‘Now, little one,’ the Bloodheir said, ‘say goodbye to Orisian.’
The tiny face gazed blankly out from the nest of thick blankets, lips working moistly and soundlessly. A pink tongue gestured vaguely in Orisian’s direction.
‘There,’ said Naradin with satisfaction. ‘I could not have said it better myself.’
‘Probably not,’ agreed Orisian. ‘Look after him well, and salt some of his boar for me. I will see you at the Naming.’
Orisian swung up into his saddle, patting the horse’s muscular neck in greeting. Rothe and Kylane flanked him as he rode out through the massive gatehouse. When Orisian glanced back over his shoulder, Croesan, Naradin and Eilan still stood together, each one raising a hand in farewell. With a last wave, Orisian and his shieldmen turned south through Anduran’s crowded streets towards the road that would carry them down the valley and on to Kolglas and home.
By the time the three riders were beyond the city’s edge, almost vanished into the distance, Croesan oc Lannis-Haig was watching them go from one of the highest windows of Castle Anduran’s keep. As he often did, he felt a twinge of sorrow for Orisian, and that brought forth the familiar mixture of feelings for the boy’s father, Kennet: the bond of love that brotherhood instilled, coloured by frustration and pain. The sadness in Kennet’s heart seemed only to have deepened and grown blacker in the five years since the fevered deaths of Lairis and Fariel, his wife and elder son. It kept Kolglas and all who lived there under a burden of loss. Croesan had lost his own wife many years ago, and thus knew something of what afflicted Kennet, but he had given up any hope of salving the grief that sometimes made itself his brother’s master, and it pained him that the past weighed so upon those he loved. Orisian and his sister Anyara had, after all, lost as much as Kennet, and still found the strength to bear that loss upon shoulders much younger and less sturdy than those of the lord of Castle Kolglas. The Thane sighed and set those thoughts aside as he turned away from the window.
A manservant was waiting by the door. Croesan glanced at him.
‘Find the Steward,’ he said, unable to keep a hint of weariness out of his voice. ‘Ask him to come.’
The servant nodded and left the chamber. Croesan ran a hand through his thick hair. He gazed around the room. A huge table, made in one of Anduran’s finest woodshops fifty years ago by order of his great-uncle Gahan, ran most of its length. The walls bore three broad tapestries. Time and sunlight had faded them somewhat, but they still showed the delicacy of touch that marked them as the work of Kolkyre craftsmen. They had been commissioned by Sirian the Great himself, the first Lannis Thane, and showed scenes from the battle that forged the Blood. Croesan regarded the images for a little while. They were, perhaps, not inappropriate as a backdrop for the conversation he was about to have.
Hard upon the heels of the servant trying to announce his arrival, the Steward swept in: Behomun Tole dar Haig, emissary of the Thane of Thanes within Croesan’s lands. He gave a casual bow and Croesan gestured him towards a chair, simultaneously dismissing the servant with a curt nod. Behomun’s sharp, clever features and ill-concealed arrogance never failed to aggravate Croesan. The man had the satisfied air of one who knew things others did not. A sneer lived surreptitiously at the corner of his mouth, eagerly awaiting any opportunity to creep out of hiding and cavort upon his lips. He was, however, the eyes and ears of Gryvan oc Haig, the High Thane, to whom Croesan had pledged allegiance, and as such he had to be treated with a degree of care. He was like an itch Croesan could reach but was not permitted to scratch.
‘I gather young Orisian has left,’ said Behomun, his tone solicitous. ‘It was remiss of me ... I meant to enquire after his father’s health. Have you heard how your brother fares?’
‘I had word from the south yesterday,’ Croesan said levelly. ‘I am told the battles have not gone well for Igryn; that the Dargannan Blood will soon be subdued.’
‘I have had the same word,’ agreed Behomun, unperturbed by Croesan’s disregard for his question. ‘It seems the rebels will be brought to heel before winter is far advanced, and the Haig Bloods will be united once more.’
‘I am also told,’ continued Croesan, ‘that the men of Lannis have acquitted themselves with honour in those battles. So much honour, I believe, that barely a handful will return to their homes.’
‘Your Blood has always produced warriors of the greatest courage, sire.’
Croesan arched an eyebrow and stared at Gryvan oc Haig’s envoy. ‘Honour and courage will not feed the orphans of Anduran or Glasbridge through the coming winter. They will not guard my lands from the woodwights or from the Gyre Bloods. I have near one in six of all my people dead from the Heart Fever just five years ago, and the best quarter of the fighting strength I had left taken south, on the High Thane’s command, to die so bravely.
‘The last time we sent so many men south we had the armies of Horin-Gyre marching on our frontier within weeks. We won then. Who is to say what will happen if the Black Road comes across the Vale of Stones again? You know as well as I, Behomun, that there has been more skirmishing in the Vale these last few weeks than for many a year. And my own son killed a boar with a woodwight arrow in it not a day’s ride from this castle. When have the White Owls strayed so far into my lands before?’
‘The woodwights can hardly threaten a Blood as versed in the arts of war as yours. Kyrinin bows and spears are no match for the swords of Lannis-Haig. And as for the Bloods of the Black Road, I am certain that if they were to come against you, your strength would turn them back as it has always done, Thane.’
‘Oh, spare me your flattery, Steward,’ said Croesan in exasperation. ‘This is not Vaymouth. You can save your velvet tongue for Gryvan’s court. I’d hate for you to wear it out for my benefit.’
Behomun’s manner changed. That sneer was close, testing its leash. ‘As you wish. Perhaps a different response will find more favour: that your troubles are not to be laid at the door of Gryvan oc Haig. The White Owl Kyrinin hunt your woodcutters and herders because you set your people to clear the forests of Anlane. You must have known that would stir up trouble as surely as a stick poked into a wasp nest.
‘And if your northern borders are less well guarded against the Black Road than you would wish, you should have agreed to the High Thane’s requests for land to settle his veterans upon. An army of proven warriors would now fill the very farms that the Fever emptied, if you had found a place for them. In any case, if you believed there was a serious threat, you would surely not have allowed Taim Narran and the others to go south at all. It would not be the first time you defied a command of your High Thane.’
‘The warriors Gryvan wanted to settle here would take no oath of loyalty to me. To my Blood,’ Croesan snapped.
The Steward snorted and waved a hand. ‘Every one of them loyal to the Haig Bloods, already bound to Gryvan oc Haig himself. As are you and your Blood, lest you have forgotten. Why put them through your old rituals?’
Croesan paused, his gaze lifting for a moment from the Steward’s face to the tapestry on the wall behind him. Sirian was there, riding down the fleeing forces of the Gyre Bloods. Croesan felt old, almost too tired to engage in futile arguments with this man who cared nothing for the past. When the tapestry was made, little more than a century ago, none would have questioned the worth of oaths. None would have thought them to be empty rituals. But Kilkry had been the highest amongst the True Bloods in those days, and many things had been different. Now Lheanor, the Kilkry Thane, bent the knee to Gryvan oc Haig as the rest of them did.
‘Had I known,’ Croesan said at length, ‘that Gryvan would punish my refusal by taking the lives of my men, I might have thought longer.’ Behomun started to protest, spreading his hands in denial of what Croesan said. The Thane spoke over him. ‘But my answer would not have changed. Any man who would be a warrior for the Lannis Blood must swear fealty. It is not so long since the same law was kept in Haig lands, Behomun, though your master seems to have forgotten it.’