futures I ruin. Oh Mihn, you've got such faith in me, but what magnificent destiny are you going to find down a road paved with broken lives?
'My Lord?'
'Oh, yes, of course. Lead the way.'
That evening, Isak found himself out in the walled garden again, star¬ing up at the hunter's moon at its zenith. The memory of Brother Hobble, struggling with his crutch and scowling down at the ground, had haunted him all day. Clearly he had not forgiven Isak for the injury, divine retribution or no, and Isak certainly couldn't blame him for that: constant pain and the end to his life as a Swordmaster were hard things to forgive – although that the latter must have been the man's own choice, knowing Swordmaster Kerin as he did. It was the heroes of war who gained Farlan titles and fame, and there were dozens of men who'd found their place in the Land through being a champion of the Ghosts.
'Contemplating the futility of existence, my Lord?'
Isak whirled around at the unknown voice, Eolis flashing from its sheath. The silver blade glowed in the moonlight as a man stepped from the shadows with a chuckle. A sword remained sheathed on his back while his hands were held out in Farlan greeting.
'With such gifts, who could lead a futile life?'
'Who are you?' Isak tried to make out the man's face. He wasn't Farlan; his lighter hair and darker complexion made him look more Western, if anything. His dress was dark, functional, reminding Isak of the King's Men of Narkang. Not quite a soldier, and more than one.
'I am Ilumene.' There was a pause. The man stood with the ghost of a sardonic smile on his lips. Isak had the oddest sensation, that Ilumene was not just a King's Man, he could be King Emin's son – though of course he could not be, as he was some thirty summers old, and Queen
Oterness was well noted for having failed to produce an heir… but this man did have every ounce of Emin's mocking arrogance.
'For a man who seems to like the sound of his own voice, you've gone suddenly quiet,' Isak said. 'If you don't want me to run you through, perhaps you would care to explain yourself in a little more detail?'
The edge in Isak's growling voice served only to widen Ilumene's smile. The man had two scars on his otherwise handsome face, on the left-hand side. One skirted the ridge of his eyebrow; the second was a jagged cut down the outside of his cheek.
'I am of the Brotherhood.' Ilumene gave a chuckle and turned his head to the right to give Isak a better view of his scar. 'But as you can see, my duties have not left me unsullied.' The base of his earlobe that would have carried the Heart rune had been torn away by the cut. When Ilumene pointed at his ear, Isak saw a network of criss-crossing scars on his hands, as though the man had been dragged through a bramble bush of steel thorns.
'Strange that you didn't appear when Morghien was here.'
For an instant Ilumene looked genuinely shocked. 'I didn't know Morghien had been in the region. Come to think of it, I didn't know you and he were known to each other. It seems I have much to catch up on. When did he leave?'
'Today, this morning.'
'I'm surprised he didn't wait then; I've not seen him for a long time. I was starting to wonder whether he could sniff us out – I can't re¬member how often he's stepped out from behind the only tree around on a deserted stretch of road.'
Isak relaxed a little. There may have been something odd about Ilumene, but he'd not liked all of those Brothers he'd met in Narkang either – the tall, blond one with a scar all the way down the side of his face, Beyn; King Emin and Doranei were confident of his loyalty, but there was something about the man's face that Isak didn't care for. I suspect it's just because he has a white-eye's arrogance, he thought, being honest with himself.
As it was clear that Ilumene did know Morghien, and Isak was cer¬tain the wanderer wasn't one for casual acquaintances, he sheathed Eolis.
Ilumene stepped a yard closer so they could speak normally.
'Well, I suppose that also answers how you got past the guards,' Isak commented. 'I hope you didn't hurt any of them.'
Ilumene gave a small smile. 'One will have wounded pride when his comrades find him, but nothing more. King Emin may encourage many unsavoury traits in his men, but a love of killing is not one of them.'
Though Ilumene spoke with a smile, there was an edge that left Isak with a slight frown. Most of the Brotherhood were respectful of their king to the point of reverence; Ilumene sounded like he was on more familiar terms with Emin. Maybe, Isak reflected, it's because they're so similar. His brief time in Narkang was enough to realise King Emin was not hot on excessive formality if it were not necessary.
Isak broke the brief silence. 'I take it you were here for a reason?'
'There is always purpose in my master's actions.'
And in your choice of words? Isak wondered. A prickle ran down his neck, but he refused to let it show. The man was playing a game, trying to unsettle Isak – but could he expect anything less of King Emin's friend?
'And that purpose is?'
Ilumene shrugged. 'I was to give you a message, though I do not pretend to understand everything behind it. King Emin is secretly travelling to Scree, the Brotherhood his only guards – it was thought that you should know.'