She took his hand and kissed it. ‘Of course I am not saying that. I love you. But we could be married in Cithaeron?’
Errin shook his head. ‘You cannot leave without the King’s blessing,’ he said, ‘and he will not give it. The Duke was telling me that seven noble families have secretly left the realm, taking their riches with them. They have been branded traitors and their lands forfeited. This is your home, Dianu. Do you want to live the rest of your life in a foreign land, hated and despised by your countrymen?’
‘You do not see as I see,’ she answered sadly. ‘There is evil here, Errin. Real, terrible evil, waiting to engulf all of us. The King is mad and surrounded by madmen. Did the death of Kester not trouble you? A fine man. A noble man. Put to death for having a Nomad grandmother? Sweet Heaven, Errin! Why do you not see?’
Pulling her to him, he kissed her face. ‘I do see,’ he told her. ‘These are dangerous times. But they will pass ... we can ride out the storm.’
She pushed him from her. ‘It is not enough to ride out the storm. I am leaving here in two days; all the arrangements are made. My father, rest his soul, had many contacts in Cithaeron and I have transferred funds through the merchant, Cartain. All that is left here is the palace - and I can live without that.’
‘All that is left here?’ he said softly. ‘You will leave me here, Dianu . . . and I cannot leave.’
For a long moment she looked into his eyes, saying nothing.
‘It is your choice,’ she said at last.
‘I know that,’ he answered, backing away. ‘May fortune follow you.’
He turned swiftly, opened the door and made his way to the Narrow Hall. The music was faster now, punctuated by the laughter of the dancers as they swept into the furious pace of the Dance of the Storm. Unnoticed, Errin passed through the double doors and out into the night.
Arian ran smoothly up the game trail - her stride long, her footing sure. Every evening the deer travelled this trail, but these she never hunted for they were too close to the settlement. As her father had warned her during her training, ‘When you are fit and strong, hunt far from home. You never know when disaster may strike - a sudden blizzard, or a lame leg — and you may come to need the meat you allowed to live. But hunt within sight of the settlement and you will drive the game far from you.’
He had been a good man and a better father, until the wasting disease hit him. It had been hard watching his strength melt from his bones, despite all his wife’s skills. As the end drew near Arian’s mother prepared him a goblet of wine mixed with foxglove. He had died peacefully and the two women had wept together beside his corpse.
Arian’s mind dwelt on that image as she ran - and she did not see the slender wire, taut across her path. Hitting it with her lead leg, she tumbled to the trail and instantly three men raced from the trees. Dropping her bow Arian reached for her hunting-knife, but a diving body struck the air from her lungs and coarse hands held her down.
‘Well, now,’ said the man sitting astride her and pressing a grimy hand to her breast. ‘What have we here?’ She felt hands tearing at her trews and kicked out. The man above her slapped her viciously across the cheek. ‘Watched you for days, we have,’ he said, casually hitting her with his other hand. ‘Watched you and wanted you. Beg, will you? Beg Grian to spare you?’
Arching her neck, she spat in Grian’s face. Another casual blow snapped her head back to the ground. He ripped open her shirt and gazed down at her body; his face was round and brutal, his mouth open, showing blackened teeth.
‘You pack of whoresons!’ came a voice and the man above Arian stiffened and turned.
Standing at the centre of the trail was a hooded man in a black cloak. The sun was behind him and his face was hidden. Two of the men pulled knives from their belts and Grian also drew a knife, but remained kneeling on the stunned girl.
The hooded man threw his cloak back over his shoulders. His right arm ended at the wrist, the stump covered by a black leather cap laced along his arm. And he carried no weapons. Grian smiled and stood.
‘You picked the wrong time and the wrong place, cripple,’ he said, advancing. ‘You are dead — food for maggots!’
Grian’s two companions eased out to the newcomer’s left and .right, but he did not move back. Instead he stepped forward. The attacker to his left leapt for him with knife arm extended. The cripple swayed back and the knife flashed by him. At the same moment his elbow hammered into the attacker’s throat and he staggered, his face turning blue. Then he slumped, dying, to his knees, his fingers scrabbling at his throat. As the second knifeman charged in the hooded man spun on his heel and leapt, his booted foot thundering into the man’s jaw. The knifeman’s neck cracked like a dry stick. The hooded man landed lightly and turned back to Grian.
‘You won’t take me with your fancy tricks,’ Grian snarled.
‘No, I won’t,’ said the man softly.
Grian stepped forward. Arian’s knife entered his lower back, driving up through his lungs and into his heart. A strangled cry escaped him as he fell face down in the earth.
Arian found her trews and pulled them on. The laces were cut, but she roughly fastened them. When she looked back the stranger was sitting on a tree-trunk with his face turned from her. Gathering her bow, she moved to him.
‘My thanks, for your gallantry.’
He pushed back his hood and she saw a square face and deep brown eyes. He was not handsome, but he radiated strength. He smiled and became handsome.
