Only at the very end, when the Horin-Gyre vanguard was over the walls and inside the town, had the castle gates been closed. Then, Croesan had thought there could be no more bitter sound in the world than the desperate voices of those left outside.
Hope had stumbled a little in the Thane’s breast, this last day. If help was to come from Kolglas or Glasbridge it should have arrived by now, and in truth he was not sure how much they could offer anyway. Taim Narran had taken most of their fighting men south with him. The best, and greater, part of the forces left to Lannis-Haig had been on the northern border and must now be trapped in Tanwrye. The real chance of aid was from Kolkyre, and the old Thane Lheanor oc Kilkry-Haig. He would come if he could, Croesan knew. Kilkry and Lannis had been closely bound since the very day Sirian was made into a Thane. It was all a question of time. The Black Road army that held Anduran in its grip did not have the siege engines to breach the castle gate or walls; such machines could never have been transported down through Anlane. If help came before they could be built, and before the castle’s food supplies were exhausted, there would yet be a reckoning with the enemy outside the gate.
The seal of Lannis-Haig was about the Thane’s neck. He lifted it in his hand. It bore the image of Castle Kolglas, the wellspring of his Blood. He wondered if his brother was dead, as the message from Kanin nan Horin-Gyre had claimed. It might be so. The fact that Kennet had not yet come to Anduran could only mean that something had prevented him, and it was hard to imagine how the enemy could have taken Anyara—as they also claimed in that arrow-borne message—except over her father’s body.
Croesan let the seal fall back against his chest and looked around. The audience chamber had never been more finely decorated. Golden ribbons were strung from the throne up to fans of polished boar spears that glinted on the walls. Wreaths of greenery were hung with the banners of Anduran, Kolglas, Glasbridge, Targlas and Tanwrye, the five towns of the Blood. A red carpet, trimmed with gold, ran the length of the chamber.
It had been in this room that the seal was first placed around Croesan’s neck. His father had been dead no more than a few hours, laid low by a fever only months after coming unscathed out of the Battle of Stone Vale. Now three more generations of the Lannis line stood in the magnificent chamber. Croesan looked upon Naradin and Eilan, the latter cradling their baby son in her arms. Husband and wife were dressed in plain white robes that brushed the floor. The baby was wrapped in a cream-coloured sheet. Behind them was gathered a solemn group of officials and castle officers. It was a smaller gathering than the occasion warranted. In more normal times, every family of substance throughout the Thane’s lands would have been represented here to witness what was about to happen.
To one side, close by the Thane, a silver bowl filled with water rested on an oaken stand. Athol Kintyne, the Master Oathman of the Lannis-Haig Blood, waited before it. His grey hair and beard, his stooped shoulders and his skin like well-worn hide bestowed an aura of aged wisdom upon him. His duties, shared with the dozen Oathmen who served him, lay at the heart of the Blood’s life and history. One of those duties was the Naming of infants. That Naming most often took place at the end of the first three months of life. For reasons nobody felt the need to question, the Thane’s grandson was to receive his name before he was even one month old.
‘We should begin,’ murmured Croesan.
Naradin and Eilan came forwards. They stopped by the silver bowl and bowed their heads to the Master Oathman.
‘Who is the child?’ asked Athol.
It was Eilan who gave the reply. ‘He is the son of Eilan, daughter of Clachan and Dimayne, and he is the son of Naradin, son of Croesan and Liann.’
Athol nodded. ‘Wash him,’ he said.
Naradin and Eilan together removed the sheet from the baby and lowered him into the water in the bowl. They handled him carefully. He made no complaint while Naradin held him and Eilan lifted water in her cupped hands and spilled it over his head. Naradin lifted him out again, and Athol proffered a new, immaculate sheet of purest white satin in which he was wrapped.
‘Who is the child?’ asked the Oathman again.
There was the slightest of hesitations before Eilan replied, in a clear and strong voice. ‘He is Croesan nan Lannis-Haig.’
Naradin glanced across to his father. There was a sad smile on the older man’s face. He had not known of this. He blinked. His eyes had taken on a watery sheen.
Athol stepped forwards and tied a fragile strand of cloth about the infant’s wrist.
‘Croesan nan Lannis-Haig, son of Naradin and Eilan, be welcome amongst us. Bear your name with honour.’
There was a ripple of soft approval and congratulation from the onlookers as the Master Oathman straightened and smiled at the mother and father. ‘A well-chosen name,’ he said.
‘We think so,’ smiled Eilan.
‘There is one other thing,’ said Naradin. He turned to his father. ‘Thane, it is my wish to stand in place of my son and to take the bloodoath on his behalf.’
Croesan raised his eyebrows. ‘It is unusual . . .’ He looked to Athol.
‘But possible, of course,’ the Oathman confirmed. ‘It is permitted for one to stand in another’s place in some circumstances.’ He paused for a moment, a trace of uncertainty crossing his face. ‘If... if there is the likelihood of death before they are of an age to do it for themselves.’
Eilan was stroking the baby’s face. She bent over him as if he was all that there was in the world. ‘Our son has a name,’ she said, without looking up, ‘but that is not enough for the grandson of a Thane in such times as these. It would not be fitting should he die with a name, but without a master.’
Croesan sighed. His mouth trembled, and for a moment it seemed that he might not be able to speak.
‘Very well,’ he said thickly. ‘There is no need, since no harm will come to the child, but it is a choice for the parents. Athol, you will accept the Bloodoath from my grandson. Naradin shall stand on his behalf.’
‘Place the child on the floor, Bloodheir, and kneel at his side,’ Athol said.
Naradin did as he was told. The white sheet shone against the dark red carpet. The Thane pressed his lips tight together and turned away, fighting in that moment to calm powerful emotions. The baby was making small, inarticulate sounds. His minuscule hands pawed the air as if he strove to grasp some drifting motes that only he could see.
Athol stepped forwards, interposing himself between the Thane and Naradin. He spoke in a deep, impersonal voice.
‘In the name of Sirian and Powll, Anvar and Gahan and Tavan, the Thanes who have been; of Croesan oc Lannis-Haig, the Thane who is now; and of the Thanes yet to come, I command you all to hear the Bloodoath taken. I am Thane and Blood, past and future, and this life will be bound to mine. I command you all to mark it.’
He reached out an open hand to Naradin. ‘Have you the blade?’ he asked. Wordlessly, Naradin withdrew from a sheath at his belt a short, flat-bladed knife with a handle carved of antler. He laid it hilt first in the Oathman’s palm. Athol held the knife up and examined it.
‘The blade is fresh-forged? Unbloodied? Unmarked?’ he asked, and Naradin avowed it was.
‘By what right do you speak for the oathtaker?’ Athol asked.
‘He is my son’, replied Naradin.
‘It is fitting.’ Athol went down on one knee beside the baby. He held the knife poised by little Croesan’s chubby arm.
‘You will give of your blood to seal this oath?’ Athol asked.
‘I will,’ said Naradin on behalf of his child.
‘By this oath your life is bound to mine,’ the Oathman intoned. ‘The word of the Thane of Lannis-Haig is your law and rule, as the word of father is to a child. Your life is the life of the Blood Lannis-Haig.’