‘Oh Gods.’
‘What is it?’ Vesna asked. ‘Can you place him?’
Isak ignored the question and asked the abbot, ‘Can you not do anything for him? Have you tried to heal it with magic?’
‘Of course, my Lord,’ the abbot replied, ‘we are a dual-aligned abbey, dedicated to Nartis and Shotir.’ He brushed the yellow cuff of his habit: Isak now realised it was the colour of the God of Healing. ‘Unfortunately, our best efforts - and we do have a number of talented healers here -have proved fruitless. The damage done to Hobble’s ankle is no normal injury, and our magic has had no effect. I suspect Hobble believes the hurt done to him was a divine judgment, that he has something to atone for. Certainly that impression is sustained by the vigour he goes about any task he is given, but considering how selfless the man is, I cannot begin to imagine what that might be.’
Isak stared down the road at the man limping through the crowds of townsfolk. ‘Tsatach’s balls,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘An angry boy’s moment of petulance, nothing more, and he takes it as a divine judgment?’ Now he knew why the last king had been so amused.
‘My Lord?’ said the abbot anxiously, trying to catch Isak’s words.
‘What does he do at the hospital?’
‘He is experienced at dressing wounds and spends much of his day tending to the poor folk afflicted with leprosy. He will not turn from the most menial of tasks.’
‘Leprosy?’ Isak exclaimed, wide-eyed with alarm.
The abbot chuckled. ‘My Lord, calm yourself. We have tended lepers in these parts for decades; I am certain there is no risk of contagion. Brother Helras has been in charge of the hospital for ten years now, and has persisted in good health the entire time. You are quite safe.’
‘Did Brother Hobble know that when he volunteered for the duties?’
The abbot paused. ‘I’m not sure . . . perhaps. If not, it is a testament to the man’s faith, no? Now, may I show you around the abbey and offer you refreshment?’
‘The consequences of this life,’ he muttered under his breath, too softly for anyone else to hear.
He tells me to be thankful for what I have, yet every step of the way I hurt someone else. In my wake I hardly notice the futures I ruin. Oh Mihn, you’ve got such faith in me, but what magnificent destiny are you going to find down a road paved with broken lives?
‘My Lord?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Lead the way.’
That evening, Isak found himself out in the walled garden again, staring up at the hunter’s moon at its zenith. The memory of Brother Hobble, struggling with his crutch and scowling down at the ground, had haunted him all day. Clearly he had not forgiven Isak for the injury, divine retribution or no, and Isak certainly couldn’t blame him for that: constant pain and the end to his life as a Swordmaster were hard things to forgive - although the latter must have been the man’s own choice, knowing Swordmaster Kerin as he did. It was the heroes of war who gained Farlan titles and fame, and there were dozens of men who’d found their place in the Land through being a champion of the Ghosts.
‘Contemplating the futility of existence, my Lord?’
Isak whirled around at the unknown voice, Eolis flashing from its sheath. The silver blade glowed in the moonlight as a man stepped from the shadows with a chuckle. A sword remained sheathed on his back while his hands were held out in Farlan greeting.
‘With such gifts, who could lead a futile life?’
‘Who are you?’ Isak tried to make out the man’s face. He wasn’t Farlan; his lighter hair and darker complexion made him look more Western, if anything. His dress was dark, functional, reminding Isak of the King’s Men of Narkang. Not quite a soldier, and more than one.
‘I am Ilumene.’ There was a pause. The man stood with the ghost of a sardonic smile on his lips. Isak had the oddest sensation, that Ilumene was not just a King’s Man, he could be King Emin’s son -though of course he could not be, as he was some thirty summers old, and Queen Oterness was well noted for having failed to produce an heir . . . but this man did have every ounce of Emin’s mocking arrogance.
‘For a man who seems to like the sound of his own voice, you’ve gone suddenly quiet,’ Isak said. ‘If you don’t want me to run you through, perhaps you would care to explain yourself in a little more detail?’
The edge in Isak’s growling voice served only to widen Ilumene’s smile. The man had two scars on his otherwise handsome face, on the left-hand side. One skirted the ridge of his eyebrow; the second was a jagged cut down the outside of his cheek.
