‘Would you prefer me to kill him? We could conquer the city, expand our borders a little?’
‘Of course not.’ Tila faltered briefly. ‘But you do know how Vrerr governs? By torture, murder, destroying entire villages at the slightest provocation. He doesn’t even bother to control his soldiers; half of them are mercenaries, little more than regiments of bandits.’
‘But there is nothing I can do about him unless I depose him. At the moment the only alternative is the commander of the White Circle forces, Priata Leferna, and she is certainly not acceptable. Thus, esteemed ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we can hope that Duke Vrerr is competent enough to resist the challenge, or we can lend some assistance. I am fully aware that the people of the city would actually be better off under White Circle control, but that would not last if they subsequently find themselves at war with us.’
And this is what it is to be Lord of the Farlan,
Isak thought sadly.
I know exactly what sort of man Duke Vrerr is, and I have to ignore it for my own selfish ends
.
‘Count Vesna, you will lead a division of cavalry into Tor Milist lands. I don’t want Vrerr’s troops supplied with horses or weapons, but I do want you to do what you can to damage Leferna’s position there. Consider yourself in charge of a mercenary company.
‘Anything that results from prolonging the war is, I’m afraid, not our problem. It is a means to an end, and the suffering it causes is necessary. Full intervention in the war will result in a puppet government in Tor Milist under my control, and history shows that whenever we’ve done something like that in the past, it’s been a bad idea in the long run.’
‘Hardly a comfort to those who’ll die,’ Suzerain Foleh pointed out. There was no accusation in his voice; he knew the realities well enough.
‘No comfort at all, but there’ll be no gratitude if the Ghosts parade all the way down the Alder March either. We can’t solve their problems for them; once the White Circle threat is dealt with, we’ll look at the whole situation again, but we need to find a way that doesn’t turn unhappy peace into terrible civil war.’
Thus speaks a king,
came a sudden voice in Isak’s head. The white-eye stopped dead; that was as clear as he’d ever heard the dead spirit in his mind. The normal echo of self-pity and overwhelming loss was absent as Aryn Bwr said,
Compassion and morals have no place in a king’s deeds.
Says the one who rebelled against his own Gods?
Isak thought with scorn.
Come then, advise me.
You are a poor copy of one who was never our equal,
snarled the last king.
My war was beyond your comprehension. You beg for advice? Very well, regrets are for fools; action is what makes a king great. Failure to act is cowardice -and that is something history will hate you for.
The anger in Aryn Bwr’s voice was palpable. Isak turned abruptly away from the balcony and headed for the stair. Suddenly the small room above the hall felt enclosed and stifling.
I never wanted to make choices like this,
he thought miserably.
A carelessly announced decision and I condemn how many thousands to death? This is no way to live.
Come now,
mocked the dead soul,
a white-eye thirsts for power, does he not? The fire of magic in your veins; the fury of the storm at your snow-white fingertips: it’s given to you for a reason.
Isak looked down at his hand. He was marked forever by what he’d done in Narkang, using the power of his God to slaughter hundreds of Fysthrall soldiers and mercenaries as they breached the wall of King Emin’s palace, but the change was only skin-deep.
‘That is how I was born to be. It doesn’t have to be who I am,’ he murmured to himself.
You deny your own nature? That is a path to ruin, to pretend you are something you are not. I have seen it a hundred times. It will leave you as empty inside as you fear to become, because of the decisions you are forced to make.
‘At least that would be my choice,’ Isak said. ‘I would have chosen who I was; what more can anyone ask?’
It is the hard choices that make a king.
‘It is the hard choices that make a man. That will do for me.’
CHAPTER 12
Trying to resist the urge to loosen the stiff collar of his dress uniform, Major Jachen Ansayl strode off down the corridor with as much dignity as he could muster. The old uniform still fitted, but it had been years since he’d had to put it on, and it had never been comfortable. Today it seemed to catch at every small movement, as though it no longer considered him worthy to wear it. The embossed buttons had scratched his fingertips and the collar squeezed his throat, leaving him breathless whenever he stood less than perfectly straight.
