In the late afternoon they rounded a small headland and came within sight of Kolglas. The town lay on the far shore of a shallow bay studded with rocky islets, closely hemmed in by the forest. Castle Kolglas stood tall on its isle a hundred yards offshore: a weathered stone bastion so old that it seemed as much a part of the natural landscape as the rocks breaking waves beneath its walls. The tide was out, so the narrow causeway running from the town to the castle was exposed. They could see a small cart moving along it, carrying firewood to feed the castle’s hearths. A broad smile came to Orisian’s face.
‘A race back!’ he cried, and kicked his horse into a headlong gallop along the track.
He heard Rothe’s exasperated cry, and then the pounding of hoofs as the two shieldmen came rushing after him. The dash around the curving shore did not take long, but the horses were blowing hard as they slowed at the edge of Kolglas.
The main street and most of the little tracks that ran off on either side were busy. Kolglas always sucked people in at Winterbirth, as surely as a full-laden fishing boat drew gulls. The stalls around the edge of the market square were doing a roaring trade in everything from candles to snowboots, and so much money changing hands had created an infectious air of good humour. Some of the stallholders called out and waved as Orisian went by.
The area around the cairn in the heart of the square, by contrast, was almost empty, with only a screaming gang of children chasing one another round and round the small tower of stones. The monument was a memorial to the Battle of Kolglas. Sirian had been only master of Kolglas then, holding it in the name of the Kilkry Thane at a time when the exile of the Gyre Blood and its followers was still young, their hunger to return still raw and urgent. It had fallen to Sirian to turn back the armies of the Black Road when they poured south across the Vale of Stones and down the length of the Glas valley. His reward for the victory: the right to found his own Blood, to rule over the valley he had defended, and to hold it in perpetuity against the exiles in the north.
The cairn had stood here, with children playing around it and travellers resting by it, for well over a century. Despite its long familiarity it retained a powerful symbolic meaning for the whole Lannis Blood. None who journeyed out from Kolglas could say they had truly returned until they had been to it. First Orisian, then Rothe and Kylane, leaned down to lay a hand upon the round, aged stone that surmounted the cairn. It had been smoothed by the brushing of countless fingertips.
‘To the castle, then?’ Rothe asked, and Orisian nodded.
They went down towards the sea. As they rode out on to the causeway the clouds parted for the first time that day, and the low, late sun cast the faintest of shadows out across the tranquil water. The castle’s sheer walls looked almost warm in the light. The gate was open and as they passed into the courtyard beyond, Orisian found himself smiling again. It was, after all, good to be home.
There were few people about: a small group stacking firewood by the stables, and a handful of warriors sharpening swords on a grinding stone outside their sleeping quarters. Half the fighting men of castle and town had gone south to join the war against Dargannan-Haig almost a year ago. The place had been subdued ever since.
Orisian and his shieldmen crossed to the stable block and dismounted. Bair, the youngest of the stablehands, scampered out to take their horses.
‘Take good care of them, Bair,’ said Orisian, ‘they have been gentle with us.’
Some of those taken ill with the Heart Fever had survived its scourges, Orisian’s own sister Anyara amongst them. She had been fortunate and was unmarred by the sickness. Other survivors, like Bair, had been damaged. The young boy was mute. Nevertheless, he had one of the most lively and expressive faces Orisian had ever seen, and a nature as unfailingly merry as anyone he knew. With a grin, Bair gathered up the reins and led the horses towards their stables.
‘Back to the quiet life, then,’ said Rothe, feigning disappointment.
‘Only for a day or two,’ Orisian said. ‘Winterbirth should bring all the excitement you could wish for.’
The two shieldmen said their farewells, shouldered their packs and headed for the guards’ bunkhouse.
Orisian looked up at the keep. The windows were dark and blank, and the building had a lifeless air. With a slight, belated twinge of foreboding, he hefted his travelling pack and headed for the main stairway.
From the forest above the road, eyes that were not human had watched the three riders gallop that last stretch to the edge of the town. The light would fail soon. The watcher’s sight was sharp, but even he would not be able to make out any movement on the road from this distance once night had fallen. Although the Huanin in the cottages and farmhouses scattered along the coast were as good as blind in the darkness there would still be some small chance of discovery if he went closer, out of the loving embrace of the forest. There was little to be gained from such a risk; it was clear the enemy did not suspect what was about to befall them. They went about their crude, loud lives just as they always did.
The watcher rose. He had been crouched motionless for half the day, yet there was no stiffness in his lithe limbs. He adjusted the position of his bow and quiver on his back and picked up his spear. For a moment he laid his long, tapering fingers upon its point. It would be good to bathe it in Huanin blood. His heart sang at the thought.
He turned away from the feeble necklace of lights springing up in the cottages along the shore and the forest’s shadows enfolded him.
Orisian’s bedchamber was cold, but there was comfort in its familiarity. A knock at the door just as he finished changing announced the arrival of Ilain, the keep’s oldest chambermaid.
‘We were not sure when you would get back, or we could have had some food waiting for you.’ Warmth and severity rubbed shoulders in her voice. She worked as she talked, gathering up his discarded riding clothes and clutching them to her chest.
‘Sorry, Ilain. But I’m not hungry, in any case. We ate as we rode.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘that will foul up your stomach sure as fish are wet. No matter. You’ll want a rest?’
‘No. Really, I’m fine.’
The chambermaid frowned. ‘You’ll have a fire lit, at least.’
‘Yes, please,’ responded Orisian promptly, knowing better than to refuse her again.
She turned, still carrying his clothes, to go and fetch a taper.
‘Where is everyone, Ilain?’ asked Orisian.
‘I think Anyara is with your father. He is still unwell.’
‘And Inurian?’
Ilain rolled her eyes skywards, and Orisian felt a twinge of instinctive guilt at her displeasure. He had never quite shaken off the childhood memory of Ilain’s scoldings. More often than not Anyara or Fariel had been at the root of whatever misadventure incurred the chambermaid’s wrath; nevertheless, it had usually been Orisian who was left to face the consequences, never quite as adept as the other two at identifying the ideal moment to disappear. He was too old now for her to scold, but when Ilain disapproved of something it was not well concealed. Inurian was counsellor to Orisian’s father, and the closest thing to a friend Kennet nan Lannis-Haig had. That was not enough to make everyone in the castle comfortable with his presence.
‘He is in his rooms, no doubt,’ Ilain said, and swept out.
Orisian hesitated. He knew he should visit his father, but he had a strong urge to put that off a while longer. It was a much easier thought to go to Inurian. That at least would be a meeting that had only uncomplicated feelings attached to it.