Mordraud, Book One (61 page)

And
she sobbed until she felt her eyes would burst.

***

‘Why do you do it?’

Mordraud
opened the frost-stiffened leather pouch and broke up a hunk of bread as dry as a stone. He chewed slowly, evading the pain that pushed to reveal itself every time he performed the simplest of actions. His chest now showed few traces of the harmony flashes that had shot so close to killing him, but he was perfectly aware his struggle had merely shifted inside his body. That wasn’t a wound that could be healed by rest. Death was usually the outcome of a similar attack. Without fighting, without resisting. But he hadn’t died and, oddly, found this curious, rather than surprising.

He had
been unable to look at himself the first few days, but Adraman had told him what the healers found on stripping him inside the casualty tent. A face like ash. Chest skin as black as charcoal, split and throbbing. Neck veins repulsively swollen. Blood never ceasing to trickle from his mouth. They hadn’t believed for a second he’d make it through the night. Even less so the following night. When it grew clear to all that he hadn’t the slightest intention of giving up, a few began uttering the word
miracle
paired with his name. But Mordraud didn’t feel like the result of a miracle. The pain had anything but subsided. It had burrowed down into his flesh, and no herbal remedy could soothe it. He could only clench his teeth and carry on, as he had always done.

‘
Why do you do it?’

He hadn
’t wanted an escort with him. Not out of arrogance, but purely through good sense. The world had become totally white. Snow on the fields, on the meadows, on the dry trees and below them. Snow in the sky. Snow on the houses. He himself was a beacon in the night, a black dot on an entirely white canvas. Had they been many in number, it would have been impossible not to draw attention. And so, alone and in shoddy dress, he could at least hope to be mistaken for a beggar, and could hide anywhere, even in a hole in the ground. He had just his sword with him, well-concealed in the folds of his blankets. Nothing more. The idea of horses hadn’t even been discussed. Those few still holding out were needed by the army. And Mordraud also feared some particularly famished stranger could have the unpleasant idea of murdering him just to get his mount. So he travelled alone and on foot, bearing up through the pain step after step, the only person in a landscape that had lost all colour, as well as its essence.

“
Why do you do it?”

“
What?”

“
Go on fighting. Go on hurling your life beyond the Rampart. Why do you do it? What is it that yokes you to Eldain’s cause? Why have you made it your own?”

The question of all questions
. Mordraud slowly chomped on the piece of tasteless grey bread, staring at the paltry flames of his small fire. He’d camped at the edge of the wood, beneath a tree that had died under the weight of the ice. Adraman had said goodbye with that question, and he’d been unable to answer.

He did
n’t know what to say even after day upon day of trudging alone.

‘
Because I’ve got an unsettled score,’ he could have said. ‘Because Cambria has to pay for what it did to my family,’ was another excellent reply. ‘Because I hate my brother, and I know he’s an Imperial Lance. Hence all Imperial Lances have to die,’ was a little extreme, but it made some sense.

‘
Because I’m screwing your wife, even if you’re my friend, and I deserve to atone for my guilt, on the battlefield,’ was almost true.

But
none of those answers was enough to convey the full sentiment of what he felt.

‘
Because Eld is my home, and the people who fight for it are my family. Because I care about the lads awaiting their outcome behind the Rampart.’

That
was perhaps the closest answer. And it only came to him as he looked into the fire, and ate his chunk of mouldy bread. He was missing Mercy, Giant, Hammer. He felt he could hear Berg’s voice ferociously barking a command. That funny old bastard, he mused with emotion. He was torn up at the thought that Red had died and he hadn’t been there with him when it happened.

Sleeping at n
ight was impossible in that cold, so Mordraud carried on with his trek when the light faded from the horizon. Moving was the only decent way to keep warm, even if each pace was an ordeal. Eldain had welcomed the idea with open arms, but grew angry when Mordraud insisted on setting off in person, and alone.

“
You’re in a pitiful state, my boy,” he admonished furiously. “It’s out of the question.”

“
Gwern’s my brother. He’ll help us if I’m there to ask him,” he’d replied, with a partial lie. Gwern would help anyone – he was so good and willing. But Mordraud wanted to personally take on the responsibility for getting his brother mixed up in that business. It was his duty, not Eldain’s, not Adraman’s, nor that of any other captain. It was his alone.

“
Well let’s ask Saiden himself then! He’ll know what to do. Your brother is still very young! And perhaps he’s not capable of...”

“
Gwern will certainly know what to do, I’m sure of it,” Mordraud had cut short. All that confidence was, in fact, based on a mere supposition, but he by far preferred to try through Gwern, rather than a renowned chanting expert who’d nevertheless always shown no interest in the rebels, the Alliance and all the rest. Mordraud bore absolutely no trust in the power of harmonies. But in his brother he did.

Perhaps he
’d been rash, boasting of Saiden’s help without even knowing whose side he took in the war. And Gwern might not even be competent enough to help him.

To do what, he wondered with a bitter smile. He was
a wreck. He was likely the weak link in his flimsy plan. ‘Well, at least I’ve secured a few days of respite, to lend Eldain a hand...’ he considered, desolate.

The
night slipped away one step after another, in moonless and starless darkness. Sounds were suffocated by the snow, and were as heavy as millstones in water. Mordraud hadn’t seen an animal for days, and the last one he’d come across he’d eaten raw, so great was his desire to taste a bite of fresh meat. A lynx, dopey and dazed by the cold. A knife had sufficed to lay it out flat, plus a good fast aim from a short distance away. Mordraud was still absorbed in the memory of that tasty improvised dinner when he saw a sickly dawn emerge through the mist, along with the outline of a solid tower, a solitary column amidst an endless white pasture.