He shouldn’t have worn it -half of the men here would take it as an insult -yet he had nothing else. Five years’ exile up a mountain didn’t do much for a man’s wardrobe. Jachen ran his hand through his chestnut hair, tugging at the tangles. The cheap soap at his lodgings had not helped much in making him look something approaching presentable. He couldn’t really afford private lodgings, but the alternative was the barracks here at the palace, and he didn’t think that would be wise.
Following the servant’s directions, he found himself standing before an unassuming door. He had enough sense of direction to recognise that he’d been sent around the back of the Tower of Semar, the remotest part of the palace; it appeared he was being kept out of everyone’s way while he waited for Swordmaster Kerin’s summons. After the hostile faces in the Great Hall he could see the sense in that.
Jachen sighed. ‘What am I doing here?’ he wondered aloud. ‘Has Kerin found a new way he can punish me?’
Once they’d seen great potential in him; the Swordmaster himself had recommended his promotion. Personally, Jachen had never been so sure.
He opened the door and stepped inside, sniffing dust and polish, antique wood and lamp oil, the faint mustiness of a room regularly aired but not lived in. It reminded him of the Temple of Amavoq, where he’d gone to pray and consider his choices before being transferred to the rangers -not that there had been much of a choice, in truth, but Jachen had never been one to take the easy road. Obstinacy and stupidity tended to get in the way.
Shutting the door behind him, Jachen hesitated. A single slit window far above head height on the opposite wall cast a shaft of light to the centre of the room, illuminating tall mahogany pews that were so dark they could have served in Death’s temples. They also lined the walls on his left and right. On the far side was a massive oak table with a carved top, under which the wood curved inwards and down to thick root-like feet, giving the impression that the table had been hewn from a single great tree. The style was archaically intricate, too overblown for modern tastes - no doubt why it was in here, left only to the admiring eyes of those being kept out of the way.
As his eyes adjusted to the weak light, Jachen stiffened. Peering over the backs of the central pews he saw he was not alone. A bulky figure was squatting on the floor, shrouded by the dark tent of a cape that spread around him.
‘Forgive me,’ Jachen said. ‘I hadn’t realised anyone was in here.’
If the man heard, he made no sign. He was crouched between the far end of the table and the pews, head bowed low. His hair, though not particularly long, was tied up in a top-knot. A soldier then, Jachen thought, and from his size, a white-eye, perhaps one of the Guard.
‘I’ve been ordered to wait in here. I’ll not disturb whatever you’re doing -ah, what
are
you doing?’
‘Playing hide-and-seek, of course.’ The reply was a low rumble, suggesting a massive pair of lungs.
The major licked his lips and gave his uniform another tug before asking, ‘Hide-and-seek?’
‘Hide-and-seek,’ confirmed the figure, head still stooped as if in prayer. ‘What of it?’
‘I . . . Nothing. It’s just a little unusual. I was not expecting you to say that.’
‘Much of what I do confounds prediction.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Who in damnation are you?’
Jachen bit back his first response.
Just keep your mouth shut. If Kerin’s going to give you another chance, don’t blow it by starting a fight before you’ve even reached the man’s office.
‘My name is Jachen Ansayl,’ he replied, adding defensively, ‘Major Jachen Ansayl.’
‘Ansayl, eh? Bastard, are you?’
‘That’s rich, coming from a white-eye.’
Damn.
The name Ansayl marked him as a bastard (or grandson of a bastard, in Jachen’s case) of the Sayl suzerainty north of Tirah. He’d grown used to the jibes, learning through bitter experience that it was better to meet them with a joke than a scowl. Either was a bad idea here.
The white-eye gave a throaty chuckle that sounded like the grating of a tomb’s door to Jachen. He raised his head and looked straight at Jachen, his disconcerting eyes shining out of the gloom like Arian’s cruel light on Silvernight. Jachen had never liked white-eyes, despite years of soldiering alongside them; he had never been able to get used to the dark malevolence they all exuded. Even those who weren’t violent drunkards unnerved him.
This man was younger than Jachen had first thought. His features were sharp, calculating. A faint prickle of foreboding ran down Jachen’s spine. The white-eye emitted a long sigh, as though only now emerging from whatever trance he’d been in, and flicked aside his cloak. A lump appeared in Jachen’s throat as he saw the fine clothes. His heart sank further when he saw the naked silver blade that lay across the white-eye’s lap, glowing faintly in the shadows.
