To travel through the forest in the company of Kyrinin was a revelation to Orisian. He had been on hunts often enough—riding in his uncle’s parties or going more softly with a hawk on his arm—and when he was younger he had played with Fariel and Anyara in the fringes of the great forests around Kolglas, and gone with his father to visit Drinan or Stryne deep in the woodlands, but none of that changed the fact that his heart lay with the open vistas of the coast and the Glas valley.
So it was for most of the people of the Lannis Blood. Even though some grazed their cattle deep into Anlane when the season was right, and woodsmen bred their mighty horses to haul timber to the workshops of Anduran, the forest was not where they belonged. It was a wild place to be cleared, or a source of food, wood and forage that could be harvested only with a wary eye.
Now, following in the wake of Ess’yr and Varryn, Orisian realised what it might be like to see the forest in a different way. It was not just that the Kyrinin went confidently and quickly over land that had no trails; it was, as much as anything, all the things he never even glimpsed. The first time Ess’yr paused for half a stride and lifted her head, just as a deer might, before moving on, he was puzzled. After it had happened twice more, he realised that she was hearing, or smelling, or feeling things that were beyond his reach.
Once he understood that, the forest changed its character for him. Birds that passed croaking overhead seemed to be calling a name he could not catch. Trees looked as though they were human figures frozen in the midst of some contorted movement. On the second day out from the vo’an, as the four of them came around the edge of an impenetrable thicket of brambles and saplings, the two Kyrinin froze, snapping into a stillness so deep it was startling. Orisian and Rothe halted as well. Ess’yr and Varryn sank down to their haunches and gestured for the humans to do the same.
They waited thus for what seemed an age. Orisian’s muscles tightened in his legs and the wound in his side throbbed. He longed to ask what was happening, and knew that any frustration he felt would be multiplied several times in Rothe. It would infuriate his shieldman to be held thus at the whim of the Kyrinin.
At last, somewhere up ahead, there was rustling and the sharp crack of a fallen branch giving way beneath a heavy tread. A great creature was moving through the forest, climbing up the slope heedless of any undergrowth that might bar its way. The sounds lingered for a few minutes and then faded as the animal passed beyond earshot. Even then, the Kyrinin kept them immobile and silent for a long time. Eventually Varryn rose and without a backward glance set off once more as if nothing had happened.
‘Bear. The wind is kind,’ Ess’yr said.
After that Orisian imagined the creature somewhere above them, a dark, ill-formed presence, watching them from afar.
When they rested they sat a little way apart, Huanin and Kyrinin keeping their distance. Rothe sniffed suspiciously at the food Ess’yr offered. There were little strips of flaking dried meat so desiccated and aged that it was almost black, and a handful of big seeds that Orisian did not recognise. When he split one between his teeth it had a nutty, sharp taste. Rothe gnawed with a wary grimace at the frayed end of the meat. He wrinkled his nose, but teased a strand of the fibrous material loose and chewed on it.
‘I would give a lot for a rack of roast boar,’ muttered Rothe as he probed with a fingernail to loosen scraps of food from the crevices between his teeth.
‘Perhaps when we reach Anduran,’ Orisian said.
‘That would be good,’ Rothe agreed. ‘And a bench to sit on instead of wet grass, and a bed to go to at the end of the day.’
‘I didn’t know you liked your comforts so much,’ said Orisian with a smile.
‘It’s nothing but sense, to wish to be elsewhere than under the stars when winter’s come. I’ve had my full share of rocks for pillows and trees for a roof. The years chip away at a man’s patience for such things. Still, I shouldn’t be hankering after comforts, meagre or otherwise. It’s not feasting and sleeping we’re headed for.’
‘No,’ murmured Orisian. One way or another, it could only be war they were travelling towards; something he felt unready for, something he was not sure he would be able to meet in the way he should. Yet a part of him felt that only war could make sense of the horrors of Winterbirth. Orisian was feeling something he never had before: a desire for blood to wash away blood. The thought felt like a tapeworm lodged in the gut of his mind. He could almost see Inurian shaking his gentle head in disapproval.
Rothe sensed his distracted gloom, and patted him upon the shoulder. It was a soft touch, from those calloused, blunt hands.
‘We’ll come safe through this, Orisian. You’ll see. The Blood is strong. And I’ll not leave your side, whatever comes.’
‘I’ll be safer than anyone in the valley, then.’
‘Of course. I’ve killed an Inkallim. Not even Taim Narran could claim that.’
Having Rothe with him was a source of strength to Orisian. In one way alone did the precious shieldman’s presence make for a less easy journey, and that was in the tension between him and Varryn. Rothe’s frustration—fury, almost—at having to follow where the Kyrinin led was never far from the surface. It showed in the rigidity of his jaw and the way he would sometimes tug distractedly at his beard while he stared ahead.
It was clear that Varryn was not inclined to make the experience any easier. He made no concessions to the humans’ lesser agility or surefootedness in the routes he took, and offered no explanations for anything he did. Even to Orisian, whose instinct, however hesitant, was to trust these two Kyrinin, there appeared to be a cold arrogance in Varryn. And his tattoos, the kin’thyn that swirled over his face like the dance of blue fireflies, did nothing to soften the impression. Though he felt a pang of disloyalty at the thought, Orisian suspected that even Rothe might not be a match for the Kyrinin, on this ground at least. Perhaps that was part of what lay between the two men; perhaps such warriors instinctively weighed each other’s worth, played out some confrontation in their minds to see who would emerge the victor. Varryn’s arrogance might be that of the one who had triumphed, in both his own imagination and Rothe’s.
Several times, when he lost his footing upon some slick patch of moss or broke a twig with his tread, Orisian heard a muttered ‘Ulyin,’ from Varryn. Once, Rothe caught the word as well.
‘What do you think ulyin means, anyway?’ he asked Orisian darkly.
‘I don’t know,’ Orisian lied. ‘Probably “be careful”.’
As they worked their way along the flank of the mountains it was sometimes hard to believe that they were still within the lands claimed by Croesan’s uncle. Once or twice they did come across a path that was too crude and obvious to be the work of Kyrinin. Varryn would not let them follow such routes. Sometimes, too, there were clearings where they saw signs of grazing by cattle, or could make out the scars left by some woodsman’s or hunter’s camp. None of these marks his people had left upon the forest struck Orisian as anything other than transient. He saw nothing that would not be healed.
He thought of the face of the Anain that watched over In’hynyr’s vo’an. Ess’yr had said that the Anain were here, even if they did not show themselves. Orisian found himself glancing at flickering shadows, and at the movement of branches stirred by the wind. He started at the clattering eruption of pigeons out of the trees. The sharp barking of foxes in the dusk took on a shivery quality in his ear.