Each knot was precisely tied and moistened with a touch of saliva before being pulled tight. Like beads upon a necklace, knot after knot was added to the strips. Finally, at almost the same moment, both of them seemed satisfied with their work. Each passed their piece of leather to the child. She took one in each hand and walked off.
Ess’yr turned to Orisian. She brought out a thin knife from inside her jacket. It was made for throwing, with a smooth wooden hilt that lacked a crosspiece.
‘This was in you,’ she said, holding it out to Orisian. ‘You have no weapon. Take this.’
He took it and slipped it into his belt. It reminded him of his wound, and he felt the flesh there ache for a moment, but it was better to have this knife than none.
‘An Inkallim blade,’ said Rothe almost admiringly. ‘That’s a rare trophy to carry.’
Without a word, Ess’yr and Varryn rose, took up their packs and weapons and headed into the forest. Orisian and Rothe glanced at each other. Rothe shrugged. They followed the Kyrinin away from the vo’an.
Only after they had been walking for a few minutes could Orisian bring himself to ask Ess’yr what the knotted leather cords had meant.
‘One knot is one thought,’ she told him. ‘Thought of people, of times, from the life. It is done before a journey. If our bodies do not return, the cord goes to the dyn hane and is buried. It will bind our spirits to the willow. We will not be restless.’
The two Kyrinin set a demanding pace. The forest was open, with broad stretches of grass between the stands of trees. Every few hundred strides they would pass an ancient oak tree in some sheltered spot. Often their route would change direction beneath the branches of one of the oaks, and Orisian suspected that the Kyrinin were navigating by these gnarled trees, using them as markers on some map they carried in their heads.
‘How far is it to Anduran?’ he called ahead to them.
‘Not far,’ was all Ess’yr replied, without even turning round.
They came to a more difficult stretch, where a swathe of trees had fallen and a dense thicket of saplings had sprung up around their corpses. Varryn led the way straight into the undergrowth. Orisian and Rothe found it difficult to fight their way through. They emerged, scratched, on the other side to find the Kyrinin warrior awaiting them, leaning on his spear once more, as if he had been standing thus for hours.
‘A speared boar is not so loud,’ he said.
Rothe looked grievously affronted in a way that might have made Orisian smile had he not feared that words between these two might turn into something more physical. The shieldman had, in any case, no opportunity to respond. Having delivering his rebuke, Varryn spun on his heel and was off once more.
‘A speared boar ...’ muttered Rothe. ‘That it should come to this . . . following woodwights through the forest like children. I wore a beard before that . . . that wight was a bulge in his father’s breeches.’
‘It is a sad day,’ Orisian agreed, ‘but we had best keep up nevertheless.’
They strode after the two Kyrinin, pressing on along the southern flank of the Car Criagar towards Anduran.
Chapter 3
The Black Road
In the days when Monach oc Kilkry was High Thane in Kolkyre, when his Blood had ruled over all the others for close to a hundred years, Amanath the fisherwoman fell into a slumber in Kilvale. For three days and three nights she lay thus, and her family thought she had begun her journey to the Sleeping Dark. They sang songs of loss and put oils upon her eyes. But on the fourth day she awoke and began to speak. She spoke of the Hooded God, the Last God, and of how he had remained when his brothers and sisters left the world. She spoke of the Book of Lives he bore and the tales he read from its pages; tales that told the story of every life there has been or ever will be. And those tales she named the Black Road, which is the fated path from birth to foretold death. She spoke of the Kalclass="underline" the day when humankind would be united by the creed of the Road; when the Gods would answer the call of that unity and return to unmake and remake the world. And she taught that only for those who had been faithful to the creed would there be rebirth in the world that was new.
The fisherwoman’s teachings did not please the powerful. The High Thane’s men hung her from an ash tree. All the Thanes felt fear, save one. Avann oc Gyre-Kilkry who ruled in Kan Avor heard Amanath’s words and took them to his heart. He gathered to him all those who saw the truth, and gave them shelter. And when war came his Blood stood against all the others in the name of that truth. Avann it was who, when Kan Avor had fallen, led the ten thousand over the Vale of Stones and into the north. The truth that Amanath spoke lives there still amongst the Bloods he fashioned. The flame still burns, and does not falter.
Hear well. This is the truth, for those who have the ears to hear. Put away pride and put away fear. The day of your death has already been read from the pages of the Last God’s Book. There is only the fated path. There is only the Black Road .
The vast walls of Vaymouth, shining in the last rays of the sun’s light, soared over Taim Narran dar Lannis-Haig and his company. The capital of the Haig Blood had become, in the last hundred years, what might be the greatest city in the world. Its fortifications were on a scale unseen since the Shining City of the Kyrinin was cast down. The southern gate, called the Gold Gate, was open, its great doors of plated iron swung back and chained in place. A handful of guards were clustered to one side, leaning on their spears and watching the approaching band of men impassively. The beggars whose shack-towns seethed around the city’s walls lined the road, reaching out to the Lannis-Haig warriors.
As he drew close, Taim felt his familiar distaste for the city, and the ambition its grandeur embodied. He would gladly have passed it by and gone on through the coastal plains toward Ayth-Haig lands and the way north, but several of his men would not survive without rest. Ten had already died on the journey back from the Dargannan-Haig mountains. He was tired of burning bodies on makeshift roadside pyres.
He rode through the gateway and was immersed in the shadow of the walls, as if engulfed by a gigantic beast. A figure stepped into the roadway ahead. With a sense of cold resignation, Taim recognised the man who blocked his path: Mordyn Jerain, Chancellor to the High Thane. Born and bred in Tal Dyre but long ago adopted as a son of Vaymouth, Jerain had been at Gryvan oc Haig’s side for nearly twenty years. He was a handsome, brown-haired man whose every movement was precise, poised and considered. He wore his power with ease. He wore, too, a dark reputation. In places where there was little affection for the intricate dealings of the Haig court, the Chancellor was called by the name Shadowhand.
‘I was told you were coming,’ said Mordyn as Taim drew his horse to a halt.
‘Of course.’
The Chancellor smiled, and it was a smile both glittering and hollow. ‘I came out to meet you,’ he said obviously. ‘There are matters we must discuss.’
‘I have men with me who need rest and healing. That is my only interest here. I have permission to quarter my company within the walls. We will rest for a little while, and be on our way.’
Mordyn’s eyes narrowed and he put his graceful hand on the bridle of Taim’s horse.
‘I am Chancellor of the Haig Blood, Narran. There are many demands upon my time. I do not come to meet travellers at the gate for idle entertainment.’
Weariness coursed through Taim, and with it a trace of the anger that lay deep-buried. He looked at the Chancellor’s hand, and at the embroidered cuff of his sleeve. A fine tracery of gold thread wound its way through velvet. The coat had most likely been smuggled out of the Adravane Kingship in the far south, into the Dornach Kingship and thence through either the marketplaces of Tal Dyre or the masterless towns of the Free Coast to Vaymouth. The journey placed a dizzying price upon such a garment, and his possession of it spoke as eloquently of Mordyn Jerain’s status as any title could. This was not a man to trifle with, but Taim had left much of his discretion on the bloodstained screes beneath An Caman Fort.