Damn again. All the way to the Dark Place.
‘My Lord, I—’
Jachen’s apology was cut short by a raised hand. ‘I can let it pass.’
Lord Isak rose and Jachen found himself edging backwards. The new Lord of the Farlan was almost as big as Lord Bahl, though not yet quite as solid.
Not quite as solid?
Jachen scoffed at himself.
This man could tear you in two with his bare hands and your first thought is that he’s not so large as another giant of a man?
He forced himself to stand still as Lord Isak sheathed his sword with a flourish and began to inspect Jachen with unnerving curiosity.
‘You were going to take a seat.’ He indicated the bench on Jachen’s right.
‘A seat? Oh yes, of course. But that was . . . I didn’t—’
‘Sit.’
Jachen’s legs started back and he sank down on the bench, spine straight. His sword had slipped under the arm-rest of the bench and was caught; feeling foolish, Jachen tried to hide his embarrassment as he fumbled with the clasps on his scabbard before finally freeing the weapon and laying it down beside him.
Lord Isak hadn’t moved. His head was cocked to one side and he had a slight smile on his lips. Finally he stepped back and eased his weight onto the corner of the oak table, which groaned and creaked alarmingly in protest.
‘So, Major Jachen Ansayl, what are you doing here, apart from disturbing vital matters of state and occult importance?’
‘Occult importance?’ Jachen echoed. ‘You said you were playing hide-and-seek.’
‘Do you see a horde of children running around the palace looking for me?
‘Well, no.’
‘Do you expect your lord to be engaging in such childish games?’
‘Of course not.’
‘I was a few weeks ago.’
‘Oh. But you’re not now?’
He smiled. Jachen felt his shoulders tense at his lord’s expression, the predatory smile of a serpent.
Bloody white-eyes, why do they always put me on edge?
He felt his hand start to move up to his neck to tug at the high collar again, but stopped it. No need to make his nervousness even more obvious.
‘No, I’m not playing childish games. Do you know what this is?’ He held up what looked like a glass sphere, about the size of a normal man’s fist and turned it in the rays streaming from the slit window. Where the sunlight caught it, the object burst into a glittering display that reflected on the walls of the room.
‘Oh Gods, that’s a Crystal Skull, isn’t it?’
‘Good boy. When someone like me plays hide-and-seek, I’ve discovered there’s rarely any fun involved. A mage called Dermeness Chirialt is wandering the palace, trying to find me, while I use this. I’m told that channelling so much power can make me easy to find, so on the battlefield every enemy mage will immediately have my position fixed in their mind. I’m guessing that won’t be much fun either.’
‘Ah—No, my Lord.’
The Duke of Tirah continued to stare at Jachen as though the major were a new toy. ‘So are you going to tell me why you’re here?’
‘Of course, my Lord, I’m sorry. I was summoned by Swordmaster Kerin for a meeting.’
‘About what?’
‘I don’t really know. I’ve been working at ranger stations for the last few years now -as far from civilisation as Swordmaster Kerin could find. My current posting is on top of a mountain -it’s not that far from the nearest town, but most Farlan don’t go beyond the tree line, so I only have ghosts and daemons for company most of the year.’ Jachen paused, a thoughtful frown turning suddenly into awakening anger. ‘That bastard -he
ordered
me to come in here -he knows what my temper’s like. He must have known you were in here and hoped I’d say something stupid.’ Jachen half-rose from his seat before a growl froze him midway.
‘It looks like he was right.’
Jachen sank back down. ‘But we’ve history, he and I. My posting wasn’t the first punishment I’ve had since—Well, since things went bad. This is just like Kerin to let me get myself into trouble, but I can’t believe he—’
Lord Isak slammed his palm against the tabletop beside him. Jachen blinked. He’d not even seen the white-eye’s hand move.
‘Despite what you may believe, not every action is solely about you.’ He slipped from the table and advanced around the central pews. ‘According to some people, the same cannot be said for me, but that just goes to show the idiocy of some people. However, I am Lord of the Farlan, no matter how young I might be. Kerin is
my
Swordmaster; he answers to me. I am not a tool for punishing rangers with dubious records and ill-fitting uniforms. Do you understand me?’