He knew what it was to be shunned by all, shut out from both of the worlds from which he sprang. All the peoples of the world were outcasts—all craving other certainties to replace those that had departed with the Gods—but none were so bereft as the na’kyrim, with no places, no kind, no children to belong to. Yet in Kennet nan Lannis-Haig Inurian had found a man who could look upon a na’kyrim and see an equal behind the grey eyes that returned his gaze. He had found a whole family he could love in place of the one he would never have: Kennet and Lairis, whose devotion to one another had warmed all the cold halls of Kolglas; Fariel, wonderful Fariel, who had carried his gifts with a grace that belied his youth; Anyara, who could not hide from Inurian’s inner eye the things she concealed so well from others. And Orisian. The boy who grew up in his brother’s shadow, only to have his heart broken when it was taken away and he was exposed to the harsh, ferocious light. He had loved every one of them, but Orisian most of all.
And he had failed them, in the end. Lairis and Fariel had been carried off to The Grave, Kennet cut down, going too gladly to his death. Perhaps Orisian still lived—he would surely have known if that one had died—but if he did he was beyond any help Inurian could give for the time being. There was only Anyara now.
Somehow, if he was allowed the life to do it, he must find a way to shield her.
Outside the window of his cell there was the sound of flapping wings. He rose and looked up. He could not reach the window and saw nothing but the night sky. There was the soft, rasping call of a crow. Inurian smiled sadly and lay down again.
His rest was fitful. The slabs on which he lay were unyielding and the thin blanket could not keep out the cold. What finally roused him was less immediate, less tangible: a calling in his dreams, as if some distant voice was summoning him. He pressed his hands into his eyes as he lay there in the semi-darkness. The feeble first light of dawn coming in through the high window illuminated the cell. There was no sound save the skittering of a rat’s claws somewhere out of sight, and the tapping of half-hearted rain on the roof. He rolled on to one side and sat up. Looking around, his eyes still bleary with sleep, he saw nothing at first. Then the faintest distortion of the air on the far side of the cell caught his attention.
He watched as a shape formed itself out of nothing. It was too tenuous, and the cell too gloomy, for any detail to be visible, but he could tell that it was a female figure that now wavered before him. The rain outside was worsening, its drumming on the roof growing louder.
‘I had thought you might be dead,’ said Inurian.
‘I doubt you thought of me at all,’ came the almost vanishingly soft reply, as if from the walls themselves. Inurian grunted and rubbed at his shoulders.
‘And I had not troubled myself to think of you in some time,’ continued the female voice, ‘until I stumbled across you now.’
‘Well, I’m not sorry to see you, Yvane.’
There was the thinnest thread of laughter in the cell for a moment, and then a pause. ‘That’s kinder than I would have expected.’
Inurian waved a hand irritably, though he knew his visitor could not see him. Not in the way that eyes saw, at least.
‘This is not the time to renew old disagreements,’ he said. ‘You have come looking here because you felt something in the Shared.’
‘I know you can’t be the source, unless you’ve changed a good deal since I saw you last.’ The question had more than a hint of confrontation in its tone.
‘Yvane, Yvane, please. I will not argue with you.’
There was silence, and then the flat reply: ‘Very well.’
‘There is another here. He is what you have felt. His name is Aeglyss. He is young, very raw, but the Shared runs strong in him. Perhaps more strongly than it has in anyone for years.’
‘Does it indeed,’ said Yvane. The scepticism in her voice was clear.
‘Yes,’ insisted Inurian. ‘We were arguing. His anger disturbs the Shared. He’s filled with hate, with resentment. It’s crowded everything else out of him. You know my gifts, and I tell you truly what he is.’
‘What’s he doing in Kolglas?’
‘I’m not in Kolglas,’ said Inurian wearily. ‘I’m in Anduran. The Black Road has me.’
‘The Black Road ? Is Anduran taken?’
‘It is close.’
‘Hmph. It never ends, does it? Your precious Huanin live for the chance to wade around in one another’s blood. How do you come to be in the middle of it? What about that miserable old chiefling who kept you under his roof?’
‘Ah, Yvane,’ sighed Inurian. ‘Please.’
He bowed his head, shorn of all strength. His visitor’s image shimmered as if touched by a breeze, though the air was still.
‘Are you a prisoner, then?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Yvane, if I do not come out of this alive, Highfast should know of Aeglyss. Perhaps even Dyrkyrnon: I think he may have lived there for a time. He said they cast him out. If he continues down the path he’s following, it might take Highfast or Dyrkyrnon to rein him in.’
There was no reply for a time, then: ‘They long for these bloodlettings. Gyre, Haig, Lannis, all of them. From the crib they dream of vengeance for some crime or other committed in the distant past. Father kills father, and so child must kill child. It never ends. Leave them to their cruel games. Nobody will thank na’kyrim for interfering.’
‘Aeglyss has already interfered,’ said Inurian, gazing at the floor. ‘The Gyre Bloods might think he is their puppet, but I doubt they understand what they’re dealing with.’
When Yvane did not reply, Inurian looked up, thinking for a moment that she had left him. The outline of her form was still there, a fragment of cloud glowing palely from within.
‘I would... regret it if you died,’ she said quietly.
‘As would I.’
‘Perhaps I should see for myself,’ she said. The pale figure began in that moment to fade.
‘No,’ hissed Inurian, reaching out an arm. ‘You’ll only alarm him. He’s dangerous. Yvane!’
But she was gone, and he was alone again.
He sat without moving for a long time. Then he unpicked the lace from one of his boots, and drew it out. Closing his eyes, he began to knot it. One small, tight knot after another along its length, pausing over each to savour its shape beneath his fingertips. Outside, dawn was breaking.
The Horin-Gyre Blood held its council of war in the feasting hall that Croesan oc Lannis-Haig had prepared for Winterbirth. The high-roofed chamber was in disarray. Tables and chairs had been overturned and all its decorations torn down. A single huge table stood in the centre, a dozen or more people gathered around it.
Kanin nan Horin-Gyre was seated in the great carved chair that was to have been Croesan’s. His sword lay on the table in front of him. Wain was to his left, his shieldman Igris to his right. Shraeve was there, wearing a cuirass of hardened black leather like the carapace of a martial beetle, and all the captains of the Bloodheir’s army. A single Tarbain chieftain, old and haggard in a jacket trimmed with moth-eaten bearskin, occupied one end of the table. He looked as if he might fall asleep at any moment. Aeglyss the na’kyrim sat a little apart from the others, his chair pulled back: he was here only by the indulgence of the Bloodheir’s sister and Kanin would not grant him a seat at the table.
‘We must make the attempt,’ Wain was saying. Her eyes had a fierce intensity and certitude. ‘We will not be granted enough time to sit here and wait for the castle to be delivered to us. We must reach out and take it.’
Nobody seemed to be inclined to challenge her judgement, though Kanin knew not everyone here agreed with it. He had his own doubts.
‘Is there any fresh word from the scouts this morning?’ he asked.