‘
Here we are!’

He quickened his pace,
but his legs sank down into the snow, making it all more arduous. He found, in some places, that he had to almost slither so as not to end up submerged to his neck in the freezing snow. It fell to such an insistent rhythm that the snowflakes didn’t have the time to harden, and changed into a sort of fine fleecy sand. Mordraud came to the foot of the tower. Somebody had cleft a channel so the door could be reached. He missed his step and tumbled over, bashing his back on the iron slab. The rumble attracted hurried paces. Mordraud rolled into the building between his brother’s legs.

“
Mo... Mo... Mo...”

“
I’m glad to see you too, Gwern,” burst out a stunned Mordraud.

“
But what are you doing here?!” cried Gwern, helping him to stand up. He dusted the snow from his shoulders and hair, and flitted around him on tiptoe in excitement. Gwern took his cape and handed him a thicker heavy blanket. Together they walked towards the centre of the tower, the spiral staircase. Mordraud gazed around and attempted a whistle, but his lips were frozen.

“
What place is this?!”

“
It belonged to the Aelians,” Gwern answered, stretching his arms wide. “Didn’t mum ever tell you about a place like this?”

“
No... she didn’t. It’s all so empty and cold.”

“
Essential
, I’d say,” Gwern exclaimed. “I’d like to have known more about mum and her relatives...”

Gwern
fell silent. Saiden had come out of his room. He was observing them from a suspended banister-free landing, dizzyingly higher up than they were.

“
Who is it, Gwern?”

“
It’s my brother, sir!” he shouted. Mordraud bowed his head, uncertain of what to do next. Saiden ran nimbly down. When he reached them, his eyes shifted from one to the other, and he was rooted to the spot. His brother’s sternum seemed intriguing too, thought Gwern in surprise.

“
Sorry, who did you say...?”

“
My brother Mordraud, sir. I brought him in. I didn’t ask permission...”

“
You did just the right thing...” Saiden replied in bewilderment. He was astounded by something that only he could see. Mordraud looked around confused, disoriented. “I didn’t mean to bother you,” he started, but Saiden catapulted towards him and seized his arms. He felt them, astonished. He also touched the young man’s neck and chin. Gwern was left speechless. Mordraud stood still, shocked.

“
Amazing. He could only be your brother, Gwern...”

Saiden
suddenly regained composure. He moved away from Mordraud and apologised. “I was eager to meet the person Gwern has praised on so many occasions...”

“
The pleasure’s mine,” replied Mordraud, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

***

Saiden left the two brothers to dine alone. Deer-meat and onions. Mordraud devoured the bones and cartilage, licked his plate and, using his fingers, polished off the crumbs from a hunk of bread – Gwern’s usual reserves for relieving hunger during practice. The boy contemplated his brother’s voracity, astounded. And passed him his portion of meat too.

Mordraud,
totally contradicting his customary behaviour, accepted without protest.

“
How’s Larois?”

“
Erm... Fine, I think...” Mordraud grunted, choking on a mouthful of red wine. “I’ve been stationed at the Rampart for months now. The last time I was in Eld...”

He broke off. He couldn
’t tell his brother he’d gone home just to screw Adraman’s woman. Even if he hunted around for a better way to put it, Gwern would never understand.

And
he’d be more than right.

“
You spent most of your time in the barracks, I suppose...”

“
Well, yes... I did.”

“
But how are things going at home?”

How did he
suppose they were going, Mordraud mused in frustration. Terribly. He questioned himself yet again on whether he’d made a wise decision in consulting his brother. He was still too young. Mordraud felt he shouldn’t tell him exactly what was happening outside that fantastical tower, where you could still eat fresh meat and the wine was not a gloomy liquid ghost of past times. Perhaps he’d be better attempting the enterprise alone.

“
The fiefdom’s on its knees... We’ve got to do something.”

“
What do you have in mind?”

“
I was wondering...” Mordraud whispered. “If this winter’s caused by chanting... could a chanter hear it even at a great distance?”

“
Hmm, I think so,” Gwern replied concisely. Mordraud stared at him in amazement.

“
I thought it would be much harder to explain my idea!”

“
No, it’s quite clear,” Gwern went on. When he talked of harmonies and chanting, he took on a decidedly different air to his usual one. Far more confident.

“
If it were a huge resonance, we’d be able to hear it here too, I’d say.”

“
And would you know what to do about it?!”

Gwern
took a deep breath.

“
No.”

“
So how can you be so certain?!” Mordraud blurted in consternation. He’d hoped through and through that Gwern would know what to do. They were buggered, he thought, gripped by panic.

“
I need to discuss it with Saiden. I reckon he should be able to give me some advice.”

“
But do you already know how to chant?”

“
Yes, I’m rather good at it. But I haven’t found the right resonances yet. I’m nearly there, brother. Very nearly.”

Mordraud
nodded, convinced. Gwern was a mask of utter conviction. He clenched his fists as if he wanted to pulp them.

“
I’m sure I can lend you a hand.”

“
And do you reckon Saiden will help you too?”

“
I’ll do what I can.”

Mordraud
gave him a pat on the back and beamed. Gwern returned a faint wonky grin. He was extremely tense. But also shamefully euphoric. He’d been waiting for his chance to pay everyone back for ages. Mordraud especially. All he had to do was persuade his tutor to explain to him how to put the idea into practice. All Saiden’s speeches about the Gods and interpreting various occurrences had driven him to think a great deal. If that implausible winter was caused by something or someone – thus excluding the Gods – then that cause had to reside in the mysterious power of harmonies. Cambria’s speciality.