It disconcerted Anyara. The fact that the Kyrinin would invoke such sinister creatures as the Anain was too blunt a reminder of the chasm of difference that lay between her and them.
‘Stand here,’ instructed Varryn.
Without further explanation, he went to kneel at his sister’s side. He picked up a deerskin bowl that held a dark, viscous liquid. Ess’yr had closed her eyes. Her face was still, almost as if she was asleep. Varryn immersed the point of a long, thin needle in the liquid. He rolled the tool around the bowl, soaking it.
Anyara frowned in confusion.
‘The kin’thyn,’ Orisian said. ‘She’s killed her first enemy.’
Anyara grimaced as Varryn set down the bowl and moved closer to his sister, the dye-coated needle poised and ready.
‘He’s going to tattoo her?’ she said, almost disbelieving.
There was not so much as a twitch in Ess’yr’s face as the skin of her cheek was pierced. Varryn pricked out curling lines, the track of his work marked by beads of blood and dye. Slowly, the pattern took shape. There was something horribly fascinating about the process. This scarring of a woman would never be permitted amongst the Haig Bloods, yet here it was being enacted as a mark of respect. Anyara wondered how Orisian would feel about Ess’yr’s perfect skin being thus marred. When she glanced at him, his expression was one of such rapt attention that she was not sure he would think of this as a marring at all.
It lasted almost an hour. Varryn never faltered; Ess’yr never opened her eyes or made a sound. The blood flowed, the kin’thyn swooped and swirled its way across the skin. Kyrinin who wandered past sometimes paused to watch for a little while, but seldom tarried long. Though the children were more interested, even their numbers dwindled as the long minutes passed. Eventually Varryn sat back and set needle and bowl aside. He took up a cloth and carefully dabbed at Ess’yr’s face.
Ess’yr’s eyes flickered open. She gave her brother a simple nod and rose to her feet. She looked over to where Orisian, Anyara and Rothe were standing. ‘I thank you,’ she said. ‘What for?’ Orisian asked her. ‘For leading me to the kin’thyn.’
Blood was still flowing from the innumerable tiny wounds upon her face. She looked as though she had been mauled in some terrible fight. Anyara almost wanted to look away. Instead, it was Ess’yr who turned and strode off, Varryn following. Orisian gazed after them.
‘Lucky you,’ Yvane said from behind them, a fraction more loudly than was necessary. All three of them started.
‘How long have you been there?’ Anyara demanded as Yvane smiled with ill-concealed satisfaction.
‘Oh, not long. Lucky you, as I said. Most rare nowadays for Huanin to witness the kin’thyn being bestowed. An honour, I should say.’
Anyara realised that her hand had closed about something in her pocket. She fingered it for a few moments, and then an abrupt pang of guilt shook her as she realised what it was. Carefully she withdrew the short length of knotted cord and held it in her palm.
Orisian did not notice, but Yvane did.
‘Now where did you come by that?’ the na’kyrim asked. Orisian looked down at what Anyara was holding.
‘I’d forgotten,’ she said. ‘Inurian gave it to me, after we got out of Anduran. He said…’
‘...he said it should be buried,’ Orisian finished for her.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Anyara, and repeated, ‘I’d forgotten.’
Orisian gave the slightest shake of his head, and took the cord between finger and thumb. There was a kind of emptiness in his face as he turned one of the knots in his grip.
‘It’s what . . .’ he said, ‘it’s what the Kyrinin do if they’re afraid their body will not be properly buried.’
He held it up, and met Anyara’s eyes.
‘It’s his life. Each knot is a piece of his life.’
‘How do you know that?’ Anyara asked quietly.
‘Ess’yr and her brother made them before we left their camp.’
‘Should we bury it, then?’
Orisian did not answer at once. He held the cord as if it was some delicate piece of jewellery. She could not say why, but his expression made Anyara think of their father.
‘We should give it to Ess’yr,’ Orisian said quietly. ‘It is for her, I think. She will know what to do with it.’
‘He would have been thinking of you, when he made some of the knots,’ Yvane said to him. For once her tone was gentle, careful. ‘The knots may be events, or feelings. Or people. He will have put you into some of them, I am sure.’
‘Perhaps. I would like to know what they all are; what he was thinking when he made it.’ He held it by one end so that it hung loosely.
‘Even if he had lived, he would not have told you what the knots were,’ said Yvane. ‘It is a private thing, a conversation with death.’
‘I’ll take it to Ess’yr,’ Orisian said.
‘No.’ Yvane’s voice was still measured, but firm now. ‘He gave it to Anyara. That is important, in the way of these things. She is the one who should give it to Ess’yr for burial, if that is what she thinks it best to do.’
Orisian held the knotted cord out, and Anyara took it. She coiled it neatly in her hand.
‘Will you show me where Ess’yr is?’ she asked Yvane, and the na’kyrim nodded.
They walked silently through the vo’an. It was not far. Varryn was standing outside a low hut. He watched them approach and did not move aside from the entrance.
‘Be polite,’ murmured Yvane, hiding the movement of her lips behind a rub at her nose.
‘Varryn, is Ess’yr here?’ Anyara asked.
‘She rests,’ the warrior said.
‘Can I talk to her? I have something for her.’
‘Not now. She rests.’
‘It’s important,’ Anyara said. ‘I think she would want to see me.’
Varryn was unmoved. He reminded Anyara of a Thane’s shieldman on some grand ceremonial occasion, rigid with the importance of his role. She did not want to show him the cord—she thought it was something Inurian would have meant for Ess’yr alone—but it seemed the only way to gain admittance. She opened her fingers, exposing the cord in her palm.
‘It is Inurian’s,’ she said. ‘Ess’yr should have it.’
And she saw, for the most fleeting of instants, a reaction in Varryn’s face. Its presence was too brief, his features too subtly inhuman, for her to be certain of its nature. Perhaps annoyance, perhaps pain. He stared at the cord for a moment or two, then looked away. As she drew breath to ask him again, he moved. A soft prod in her back from Yvane told her not to wait for more of an invitation. She ducked inside the hut.
It was gloomy within. Dark furs and animal skins covered the floor. Grey feathers hung from the hut’s wooden skeleton. Ess’yr was lying down. Anyara crouched beside her. Although the poor light hid the worst of what had been done to the Kyrinin’s face, the swirling needle tracks were visible, as was her skin’s angry reaction. Ess’yr’s grey eyes looked out from a wounded visage.
Anyara offered her the cord.
‘It is Inurian’s,’ she said. ‘Orisian thought ... I thought it should come to you. For you to . . . bury.’
Ess’yr sat up carefully, protecting her injured ribs. She took the cord. She hardly looked at it, but closed it in her fist.
‘Thank you,’ she said, so quietly that Anyara almost did not hear.
It felt as though there should be something more to say. Anyara saw no emotion in Ess’yr’s face, but those knuckles were white, the pale fingernails digging into the palm of the hand. For the space of a few heartbeats Anyara hesitated and wished that this woman was less of a stranger to her; wished they had something more in common than loss. She rose and turned to go. As she reached for the door flap a thought occurred to her.