Lagair looked doubtful but held his tongue.
‘I will look forward to hearing the High Thane’s opinions on the matter—no doubt you already have detailed reports on their way to Vaymouth—but in the meantime, I shall take such action as seems to me wise and prudent. I can assure you,’ Lheanor said with studied clarity, ‘that I will not go so far as to march my entire army into the Glas valley. You’ve made it clear you, and therefore Gryvan oc Haig, would disapprove of such a step, and as it would in any case be the act of an idiot, I am happy to promise to refrain from it.’
‘Yes, very good,’ said Lagair. His expression suggested he put little value on Lheanor’s promise.
‘Of course,’ the Kilkry Thane said, ‘if, once we know what is actually happening, it no longer seems idiotic, then I will march my entire army wherever I wish. Since it is, after all, mine. That part of it which the High Thane has left me with, at least.’
After the Steward had gone, Lheanor took a private meal with his son and his wife, Ilessa. They were all subdued and their mood communicated itself to the servants, who stepped lightly around the table and took care to stay out of sight until they were needed.
There were close ties of friendship and history between the Kilkry and Lannis Bloods. Kennet nan Lannis-Haig had been a frequent, and well-liked, visitor to Kolkyre before the Heart Fever. Lheanor had never known him as well as he knew Croesan, but had believed him to be a good and reliable man. It meant nothing to Lagair Haldyn—and nor would it to the High Thane the Steward served—but for Lheanor and his family, Kennet’s death was cause for great sorrow. All the more so if it was truly the work of the hated Bloods of the Black Road .
Gerain was uninterested in his food. He took only a few desultory mouthfuls.
‘Will you let me go?’ he asked.
Ilessa looked up from her platter to her son, but his gaze was fixed upon Lheanor. For a moment or two, the Thane seemed not to have heard the question. He prodded at the meat in front of him, his brow furrowed.
‘How many men do you want to take?’ the Thane asked at length.
‘Only two or three hundred,’ Gerain replied at once. He sounded eager, though he was trying hard to maintain a level tone. ‘My own men: none from the border watches or the castles. Just my own company.’
Lheanor sighed and gestured for one of the attendants to remove the unfinished meal before him. He poured himself some wine. A little of it spilled, his hands made slightly unsteady by age.
‘Still no word from Roaric,’ he murmured. ‘We’ve heard nothing from him for . . . what? Two weeks?’
‘Three,’ Ilessa said quietly.
‘We cannot just sit and wait, no matter how much the Steward may complain,’ Gerain said. ‘You told him as much yourself, Father. Out of all the Bloods, Lannis is the only one we can truly call our friends.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’ The Thane could not keep irritation out of his voice, but his expression showed that he immediately regretted it. He half-raised a placatory hand. ‘What times we live in. Both my sons must go into harm’s way? You’ll allow me to regret that.’
‘They are their father’s sons,’ said Ilessa. ‘That is why they do as they do. When you were Gerain’s age you would have been the first to ride out.’
The Thane returned her gentle smile. They had married young, Lheanor and Ilessa, too young almost to understand what they were doing. Neither had ever suffered even a moment’s regret. They had grown old together as willingly as any two people ever had.
‘I remember well enough,’ Lheanor said. His blood had sometimes run hot when he was young. When he was Bloodheir he had been at least as eager, as fired by passion, as Gerain. Looking back from the lofty vantage point of his now advanced years he could not remember when caution—something that could almost be called fear, even—had started to erode that youthful vigour. Perhaps it had been the moment he became Thane.
‘I’d not seek strife, but if it comes looking for us we cannot turn away from it,’ said Gerain. ‘Let me go.
Perhaps Croesan does not need our aid. Perhaps all I can do is tell him we share his sorrow at Kennet’s death. But if he does need our aid—our spears—it would shame us to wait for Gryvan oc Haig’s permission before giving it.’
‘You’d find no one in all our lands, except Gryvan’s own Steward, to disagree with that. It does not change the fact that he is High Thane. We must tread with care, that is all. I will tread carefully around Gryvan and his Steward; you take your men to Kolglas, and you tread carefully there. I want both of my sons alive to celebrate next Winterbirth here with your family.’
Orisian struggled up from unconsciousness as if waking from a viscous sleep. He was being carried through the forest on some kind of stretcher. He thought hazily about moving but his body was unresponsive. His gaze jolted in time with the stride of whoever was carrying him. The peeling trunks of birch trees loomed one after another across his vision and passed away. He saw a carpet of rough grass, dark green moss and fallen leaves. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the fleeting image of tall, pale figures walking. There was no sound. It was like a dream. He felt dull, throbbing pain in his side. He could not imagine why it should be there, but it mounted to a stabbing fire that surged and retreated in a remorseless rhythm. He slipped away again into a dark place.
Later he opened his eyes but still could not shed the stupor that clung to him. Voices had roused him. He saw, and heard without understanding. There were sounds, in turn like the chattering of squirrels, the croaking of crows or the movement of leaves in the breeze. He was being carried past strange bulbous tents. He saw a woman crouched in a doorway, her face with its delicate, impassive features trying to tell him something he did not understand. An animal hide was stretched upon a wooden frame. He smelled woodsmoke. Children flurried by. Like something out of nightmare or hallucination, there was a great face woven of boughs and twigs that leered at him. There was a pole thrust into the earth, with deer skulls fastened to it one above the other. They watched him with their dead sockets as he went past and his own eyes faltered and closed beneath their mournful gaze.
When he saw again, there was a face close to his: dusk-grey eyes looking into his own; fragile skin so close he could have laid his lips upon it. He felt the warmth of someone’s breath upon his cheeks and brow. He was inside, beneath a curving roof of deer-skin. Somewhere very far away he thought he heard a voice he knew shouting his name. It fell silent and as he was laid down upon the ground he lost consciousness once more.
He returned, at first, without knowing who he was. He blinked and turned a little towards the faint light. The movement was enough to trigger pain in his side. He grimaced at it, wondering why he should feel such a thing. The pain eased into an ache and he lay still for a time. His memories came slowly back, but they were unreal and he could not sort truth from dream, or nightmare.
He was looking up at the roof of a strange tent: a broad sweep of animal hide on a framework of poles. Furs were lying over him, filling his nostrils with a musky scent. Once more, he tried to turn his head to look towards the light that was filtering in from somewhere to his left. He was braced for the pain; still when it came it brought a gasp out of him. He lifted his lead-heavy hand and put it to his side. There was some kind of dressing there, warm and moist against his skin. He was taken by a fit of coughing that filled his chest with fire and sent blurring flickers of light across his vision. He watched them dancing inside his eyelids as dizziness swept through him.