‘It was not gallant, it was merely necessary. Are you hurt?’
‘Only my pride. I should have seen their trap.’
‘It is only from such mistakes that we learn. How are you called?’
‘I am Arian.’
He nodded and rose. He was a head taller than Arian, which made him tall indeed. ‘Is your home close by?’ he asked.
‘About an hour to the west.’
‘May I escort you there?’
‘There is no need,’ she told him, reddening.
‘No offence was intended, Arian. It is just that I am hungry, and a meal would not be unpleasant.’
‘You have not told me your name.’
‘I am Elodan.’
She looked into his dark eyes and kept the pity from her own. ‘The King’s champion?’
‘Once upon a time. Shall we go?’
‘You really should not walk in the forest un . . . without weapons. It is not safe,’ she said.
‘No, I will be more careful,’ he told her with a wry smile. She looked back at the bodies and grinned.
‘There are some larger bands of wolfsheads - and despite your skill, you are no match for a bowman.’
‘Indeed I am not.’ Together they set off down the trail, Arian leading. After a while she looked back at him. ‘You are very quiet,’ she said.
‘I was thinking.’
‘What about?’
‘Are you married?’ he asked.
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘Merely to make conversation. How old are you?’
‘Seventeen. And you?’
‘Older than time.’ He chuckled. ‘At least, it feels like it sometimes.’
‘You don’t look more than thirty.’
‘As I said, older than time - to a seventeen-year-old.’
Waking with a sore head and a stomach that seemed to be on wheels, Errin groaned and rolled to his side. The empty flagon of wine lay in pieces where he had hurled it at dawn. He opened his eyes slowly and groaned again as he remembered the events of the previous evening. Dianu was going away. He could not quite believe it, yet he knew her well enough to realize that she meant what she said. He decided to ride to her palace later in the afternoon.
His new manservant, Boran, entered silently. ‘Your bath is ready, my Lord,’ he said.
‘For pity’s sake, don’t shout,’ Errin told him.
‘I hear it was a good feast, sir.’
Errin looked up at the balding servant, taking in his tanned healthy face and his sickeningly clear eyes. ‘I feel that if I blink too quickly I will bleed to death,’ he said.
‘The bath will revive you, my Lord, and the Council meets in an hour.’
Errin flopped back on his pillows and pulled the blankets over his head. Boran sighed, cleared away the broken flagon, opened the velvet curtains and left the room. Alone once more, Errin sat up. The Council of Nobles was a deadly dull affair and usually no more than three or four of them turned up for the meeting. ‘ But today was different. Today the Red Knight, Cairbre, would be present, along with the Lord Seer, Okessa. Everyone would be there, vying to show their loyalty to the King.
‘A pox on it,’ said Errin, sliding from the bed and walking through to the outer room and his steaming bath. The water was rose-scented, which Errin had never liked, and Ubadai had never forgotten that. But Boran was new and had yet to learn his master’s tastes. Errin walked down the marble steps and splashed into the bath. After a few minutes Boran entered with his robe and the nobleman stepped into it. ‘How do my eyes look?’ he asked the servant. Boran peered at him.
‘Bloodshot, sir. In fact you do not look well.’
‘You should see them from this side. What shall I wear?’
‘After the meeting, the Duke has arranged a hunt, so I have laid out your riding outfit.’
‘The black leather with silver trim?’
‘No, sir, the red.’
‘Make it the black. I’ll leave the red to the Duke’s guest.’
‘Yes, sir. Might I suggest some breakfast, sir?’
‘No,’ said Errin, shuddering as his mobile stomach heaved.
‘You may be glad of it while bouncing up and down on a horse.’
‘Bouncing? One doesn’t bounce, Boran. One rides.’
‘Indeed, my Lord. Perhaps a little dry bread?’ Errin nodded and walked through to his bedroom, waiting while Boran fetched his clothes. The trews were fashionably cut from soft black leather, ending at the calf. Over these Errin pulled a pair of knee-length black boots. His tunic was of wool, black and unadorned, while his riding coat was of black leather, double-shouldered and trimmed with silver thread.
‘You will need a cloak, sir; there is a vicious wind.’
‘I’ll take the black one, with the sheepskin lining and the hood.’
‘It needs to be oiled, sir. I will have it ready after the meeting.’
After breaking his fast with bread and a little cheese, Errin walked across the courtyard to the main hall. Some membeis of the Council were already inside, waiting to be summoned through to the inner chambers.
‘Good morning, Lord Errin,’ said a portly man dressed in riding clothes of green velvet. Sweat shone on his brow.
‘It is pleasant to see you, Lord Porteron. I missed you at the feast.’
‘Yes, yes. I had work to attend to. I am told it was a fine affair.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Errin, turning to greet a newcomer. ‘Lord Delaan, good morning. You look wonderfully refreshed considering your exertions on the dance floor.’
