Corban could understand that. Conall had the ability to make you hate him and love him, sometimes at the same time. ‘I thought you would have gone south, when Conall fled with Rhin. They probably went to Domhain. To join her warband.’
‘They probably did,’ Coralen breathed.
‘I thought that’s where you’d want to be,’ he said.
She turned to look at him then, her gaze straight and firm. She had green eyes.
He thought she was about to say something, then he heard footsteps behind him, and voices.
Dath and Farrell joined them.
‘Those Jehar, I don’t like them,’ Dath said.
‘They saved our lives,’ Corban said.
‘I like them,’ Coralen said.
‘Didn’t think you’d like meeting women tougher than you,’ Dath said.
‘I admire them,’ Coralen replied.
‘Well, so do I, but they still scare me, and. .’
‘Everything scares you,’ said Farrell.
‘And Gar’s one of them,’ Corban pointed out.
‘Aye, but he’s one of us, as well.’
‘And he doesn’t look at you as if you’re made of gold, like the rest of them do,’ Farrell said to Corban.
He couldn’t deny that, and the fact of it made him uncomfortable, every day.
‘No, they don’t,’ he said weakly.
‘You know they do,’ Dath said, smiling now. ‘They think you’re this Seven Disgraces.’
‘Seren Disglair,’ Corban corrected automatically.
‘Maybe you are made of gold. Is there any gold under all that fur?’ Dath said, pulling at Corban’s wolven pelt.
‘Get off.’ He slapped at Dath’s hand.
The next thing he knew, Farrell was grabbing him, Dath trying to lift his shirt. The three of them fell wrestling to the ground.
‘Idiots,’ Coralen snorted and Corban glimpsed her heels walking away.
Corban woke before dawn, Gar prodding him awake. He didn’t protest, was used to it by now. Besides, these days he was far from alone in training. All of the Jehar were up, some already sparring.
The first morning after the rescue at Dun Vaner had been strange. Corban had felt like a stage performer, every single one of the Jehar gathering to watch him train with Gar. He had even felt tension radiating from Gar.
The faces of the Jehar had been unreadable, but after an unsteady start Corban had forgotten they were there, losing himself in the sword dance. Afterwards Tukul had patted Gar on the shoulder and whispered a few words in his son’s ear. Whatever those words were they made Gar stand straighter, his face glowing with pride.
It was still strange, seeing Gar with his people. In many ways he was just like them — the composure, the cold face, even the way he walked, all grace and coiled strength. But after travelling with them a while Corban began to see differences. There was an openness about Gar, a softening, like a sheathed sword. And Gar smiled more. Corban thought he’d never say that about the stablemaster. The only Jehar who smiled as much or more than Gar was Tukul. Corban liked him — a fiery man, he guessed, despite the veneer of control. A man of great warmth and great anger. He reminded him of his own da, Thannon, somehow. And Tukul and Gar clearly adored each other. Corban had felt a surge of jealousy, seeing them laughing and talking together. He wished he still had his da to talk to.
The Jehar were not the only ones up. Brina was doing something with a pot over the fire. Closer by he saw his mam and Coralen going through some moves with one of the Jehar — a woman named Enkara. She was blocking his mam’s and Coralen’s strikes, turning each block into a smooth attack, all in slow motion.
Then Corban had no more time to watch; Gar was prodding him, stepping into stooping falcon, ready to begin.
They set off soon after the sun had risen, a column riding steadily towards the gap in the mountains. Corban rode beside his mam.
‘Cywen’s through there, Mam,’ he said.
‘We’ve come so far, eh?’
‘That we have.’
‘And we are only here because of you.’
‘That’s not true, Mam. You would have set off straight after Cywen the moment you found out she was still alive.’
‘Me? Yes, probably. But no one else. And I don’t think I would have made it this far without them, do you?’
‘I wouldn’t have got very far, either. Without all of you I’d still be in a cell in Dun Vaner.’ Or lying in a grave, my heart cut from my body.
She smiled at him then. ‘You’re growing into a good man, Ban, with a good head on your shoulders. A man who I’m willing to trust, son or not. I’d follow you, put my faith in you, and I’m not alone. I just have to look at everyone — they love you, Corban, would follow you anywhere.’
‘I think your judgement’s biased, Mam. You are my mam, after all.’
‘Well, there is that,’ she said, and laughed. The sound of it made him smile; it was warm and genuine.
‘But still. .’ Her expression changed then, moving from playful to clouded faster than a storm sweeping in from the sea. ‘I wish your da was here to see you. He’d be so proud of you, Ban. I think his heart would just about melt.’
He felt a pressure in his chest, the flush of tears rising to his eyes. Strange how a memory can do that to you, he thought, catch you unawares, like one of Gar’s blows.
‘I wish he was here, too,’ Corban said, emotion catching his voice. He smiled at his mam and she smiled back. ‘At least we’ll have Cywen back soon.’ Or die in the trying.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED
MAQUIN
Maquin spent a ten-night after the conflict in the arena languishing in the pit-fighters’ quarters, a stone block of a building close to the stables in Jerolin. He and the other pit-fighters — five of them remaining of the ten who had survived that day on the Island of Nerin — had been left alone. Usually Herak or some of his other more trusted guards would see them through a daily training session, but not since Orgull’s shocking turn. Food and drink came at regular intervals, but that was all.
Maquin felt as if he was going mad, the sheer boredom gnawing at him. He had no idea if Orgull was still alive, though that was unlikely. It was clear to Maquin that Deinon had stayed Lykos’ hand that day in the arena, saving Orgull’s life.
Not out of kindness, though. Not a chance of that. Probably so they could hang Orgull up somewhere and make him scream at their leisure.
He was sitting on a stone bench when he heard the keys rattling in the main door. Light shafted in as the door opened, Herak’s unmistakable shape standing outlined in the entrance.
‘On your feet, fighters,’ he called.
They gathered quickly — Maquin, Javed and the few others who had survived this far. They all had the same look of bottled energy mixed with despair.
A dangerous combination.
‘Follow,’ Herak ordered and turned on his heel.
Maquin blinked as he stepped into the daylight, even though it was weak, filtered through slate-grey clouds overhead. He noticed guards closing behind them as they all left their prison. Emad, the tall guard from Pelset, was one of them.
Herak led them through wide streets. Maquin saw Vin Thalun warriors on every corner, the occasional man in the black and silver of Tenebral. Then they were walking into the keep, through a feast-hall, up a winding staircase. At the top Herak nodded to guardsmen and a door was opened; all of them were ushered into a large chamber. Maquin pulled up short.
Orgull was hanging from shackles on the wall. He was naked apart from a stained loincloth, his body a tapestry of pain. One side of his face was fire scarred, blistered and weeping, his eye a ruin of twisted skin and flesh. His torso and legs were criss-crossed with cuts and weals, a combination of whip and blade. Someone had taken their time on him. Mercifully he was unconscious, his head hanging limp, chest rhythmically rising and falling.