For the first time the shaman spoke, his mouth twisting as it formed perhaps the only foreign word he knew. “Volarriahnsss.”
He ordered the North Guard to give up half their rations and sent all but a dozen back to their postings. Captain Adal, whose sullen fury was becoming more irksome by the second, was dispatched south to call an end to the muster and send riders informing the Seordah their warriors were not needed.
“Cat People, Bear People,” he hissed at Dahrena before leaving, just within Vaelin’s earshot. “They are still Horde. They cannot be trusted.”
“You didn’t see, Adal,” she whispered back, shaking her head. “The only thing we have to fear from them is the guilt of letting them die.”
“This won’t be popular,” he warned. “Many will still call for vengeance.”
“My father always took the right course, popular or not.” She fell silent and Vaelin sensed she was looking in his direction. “Things have not changed so much.”
The Eorhil took their leave in the evening, Sanesh Poltar raising a hand to Vaelin as his people took to their mounts. “Avensurha,” he said.
“My name?” Vaelin asked.
The Eorhil chieftain pointed to the north where a single bright star was rising above the horizon. “Only one month in a lifetime does it shine so bright. It’s said no wars can be fought under the light it brings.”
He raised his hand again and turned his horse towards the east, galloping away with his people, all save one.
“She won’t leave, my lord.” Captain Orven stood at rigid attention, avoiding his gaze. Nearby Insha ka Forna was handing out strips of dried elk meat to a clutch of children, using hand gestures to warn them against bolting it down too quickly. “I asked the Lady Dahrena why. She said I, ahem, already knew.”
“Do you want her to leave?”
The captain coughed, brows furrowing as he sought to formulate a reply.
“Congratulations, Captain.” Vaelin clapped him on the shoulder and went to find Dahrena.
She was with the shaman, crouched next to an old woman propped on a litter. She was even thinner than the other tribesfolk, her chest rising and falling in shallow heaves, mouth agape and eyes unfocused. The shaman stared down at her with such a depth of desolate sorrow Vaelin had no need of any visions to tell him this was a man watching his wife’s final moments.
Dahrena took a vial from her satchel and held it over the old woman’s mouth, a few clear drops falling onto her parched tongue. She stirred, frowning a little, mouth closing over the fresh moisture. Some light returned to her eyes and the shaman bent down to take her hand, speaking softly in his own language. The words sounded harsh to Vaelin’s ear, a guttural rush of noise, but even so, there was tenderness in it. He tells her they’re safe, he surmised. He tells her they have found refuge.
The old woman’s gaze tracked across her husband’s face, the corners of her mouth curling as she tried to smile, then freezing as the light faded from her eyes and her chest halted its labour. The shaman gave no reaction, remaining crouched at her side, holding her hand, near as still as she.
Dahrena rose from the old woman’s side and walked over to Vaelin. “I have something to tell you,” she said.
“My people call it spirit walking.” They sat together beside a fire on the periphery of the Bear People’s camp. It was quiet, the tribe consuming their new supplies in silence and tending to their sick with not a voice raised in celebration. They still think of themselves as dead, Vaelin thought. They lost their name.
“It’s difficult to describe,” Dahrena continued. “Not really walking, more like flying, high above everything, seeing great swathes of the earth all at once. But I have to leave my body to do it.”
“That’s how you found these people,” he said. “That’s how you found the Horde.”
She nodded. “Easier to plan a battle when you know the enemy’s line of march.”
“Does it hurt?” he asked, thinking of the blood that flowed whenever he sang for too long.
“No, not when I’m flying, but when I return . . . At first it was exhilarating, joyous. For who hasn’t dreamt of flying? I’d heard tales of the Dark, and knew it to be a thing to fear. But the flying was so wonderful, so intoxicating. I had just said farewell to my twelfth year when it happened. I was in my bed, awake but content, my thoughts calm, or as calm the thoughts of a thirteen-year-old girl can be. Then I was floating, looking down at a small girl in a large bed. I was fearful, thinking I had drifted into a nightmare. In my panic my thoughts turned to my father, and so I flew to him in his room, poring over papers late into the evening as he always did. He reached for his wineglass and knocked over an inkpot, staining his sleeve and cursing. I thought of Blueleaf, my horse, and flew to her in the stables. I thought of Kehlan and flew to him, where he was pounding herbs in his chamber with a mortar and pestle. What a wonderful dream this was, just think of something and I would fly to it, see them without their seeing me. And more, more than just them, the colour of them, the shine of their souls. My father was shrouded in a bright, pale blue, Blueleaf a soft brown and Kehlan seemed to flicker, red one minute, white the next. I flew high, as high as I dared, looking down at the entirety of the Reaches, all the shining souls, like the stars above reflected on a great mirror.
“But strangely, in this dream, I began to grow tired, and so I returned to my body. The bed felt a little chilly but not enough to prevent sleep. The next morning at breakfast father wore a shirt with an ink stain on the sleeve and I knew it had been no dream. It scared me, but not enough to stop me; the joy had been too great. And so I continued to fly, every spare moment, soaring out over the mountains and the plains, watching the Eorhil hunt the great elk, dancing in the storms that swept out of the ice. Then one day I flew out over the western ocean for miles and miles, hoping to glimpse the shore of the Far West. But the time grew long and I knew my father expected me at dinner, so I flew back to my body. It was like pulling on a skin made of ice, the shock of it made me scream and scream. My father found me, shaking on the floor of my room as if I’d just been pulled from an icy lake.
“That was when I told him. He wasn’t afraid, wasn’t shocked. He put me to bed, called for warm milk and stayed at my side until the chill had faded. Then he took my hand and told me, in great detail, what your people do to those with gifts such as mine. No-one was ever to know.”
“Then came the Horde?”
“Two summers later. I’d been careful, never flying for more than an hour at a time, and always at night, leaving my body seated before a well-stoked fire. I saw their first slaughter, a bluestone caravan making its way south from Silvervale. Twoscore drovers slain in a rush of war-cats and spear-hawks. The warriors wandered amongst the dead with knives, cutting off trophies, and their shine was a dark, dark red. I had never seen a soul snuffed out before. Mostly it was like wind blowing through a clutch of candles, but there was one, shining brighter than the others. It rose and the world seemed to bend around it, like a whirlpool, drawing it in, taking it somewhere . . .”
Vaelin leaned closer as she trailed off. “Where?”
“I know not. But for an instant I had a glimpse of what lay beyond the whirling. It was so very dark.” She fell silent and hugged herself for a moment, shivering. “I’m grateful it’s something I’ve only witnessed once.”
“Your gift brought enough warning for Lord Al Myrna to prepare a defence?”
She nodded. “I ran to him with the news, blurting it out in front of Adal and Kehlan. He swore them to secrecy, an oath they’ve kept these many years, although I’m sure there are those who suspect, and those like Sanesh who just seem to know.”