Winterbirth (22 page)

'I'd not seek strife, but if it comes looking for us we cannot turn away from it,' said Gerain. 'Let me go.

Perhaps Croesan does not need our aid. Perhaps all I can do is tell him we share his sorrow at Kennet's death. But if he does need our aid - our spears - it would shame us to wait for Gryvan oc Haig's permission before giving it.'

'You'd find no one in all our lands, except Gryvan's own Steward, to disagree with that. It does not change the fact that he is High Thane. We must tread with care, that is all. I will tread carefully around Gryvan and his Steward; you take your men to Kolglas, and you tread carefully there. I want both of my sons alive to celebrate next Winterbirth here with your family.'

ORISIAN STRUGGLED UP from unconsciousness as if waking from a viscous sleep. He was being carried through the forest on some kind of stretcher. He thought hazily about moving but his body was unresponsive. His gaze jolted in time with the stride of whoever was carrying him. The peeling trunks of birch trees loomed one after another across his vision and passed away. He saw a carpet of rough grass, dark green moss and fallen leaves. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the fleeting image of tall, pale figures walking. There was no sound. It was like a dream. He felt dull, throbbing pain in his side. He could not imagine why it should be there, but it mounted to a stabbing fire that surged and retreated in a remorseless rhythm. He slipped away again into a dark place.

Later he opened his eyes but still could not shed the stupor that clung to him. Voices had roused him. He saw, and heard without understanding. There were sounds, in turn like the chattering of squirrels, the croaking of crows or the movement of leaves in the breeze. He was being carried past strange bulbous tents. He saw a woman crouched in a doorway, her face with its delicate, impassive features trying to tell him something he did not understand. An animal hide was stretched upon a wooden frame. He smelled woodsmoke. Children flurried by. Like something out of nightmare or hallucination, there was a great face woven of boughs and twigs that leered at him. There was a pole thrust into the earth, with deer skulls fastened to it one above the other. They watched him with their dead sockets as he went past and his own eyes faltered and closed beneath their mournful gaze.

When he saw again, there was a face close to his: dusk-grey eyes looking into his own; fragile skin so close he could have laid his lips upon it. He felt the warmth of someone's breath upon his cheeks and brow. He was inside, beneath a curving roof of deer-skin. Somewhere very far away he thought he heard a voice he knew shouting his name. It fell silent and as he was laid down upon the ground he lost consciousness once more.

He returned, at first, without knowing who he was. He blinked and turned a little towards the faint light.

The movement was enough to trigger pain in his side. He grimaced at it, wondering why he should feel such a thing. The pain eased into an ache and he lay still for a time. His memories came slowly back, but they were unreal and he could not sort truth from dream, or nightmare.

He was looking up at the roof of a strange tent: a broad sweep of animal hide on a framework of poles.

Furs were lying over him, filling his nostrils with a musky scent. Once more, he tried to turn his head to look towards the light that was filtering in from somewhere to his left. He was braced for the pain; still when it came it brought a gasp out of him. He lifted his lead-heavy hand and put it to his side. There was some kind of dressing there, warm and moist against his skin. He was taken by a fit of coughing that filled his chest with fire and sent blurring flickers of light across his vision. He watched them dancing inside his eyelids as dizziness swept through him.

Then there was someone inside the tent with him, laying a cool palm upon his forehead and lifting the furs to look at his bandaged flank. He looked into a face from his dreams: a beautiful, pale-skinned face, framed by yellow-white hair, from which clear grey eyes regarded him. The hand upon his brow was withdrawn, and he glimpsed spidery fingers tipped by long, white nails. The thin lips moved.

'Be still,' came a voice that was as light and floating in Orisian's ears as a breath of summer wind.

Kyrinin, some small, clear part of his mind murmured to him. The thought drifted away, unable to find any purchase upon him.

'Rest,' he heard her say, and he did.

Fariel was there, in a half-waking, half-sleeping place. His dead brother stooped in the doorway of the tent. He was a handsome, almost beautiful, young man now. He held his long hair back from his eyes as he leaned forwards.

'Walk with me,' he said, and Orisian rose and followed his brother out into the evening.

The forest was bathed in low sunlight, the trees throwing sharp shadows across the grass. Butterflies flitted from light to shade and back to light again. His brother waited for him, holding out a hand.

'Let's go down to the sea,' he said, and Orisian nodded. The trees stood far apart, and they made their way down towards the waves. The water was shining. The two of them stood side by side and looked out to the west. The great globe of the sun was just touching its rim to the horizon. A warm breeze was blowing in.

'It's beautiful,' said Orisian, and Fariel smiled.

'Very,' he said.

'You've been gone a long time,' Orisian said.

His brother picked up a stone and threw it far, far out. He wiped his hand on his tunic.

'Not so long, and not so far away.'

'No, I never thought you were very far away,' Orisian said.

They started to walk along the shore. Birds above them called with voices almost human, mixing alarm and loss.

'I'd like you to come back,' said Orisian.

'I can't. I'm sorry,' said Fariel without looking at his brother.

'Are you alone? Is . . .' Orisian's voiced faded away.

Fariel laughed gently. 'Yes, she's with me. And Father.'

