‘You’re my shieldman, and you saved my life. Should I forgive you that? I was . . . well, let’s leave it. Do you know where we are now?’
‘Hard to say. There was no break in the forest all the way we walked. I would say somewhere in the Car Anagais still. Perhaps the southern slopes of the Car Criagar, but I don’t think we covered that much ground.’
Orisian thought on that for a few moments. ‘What are we going to do?’ he wondered.
‘Wait until you are a little more healed. Hope these creatures do not take it into their heads to kill us before we have a chance to escape.’
‘These must be the Fox clan, though,’ said Orisian. ‘They would have no real reason to harm us. They’re not like the White Owls...’
‘The thoughts of a woodwight are no more human than his eyes. Never trust them, Orisian. We must guard one another here.’
Orisian wanted to say that it would be all right, that this was the clan of Inurian’s father, but he knew it would make no difference to Rothe. The shieldman had been a fighter in the service of the Lannis Blood all his life, and throughout that time there had been two constant stars to steer by: the threat of the Gyre Bloods in the north, and that of the Kyrinin who filled the forests around the valley. Even Orisian, knowing that Fox and White Owl were not one and the same, could not keep the tales of massacred woodsmen and of families burned in forest huts wholly from his mind.
The Kyrinin woman came back then. Tension snapped into Rothe’s eyes and arms at the sound of her entry, though he did not turn round.
‘Enough talk,’ she said. ‘Both come out.’
‘He should rest,’ said Rothe, still refusing to look at the woman.
To Orisian’s surprise, she laughed: a rich, musical laugh like none he had heard before save perhaps, in a way, from Inurian. Rothe was scowling.
‘Enough rest,’ she said. ‘He is well.’
As she came forwards to help Orisian rise, Rothe interposed himself. He wrapped a powerful arm around Orisian and eased him up and out of the bed. The woman held out a cape of thick dark fur. Rothe snatched the cape and laid it around Orisian’s shoulders.
‘Are you strong enough?’ he asked.
Orisian thought about it. Although he felt weak and rather frail, there was not so much pain and his body seemed to agree with the Kyrinin woman that he had rested enough. His muscles were stale and ready to stretch themselves.
‘Yes,’ he said.
Still resting much of his weight on Rothe’s encircling arm, Orisian followed the woman out into daylight. His eyes had forgotten its feel and he had to squint against the glare, but the instant touch of a breeze upon his face and of the cold air upon his skin was like diving into a cool pool on a hot day. It woke him. He blinked and inhaled deeply, shaking his head a little. The woman was watching him with an amused smile upon her lips.
The sunlight was coming in low and clear from the west. A dog bounded past, yelping as it crossed from light to shade and back again. A small gang of children were in close pursuit, laughing and shouting. When they caught sight of Orisian and Rothe standing outside the tent, they stumbled to a halt and stood in a tight knot, staring at them. Orisian’s eyes followed the dog as it ran on and vanished between some huts.
He was in a great camp of the Fox Kyrinin. Domed tents made of hides and skins dotted the forest floor, spreading as far as he could see amidst the trees. Kyrinin were moving amongst them. There were dogs, and a few goats wandered through the camp idly picking at grass or bushes. It was a bright, brisk winter’s day, and the scene had a peaceful feel to it.
Then he saw the object standing not far from the hut he had rested in. It was shaped of intertwined twigs and grasses supported on a frame of poles: an intricate weaving which suggested, rather than portrayed, the image of a face. He remembered it from his ill dreams.
‘What is that?’ he asked.
The woman followed his gaze, but did not respond.
Kyrinin were gathering now. They drifted up as if in answer to some silent summons to stand in a wide semicircle, watching Orisian and Rothe. Many of them carried spears. Rothe shifted uneasily. The woman said something in her own tongue, and there were a few slight nods amongst the crowd. The children’s view of the strange visitors to their camp had been obscured by the arriving adults and they slipped through the forest of legs to the front once more.
‘Hungry?’ asked the woman.
Orisian nodded. The crowd parted without a sound. As they passed through the ranks of Kyrinin, Orisian felt unease filling him, as if it had leapt the gap from Rothe’s body to his own. Intense grey eyes were fixed upon him. These people, so close he could touch one simply by reaching out, were not as he had imagined they would be. He had thought, when he pictured them in his daydreams, that they would be delicate, almost frail. For all the grace in their lean frames, there was a muscular strength and confidence too. Even their silence was more presence than absence. He was glad of Rothe’s arm about him, which seemed then as much protection as support.
Beyond the ring of Kyrinin, the woman brought them to a small fire. A girl was turning a hare on a spit. Fat fell into the flames, hissing and snapping. The girl danced away as they approached.
‘Eat,’ said the woman.
Orisian lowered himself to the ground and sat cross-legged. The scent of the meat woke a ravenous hunger in him. Rothe lifted the hare from over the fire and laid it on a stone. They picked scraps of meat from its carcass. Orisian could hardly eat fast enough to meet the need within him. Food had seldom tasted so sweet, and with the warm cloak about him and the air so sharp and fresh he felt, for the first time since he had woken, something like himself. Only when the hare had been reduced to a pile of greasy bones did he pause. He tried to wipe away the juices from around his mouth. They clung to him.
He looked up at the woman standing to one side.
‘How do you know my brother was called Fariel?’ he asked.
There was no reaction in the Kyrinin’s expression. ‘Inurian spoke of him,’ she said, then turned away.
‘You know Inurian?’ he called after her.
She went to the watching crowd and began speaking to some of them. A skinny dog came and made a grab for one of the bones. Rothe waved it away. It growled balefully at him before sitting down just out of reach and fixing the remains of the meal with an obsessive stare. Orisian looked into the centre of the fire. He had asked Inurian to let him come on his journeys into these hills many times. And now here he was, amongst the people the na’kyrim had known and visited. He had strayed, through a night-mare, into the secret part of Inurian’s life he had always been so curious about, and Inurian was not here with him. Nothing was as he had hoped it would be.
‘She’s coming back,’ muttered Rothe.
‘You must go in again,’ the woman said.
Rothe and Orisian were parted. The enforced separation brought a thunderous rage to Rothe’s face.
‘It’s all right,’ Orisian called after his shieldman, though he was not certain of the truth of that. To his surprise, the woman followed him into the tent, and watched as he lowered himself on to the sleeping mat once more. She squatted at his side.
‘Do you know Inurian well?’ he asked her.
‘You must speak with In’hynyr tomorrow,’ she said.
Orisian looked blank.
‘The vo’an’tyr. The . . .’ She grimaced, apparently frustrated in her search for the right words. ‘She is the will of the vo’an.’