The slim young man in the brown tunic grinned. ‘Youth, my dear Errin. My, my, you do look a little frail.’
‘I guarantee that I look better than I feel. You know Lord Porteron?’
‘Of course. How are you, sir?’
‘I am well. Very well. Couldn’t be better.’
During the next few minutes the other lords and knights made their entrance. Last to arrive was the Lord Seer, dressed in robes of white. Errin greeted them all and sent a message to the Duke that the Council was assembled. As always the Duke kept them waiting the obligatory ten minutes, then they filed into the inner chamber where a long table was set with six chairs on either side and two at the head. The Duke was sitting talking to Cairbre.
As the nobles entered the Duke waved them to their seats and Errin strode the length of the table to sit alongside Cairbre. The man seemed greatly refreshed; his eyes were clear and there was colour in his pale cheeks.
‘I see that you slept well, Sir Cairbre,’ said Errin.
‘I am well rested. Thank you for your concern.’
The business of the day proceeded much as always. Tax gathering was discussed, and the greater incidences of robbery close to the forest. There was talk from Porteron of a problem with runaway slaves in the west and a shortage of skilled workers for the fields. It was agreed to ship forty slaves to his estate.
‘What is causing the shortage?’ asked Errin. Porteron blinked and rubbed at his sweating face with a handkerchief.
‘It is not a great problem, Lord Errin.’
‘I take your word for that, of course. But is it disease?’
‘No, no. Naturally we have followed to the letter the decree of our dear - and revered - monarch, but we have . . . had a large number of resident Nomads. They have been sent to Gar-aden, and . . . temporarily you understand ... we are short of workers.’
‘I see. Thank you.’
‘We expected short-term problems of this nature,’ said Okessa smoothly. ‘But the land, and its nobles, can only benefit from the removal of these tainted souls.’
All around the table heads nodded in agreement. ‘You have a further point to make?’ Okessa asked.
Errin shook his head. ‘No, my Lord Seer. I understand that in Mactha there is now a shortage of bread, since the local baker was dispossessed.’
‘The shortage arose, Lord Errin, because the filthy Nomad burned down his own premises. He should have been hung.’
‘May I say a word, gentlemen?’ said Cairbre, rising. ‘I know - as does the King - that the removal of the Nomad vermin is bound to cause immediate hardship in many areas. But the ultimate goal is a worthy one ... a crusade, if you will. Less than thirty years ago, the Lords of this kingdom ruled the entire continent. For two hundred years we brought laws, education, civilization to nations of barbarians. But we allowed ourselves to become weak, tainted with the blood of lesser peoples, and now we rule only the land of the Nine Duchies. Our strength, both physical and spiritual, has been polluted. A great cleansing is needed. Until this year the economy of the realm has been largely in the hands of the merchant class, who are predominantly Nomad. The King was becoming powerless in his own land. Now the treasury is ruled by the King and his wisdom is beyond question. The future, gentlemen, stands and beckons. When the realm is rid of all impurity, we shall rise again and become pre-eminent among nations!’
Cairbre sat down to stunned silence, which was immediately broken as the Duke applauded, followed by the entire Council. Errin clapped hands with the rest, but less enthusiastically. Words and phrases flashed in his mind: Lesser peoples. Vermin. Impurity. Taint.
‘Thank you, Sir Cairbre,’ said Okessa. ‘Your stirring words have brought us to the most delicate of matters. As you will know, the King has decreed that all of Nomad blood are to be sent to Gar-aden. I have, on the Duke’s insistence, begun examinations of all families with known Nomad connections. It seems we have two noble families in Mactha with tainted blood.’
Errin’s eyes flickered around the table. Lord Porteron’s face was chalk-white.
‘Sadly, our duty to the King necessitates that these also be sent to Gar-aden,’ Okessa continued.
‘I have always been loyal,’ said Porteron, rising. ‘My family has fought in three wars for the King and the crown.’
‘Your loyalty is not in question, sir,’ said Okessa with a thin smile. ‘And I am sure the King will arrange your speedy return to us.’
‘This is outrageous! Insane!’
‘Be so kind, Porteron,’ said the Duke, ‘as to wait outside. There are men waiting there who will take you to your quarters.’
‘Sir Cairbre!’ shouted Porteron. ‘Surely the King cannot mean to destroy the noble families? The Nomad line in my House goes back to my great-grandfather.’
The Red Knight rose, his eyes cold. ‘Already you have shown the worth of your Nomad blood. A direct order from your Duke to leave has been disobeyed moreover, you have willingly sent to Gar-aden people from your district who have even more tenuous blood links than your own. Had your true blood been in the ascendancy, you would have come to the Duke and confessed. Now get out of my sight.’
Porteron staggered back as if struck and stumbled from the room. Errin had guessed that Porteron was out of favour when he had been instructed not to invite him to the Feast. But this?