‘I am of the Brotherhood.’ Ilumene gave a chuckle and turned his head to the right to give Isak a better view of his scar. ‘But as you can see, my duties have not left me unsullied.’ The base of his earlobe that would have carried the Heart rune had been torn away by the cut. When Ilumene pointed at his ear, Isak saw a network of criss-crossing scars on his hands, as though the man had been dragged through a bramble bush of steel thorns.
‘Strange that you didn’t appear when Morghien was here.’
For an instant Ilumene looked genuinely shocked. ‘I didn’t know Morghien had been in the region. Come to think of it, I didn’t know you and he were known to each other. It seems I have much to catch up on. When did he leave?’
‘Today, this morning.’
‘I’m surprised he didn’t wait then; I’ve not seen him for a long time. I was starting to wonder whether he could sniff us out - I can’t remember how often he’s stepped out from behind the only tree around on a deserted stretch of road.’
Isak relaxed a little. There may have been something odd about Ilumene, but he’d not liked all of those Brothers he’d met in Narkang either -the tall, blond one with a scar all the way down the side of his face, Beyn; King Emin and Doranei were confident of his loyalty, but there was something about the man’s face that Isak didn’t care for.
I suspect it’s just because he has a white-eye’s arrogance
, he thought, being honest with himself.
As it was clear that Ilumene did know Morghien, and Isak was certain the wanderer wasn’t one for casual acquaintances, he sheathed Eolis.
Ilumene stepped a yard closer so they could speak normally.
‘Well, I suppose that also answers how you got past the guards,’ Isak commented. ‘I hope you didn’t hurt any of them.’
Ilumene gave a small smile. ‘One will have wounded pride when his comrades find him, but nothing more. King Emin may encourage many unsavoury traits in his men, but a love of killing is not one of them.’
Though Ilumene spoke with a smile, there was an edge that left Isak with a slight frown. Most of the Brotherhood were respectful of their king to the point of reverence; Ilumene sounded like he was on more familiar terms with Emin. Maybe, Isak reflected, it’s because they’re so similar. His brief time in Narkang was enough for him to realise King Emin was not hot on excessive formality if it were not necessary.
Isak broke the brief silence. ‘I take it you were here for a reason?’
‘There is always purpose in my master’s actions.’
And in your choice of words?
Isak wondered. A prickle ran down his neck, but he refused to let it show. The man was playing a game, trying to unsettle Isak - but could he expect anything less of King Emin’s friend?
‘And that purpose is?’
Ilumene shrugged. ‘I was to give you a message, though I do not pretend to understand everything behind it. King Emin is secretly travelling to Scree, the Brotherhood his only guards -it was thought that you should know.’
‘Scree? Why? What’s happened there?’
‘I intend to leave tonight to find out more. The message was short; there was no space for explanations. I have heard a rumour about a monk fleeing his monastery and hiding in Scree.’
‘A monk? What could a monk have done to make Emin hunt him down personally?’ Isak was genuinely confused. ‘And in Scree, no less? I’d have thought a White Circle stronghold was the last place Emin would want to go.’
‘Unless he considered it important enough,’ Ilumene corrected him. ‘I have the impression the king will not be the only one hunting the monk.’
‘What could a monk have done to attract that sort of interest—no, wait, let me think: if a monk has done something wrong, he gets assassins sent after him. If King Emin is going himself, the man would have to be a mortal enemy -or have something the king wants personally. An artefact of some kind, perhaps?’
‘A reasonable assumption,’ Ilumene conceded, ‘but truly, I can tell you no more. And now, I must be on my way.’
‘Wait,’ Isak said as Ilumene turned to leave, ‘why did he send the message? Because he wants me not to lay siege to Scree? Or does he want me to get involved?’
‘The king did not give me a reason, but I’m sure he would appreciate you pursuing a more subtle revenge than the wholesale destruction of the city if he is inside it. I cannot say if he wants you involved; if the king required your presence, I’m sure he would have summoned you.’
Isak growled, disliking the implication that he was at Emin’s beck and call. ‘Then your king might have to be more careful about what he takes for granted,’ he snapped.
Ilumene bowed in acquiescence and disappeared into the shadow of a laurel. Even with his remarkable hearing, Isak couldn’t hear the man leave. It was as though he simply faded into the darkness.
