‘I do think you fools,’ Anyara shouted. ‘You’ll die here. Whether you fear it or not, death…’
‘Not before you,’ Wain interrupted her. ‘Or your father. Did he fear death?’
‘Enough pleasantries,’ Kanin said. Anyara’s outburst had not unsettled him in the least, although she thought there was an acid edge to Wain’s glare. ‘I have little stomach for them at the best of times. Our guests had better be shown to their sleeping quarters. The town gaol. I hope you will find it to your liking.’
Guards moved to march the two prisoners out.
‘A word to you before you go, halfbreed,’ said Kanin, raising an admonitory finger to Inurian, acknowledging his presence for the first time. ‘I imagine that you possess some of the little tricks of your kind, though I think Aeglyss once told me that yours is a paltry kind of talent. Still, we will keep guards out of your way, I think, and trust to bars and stone to hold you. Be assured that your young companion will be watched, though. She will die the instant there is any suggestion of trickery. If that happens your own death will be unpleasant. You may become a useful gift to someone one day, but do not make the mistake of thinking I value your life any more than that of a dog.’
‘Such a thought would never cross my mind,’ murmured Inurian.
‘Excellent. Now I am afraid I must send you on your way. Should we meet again, perhaps some time in your uncle’s prison cells will have blunted that tongue of yours, Anyara.’
He gave an exaggerated bow in her direction. She took a step backwards, shying away from the gesture, and cursed herself silently for the reaction. She caught a contemptuous curl at the corner of Wain nan Horin-Gyre’s mouth as she was ushered out of the room.
Anduran’s gaol lay off the long, broad Street of Crafts that passed from the square through the town’s northern quarter towards the castle. As she and Inurian were marched towards it, through rain that was now hard and sharp enough to sting her scalp, Anyara stepped over and around the flotsam left in the wake of the town’s foundering. As well as the fragments of broken and burned homes, the road was littered with debris dropped by fleeing townsfolk or looting soldiers: here a child’s straw dolly, there a single cloth glove, a matron’s cap, a baby’s shawl. All were sinking, or had been trodden, into rivulets and puddles of dirty water.
The enemy lurked in many of the buildings, sheltering from the rain. Grim, hostile faces regarded Anyara and Inurian from doorways. Once, from the upper floor of one of the houses, someone threw a half-eaten hunk of bread that bounced off Anyara’s shoulder. She trudged on.
The gaol had the look and feel of a fortress or barracks in miniature. Anyara and Inurian were led through the gate in the long outer wall. Within, two separate blocks of cells lay on either side. Tight, metal-barred windows fixed the newcomers with a gloomy gaze. Guardrooms and sleeping quarters were attached to each of the blocks, but the house of the head gaoler stood alone. A group of Horin-Gyre warriors had gathered outside it. They were watching as the bodies of two young men were cut down from the makeshift gibbets that flanked the building.
It was a moment or two before Anyara realised that she and Inurian were being separated. Their captors were steering them apart, Anyara towards the cells on the right and Inurian to the left.
‘Inurian,’ she called.
He was looking at her with something close to anguish upon his face.
‘Be strong,’ he said. ‘It is not over yet.’
Anyara managed a nod, and then someone was pushing her head down and forwards as she was forced through a low doorway and swallowed whole by the gloom of her prison.
Later, cast down upon the hard floor of a narrow cell—the door slammed shut and barred, drops of rain splashing in through the tiny window high in the wall—and with no one there to see, she wept at last.
Lheanor oc Kilkry-Haig had been arguing with the High Thane’s Steward for some time. Lagair Haldyn dar Haig was not the worst Steward Lheanor had been forced to deal with in his time. Since he became Thane of his Blood, there had been three holders of that office, and by the end of his tenure the second—Pallick—had been almost impossible. Even Gryvan oc Haig had eventually accepted that the man’s presence in Kolkyre served nobody and had sent him instead to Igryn oc Dargannan-Haig’s court. It was without great surprise that Lheanor later heard that Pallick had been thrown into a gaol cell by Igryn. He sometimes wondered if the man’s appointment to the post of Steward in Dargannan lands had not been a deliberate ploy to provoke Igryn to rebellion. Gryvan oc Haig, or his Shadowhand, were certainly not above such manipulations, and although few men could singlehandedly cause a revolt through their obstinacy and arrogance, it was probably not beyond Pallick.
By comparison, Lagair’s failings were limited to indolence and an all-encompassing indifference to the concerns of others. It made arguing with him a thankless task. Lheanor was an old man, and he found the effort wearying. He was thankful that his son, the Bloodheir Gerain, was here with him, to share the burden.
‘I am not disputing your right to act,’ the Steward was saying. For some reason he was not looking at the Thane, or at Gerain, but staring vacantly at the fire burning in the grate. ‘I merely insist that you refrain from marching your entire army into the Glas valley until we first have a better idea of what exactly is happening there and second, have word from Vaymouth regarding the High Thane’s intent.’
‘We already have riders on their way to find out what is happening,’ replied the Bloodheir levelly, ‘but whatever the details, you cannot deny the need to act. You have seen the same messages we have: more than a hundred people from Kolglas and the villages around there have already crossed our borders. Others are on their way. Kolglas itself has been attacked, the castle and half the town burned, and Kennet nan Lannis-Haig has been killed. White Owl Kyrinin are looting farms, and Inkallim are loose in Anlane. Inkallim, Steward! If the ravens of the Black Road are fighting pitched battles as far south as Kolglas, how can you doubt that disaster threatens?’
Lagair scratched at the side of his nose, frowning with concentration.
‘If there is one thing I have learned in all my years,’ the Steward said—and Lheanor groaned inwardly at this repetition of a phrase Lagair used with self-important frequency—‘it is that the obvious conclusions are not always proved correct by subsequent events. I mean, think on it for a moment. Kolglas has been raided, not captured. The entire Battle Inkall numbers no more than a few thousand, to the best of our knowledge, so they can hardly be planning to march all the way to Kolkyre on their own. No, this looks more like a piece of clever hubris, to me. A few Inkallim have somehow managed to sneak to Kolglas, kill the Thane’s brother and have now snuck off back to Kan Dredar or wherever they call home. At the same time they’ve managed to stir up the wood-wights, which I freely admit is surprising but hardly a disaster.’
Gerain was hiding it well, but Lheanor could see that his son was only a few minutes away from losing his temper. The Bloodheir had a generally equable temperament—certainly in comparison to his brother Roaric—but was quite capable of the occasional ill-judged outburst. There had probably been enough talking in any case.
‘Well, we shall know the truth of all this before too long,’ Lheanor said quietly.
The Steward glanced up and gave the Thane a vacant, pointless smile.
‘Our finest scouts are on the road even now, and we’ll have their reports within a day or so,’ Lheanor continued.
‘Yes, lord,’ agreed Lagair. ‘Quite true. A day or two’s patience will cost us little.’
‘There’s a difference between patience and inactivity,’ Lheanor said. ‘Whatever the uncertainties, I am entitled to do as I see fit to protect my own borders, and to see to the safety of the Lannis Blood as well. You would not expect me to stand by while another of the True Bloods faces . . . well, whatever they are facing.’