Then there was someone inside the tent with him, laying a cool palm upon his forehead and lifting the furs to look at his bandaged flank. He looked into a face from his dreams: a beautiful, pale-skinned face, framed by yellow-white hair, from which clear grey eyes regarded him. The hand upon his brow was withdrawn, and he glimpsed spidery fingers tipped by long, white nails. The thin lips moved.
‘Be still,’ came a voice that was as light and floating in Orisian’s ears as a breath of summer wind.
Kyrinin, some small, clear part of his mind murmured to him. The thought drifted away, unable to find any purchase upon him.
‘Rest,’ he heard her say, and he did.
Fariel was there, in a half-waking, half-sleeping place. His dead brother stooped in the doorway of the tent. He was a handsome, almost beautiful, young man now. He held his long hair back from his eyes as he leaned forwards.
‘Walk with me,’ he said, and Orisian rose and followed his brother out into the evening.
The forest was bathed in low sunlight, the trees throwing sharp shadows across the grass. Butterflies flitted from light to shade and back to light again. His brother waited for him, holding out a hand.
‘Let’s go down to the sea,’ he said, and Orisian nodded. The trees stood far apart, and they made their way down towards the waves. The water was shining. The two of them stood side by side and looked out to the west. The great globe of the sun was just touching its rim to the horizon. A warm breeze was blowing in.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Orisian, and Fariel smiled.
‘Very,’ he said.
‘You’ve been gone a long time,’ Orisian said.
His brother picked up a stone and threw it far, far out. He wiped his hand on his tunic.
‘Not so long, and not so far away.’
‘No, I never thought you were very far away,’ Orisian said.
They started to walk along the shore. Birds above them called with voices almost human, mixing alarm and loss.
‘I’d like you to come back,’ said Orisian.
‘I can’t. I’m sorry,’ said Fariel without looking at his brother.
‘Are you alone? Is . . .’ Orisian’s voiced faded away.
Fariel laughed gently. ‘Yes, she’s with me. And Father.’
That brought Orisian to a standstill. He stared at the back of Fariel’s head as his older brother walked on a few steps before stopping and turning. Orisian felt a sickness stirring in the pit of his stomach. Gulls were screeching in the air, the sound of screams. The sun was sickening and taking on a red hue.
‘Father?’ he echoed. Dark shapes were at the corner of his eyes, dancing, taunting.
Fariel pointed out to sea and there, impossibly close, was Castle Kolglas. It was a burned-out shell with smoke still rising from its broken windows, sections of its walls cast down and crumbling, its gates torn asunder and lying like flotsam at the water’s edge. As Orisian watched, a great block of stone toppled from the battlements, crashed on to the rocks below and splashed into the sea. He reached out with his arms, as if he could touch the shattered castle. He felt dizzy. Deep inside his head, he saw his father, blood trickling from the side of his mouth, the hilt of a massive knife protruding from his chest. He gagged.
‘You’d forgotten,’ said Fariel.
Orisian bowed his head. ‘What should I do?’
‘I can’t say,’ replied his brother. ‘No one can tell you that any more. You’ll have to decide for yourself.’
Orisian looked up. Fariel shook his head sadly. He seemed to be further away, out over the water. Orisian could not make out his features any more.
‘Wait,’ cried Orisian, rising to his feet, ‘don’t go.’
Fariel said something, but Orisian could barely hear him now.
‘Where’s Anyara?’ shouted Orisian.
His brother faded into the bright demi-circle of the setting sun.
‘Don’t leave me,’ Orisian said.
He felt himself falling backwards, slumping down towards the earth. He fell into something soft and sank into it.
‘Don’t leave me,’ he whispered once, and then all was dark.
When he woke it was with the feel of the faintest touch upon his face. As his eyes focused, he found his gaze returned by the young Kyrinin woman looking down at him. She smelled of the forest, of warmth. Soft fine strands of her hair were brushing his cheek. He moved his lips soundlessly.
‘Be at ease,’ she said in her wondrous voice as she straightened up. ‘The worst is past.’
‘The worst,’ he repeated.
‘You saw death and came back.’
The dull pain in his flank registered upon his still-cloudy thoughts then, as if to confirm the truth of her words. He stirred, trying to ease aside the furs that lay over him. She laid a restraining hand on his, gentle but firm. Her clear eyes fixed him with a constant stare. There was no imperfection in them, he saw, no flaw in the pure field that surrounded her tiny pupils like a ring of polished flint. Inurian’s eyes had not been so perfect. They had had a touch of the human in them. Many things came back to Orisian then, too many to gather and shape. There was a flicker of panic in his breast as if a slumbering bird had woken.
‘Where’s Rothe?’ he asked.
‘Rothe?’
‘My shieldman. He was with me when ... he put me in the boat.’
‘The big man. He is here. He lives.’
She was examining the features of his face. He felt uncomfortable, sensing the touch of her gaze.
‘Where is he?’ he asked.
‘Here,’ she repeated.
‘I want to see him.’
She rose, towering above him. ‘Wait. I will ask.’
Orisian slid a hand across his stomach. It felt empty, partly from hunger, partly from the bitter, violent memories that were grasping at his thoughts. One took his attention for a moment.
‘Fariel,’ he breathed.
She turned, almost out of the tent. She looked back at him.
‘I did not hear,’ she said.
‘I dreamed of Fariel,’ he murmured.
‘Your brother,’ she said.
Orisian made to ask how she knew his brother’s name, but the flap of deerskin was already settling back into place behind her.
Rothe came, and Orisian had to hide the surprise that surged up within him. His shieldman looked different. Some of the bulk had gone from his frame; his face was thinner; his eyes, in the instant before they lit up at the sight of Orisian, were burdened. Orisian caught sight of tall figures outside as Rothe entered. They did not follow him in.
Rothe laid a broad hand upon Orisian’s shoulder.
‘It is good to see you again,’ the older man said softly. ‘I feared…’
Orisian struggled to sit up, but Rothe pressed him down.
‘Lie still,’ he said. ‘Don’t tire yourself.’
‘I’m all right,’ said Orisian.
‘Perhaps, perhaps. Still, it was a bad wound you took, and it would be better not to test it yet. Who knows what harm the wights’ meddling might have done?’
Orisian fingered the bandaging around his chest. ‘They put this poultice on me,’ he said.
‘Best not to wonder what may be in it, then,’ grimaced Rothe.
‘How long has it been?’
‘Seven days, Orisian.’
‘Seven days! I thought two or three, perhaps. I can hardly remember any of it.’
‘Seven. And moving much of the time. We only arrived here three days ago. They would not tell me what was happening, all the while. Not once have they let me see you. And they took my sword away, my sword I’ve had for half my life.’
Orisian noticed for the first time that there were bruises, almost faded now, upon Rothe’s cheek and brow, and a thin red line where some wound across the bridge of his nose had started to heal. He could guess how hard the man had tried to come to his side.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘at least we are together again now.’
‘Together as prisoners in a woodwight camp. I tried to get us to Glasbridge, I truly did, but I’ve no skill with boats and the currents were too strong. They carried us to the Car Anagais. The wights took us almost the moment we landed.’ A pained expression passed across the shieldman’s face. ‘Forgive me, Orisian, for bringing you away against your will. I had no choice. I could not let you go to your father.’