Scree? What could possibly lure King Emin there?
He looked to the south, where he fancied he saw the faintest of lights on the horizon. He had a sudden, desperate urge to know what the King of Narkang was up to.
‘Home first,’ he reminded himself. ‘Everything else can wait.’
CHAPTER 6
Zhia hurried across into the shade of the high-pillared porch, her thick shawl pulled low over her face to hide her from the scorching afternoon sun. Her coachman, Panro - who doubled as guard and servant, and once, on a particularly dull day in Narkang, lover -closed the coach door and climbed back up on the seat. He wouldn’t bother going far; it was unlikely the Red Palace would see any more visitors during the short time Zhia intended to stay. Scree waited drowsily for evening, when the sun’s ferocity would lessen; shops and stalls were shut up and even the most diligent of tradesfolk sought some shady corner or dark hallway. Zhia couldn’t help smiling; the unusual summer heat had proved an unexpected bonus. In Scree everyone would be sleeping during the day, so her nocturnal life was less likely to draw notice.
Zhia paused and savoured the light breeze that greeted her through the tall panelled doors, scented with sweet roses and orange trees from somewhere within. A man dressed in a dark brown livery stood waiting for her, his head bowed. No member of the White Circle would come and greet Zhia; the custom was for visitors to be presented once they had made themselves presentable. This was particularly useful for Zhia, for any errant ray of sun would blacken and burn her skin.
‘Mistress Siala has been informed of my arrival?’ she asked, snapping her fingers at the liveried man. Her Fysthrall dialect and mannerisms were impeccable.
‘Yes, Mistress Ostia.’ The man kept his head bowed as he spoke. ‘I am to escort you to her office immediately.’
But why?
thought Zhia.
She leads the White Circle now the rest of the leadership is dead, I made sure of that. Does she simply want an account of their failure? Or did she know that the Fysthrall queen carried the Skull of Paths with her? I think I was sensible to leave that in the carriage; she wouldn’t think to search that, but she might well have a mage up there with her.
The servant was waiting patiently for a reply. When she did finally jab a finger towards the inside of the palace he bowed low and moved to lead the way. As she followed him down the hall, she saw the red theme continued inside as well. Outside, the painted pillars, window frames and doors were distinctive, even arresting, especially when seen from a distance. Within, the colours looked garish and crass, and incongruous with the elegant furnishings, which were far too sophisticated for anyone local, especially the duke Siala had recently deposed. Siala was apparently from Tor Salan, but until she met the woman there was no way of telling if the sophistication was hers. Zhia hoped so; the rest of the Circle had hardly taxed her brain, and an intelligent adversary would make her stay in Scree infinitely more entertaining.
A large open staircase took her to the second floor and she looked carefully at the high windows. It wasn’t often that she dared venture out during the day, but when it was necessary, she took every precaution.
Siala’s study faced the head of the stairs. The door itself, flanked by blank-faced Fysthrall soldiers before whom the servant cringed, hadn’t been spared the scarlet ravages of Scree’s previous ruler; the faces on the four carved panels had been stained red and detailed in gold leaf. To her right, Zhia noted a pair of male functionaries sagging when they caught sight of her, apparently aware that she would be admitted ahead of them.
‘Mistress Siala is just concluding a meeting,’ the servant at Zhia’s side murmured, and at her curt nod, he fled.
The door did indeed open a heartbeat later, and to Zhia’s complete astonishment a man dressed like a country minstrel strode out of the room with all the confidence of a king. Over a dirty green tunic he wore a gaudy gold chain with bejewelled coins laced through it hanging down to his navel, and a feathered hat was caught under one arm. His tanned, pinched face and narrow nose suggested southern origins. His skin was as grubby as his clothes.
Tor Salan perhaps, or Embere? Now what would Siala be doing meeting with a dirty foreign minstrel?
Her train of thought stopped dead as Zhia realised the most remarkable thing about the man was that the gold chain was not costume jewellery.
Now I know all I need to about Siala,
Zhia said to herself. The minstrel had a deeply satisfied look on his face, one that might not have been there if Siala had paid enough attention to the gem-encrusted coins hanging off that chain.
But what does it tell me about this man, dressed like a vagrant musician, standing like a king and wearing a king’s ransom around his neck?