That brought Orisian to a standstill. He stared at the back of Fariel's head as his older brother walked on a few steps before stopping and turning. Orisian felt a sickness stirring in the pit of his stomach. Gulls were screeching in the air, the sound of screams. The sun was sickening and taking on a red hue.

'Father?' he echoed. Dark shapes were at the corner of his eyes, dancing, taunting.

Fariel pointed out to sea and there, impossibly close, was Castle Kolglas. It was a burned-out shell with smoke still rising from its broken windows, sections of its walls cast down and crumbling, its gates torn asunder and lying like flotsam at the water's edge. As Orisian watched, a great block of stone toppled from the battlements, crashed on to the rocks below and splashed into the sea. He reached out with his arms, as if he could touch the shattered castle. He felt dizzy. Deep inside his head, he saw his father, blood trickling from the side of his mouth, the hilt of a massive knife protruding from his chest. He gagged.

'You'd forgotten,' said Fariel.

Orisian bowed his head. 'What should I do?'

'I can't say,' replied his brother. 'No one can tell you that any more. You'll have to decide for yourself.'

Orisian looked up. Fariel shook his head sadly. He seemed to be further away, out over the water.

Orisian could not make out his features any more.

'Wait,' cried Orisian, rising to his feet, 'don't go.'

Fariel said something, but Orisian could barely hear him now.

'Where's Anyara?' shouted Orisian.

His brother faded into the bright semi-circle of the setting sun.

'Don't leave me,' Orisian said.

He felt himself falling backwards, slumping down towards the earth. He fell into something soft and sank into it.

'Don't leave me,' he whispered once, and then all was dark.

When he woke it was with the feel of the faintest touch upon his face. As his eyes focused, he found his gaze returned by the young Kyrinin woman looking down at him. She smelled of the forest, of warmth.

Soft fine strands of her hair were brushing his cheek. He moved his lips soundlessly.

'Be at ease,' she said in her wondrous voice as she straightened up. 'The worst is past.'

'The worst,' he repeated.

'You saw death and came back.'

The dull pain in his flank registered upon his still-cloudy thoughts then, as if to confirm the truth of her words. He stirred, trying to ease aside the furs that lay over him. She laid a restraining hand on his, gentle but firm. Her clear eyes fixed him with a constant stare. There was no imperfection in them, he saw, no flaw in the pure field that surrounded her tiny pupils like a ring of polished flint. Inurian's eyes had not been so perfect. They had had a touch of the human in them. Many things came back to Orisian then, too many to gather and shape. There was a flicker of panic in his breast as if a slumbering bird had woken.

'Where's Rothe?' he asked.

'Rothe?'

'My shieldman. He was with me when ... he put me in the boat.'

'The big man. He is here. He lives.'

She was examining the features of his face. He felt uncomfortable, sensing the touch of her gaze.

'Where is he?' he asked.

'Here,' she repeated.

'I want to see him.'

She rose, towering above him. 'Wait. I will ask.'

Orisian slid a hand across his stomach. It felt empty, partly from hunger, partly from the bitter, violent memories that were grasping at his thoughts. One took his attention for a moment.

'Fariel,' he breathed.

She turned, almost out of the tent. She looked back at him.

'I did not hear,' she said.

'I dreamed of Fariel,' he murmured.

'Your brother,' she said.

Orisian made to ask how she knew his brother's name, but the flap of deerskin was already settling back into place behind her.

Rothe came, and Orisian had to hide the surprise that surged up within him. His shieldman looked different. Some of the bulk had gone from his frame; his face was thinner; his eyes, in the instant before they lit up at the sight of Orisian, were burdened. Orisian caught sight of tall figures outside as Rothe entered. They did not follow him in.

Rothe laid a broad hand upon Orisian's shoulder.

'It is good to see you again,' the older man said softly. 'I feared…'

Orisian struggled to sit up, but Rothe pressed him down.

'Lie still,' he said. 'Don't tire yourself.'

'I'm all right,' said Orisian.

'Perhaps, perhaps. Still, it was a bad wound you took, and it would be better not to test it yet. Who knows what harm the wights' meddling might have done?'

Orisian fingered the bandaging around his chest. 'They put this poultice on me,' he said.

'Best not to wonder what may be in it, then,' grimaced Rothe.

'How long has it been?'

'Seven days, Orisian.'

'Seven days! I thought two or three, perhaps. I can hardly remember any of it.'

'Seven. And moving much of the time. We only arrived here three days ago. They would not tell me what was happening, all the while. Not once have they let me see you. And they took my sword away, my sword I've had for half my life.'

Orisian noticed for the first time that there were bruises, almost faded now, upon Rothe's cheek and brow, and a thin red line where some wound across the bridge of his nose had started to heal. He could guess how hard the man had tried to come to his side.

'Well,' he said, 'at least we are together again now.'

'Together as prisoners in a woodwight camp. I tried to get us to Glasbridge, I truly did, but I've no skill with boats and the currents were too strong. They carried us to the Car Anagais. The wights took us almost the moment we landed.' A pained expression passed across the shieldman's face. 'Forgive me, Orisian, for bringing you away against your will. I had no choice. I could not let you go to your father.'

'You're my shieldman, and you saved my life. Should I forgive you that? I was . . . well, let's leave it. Do you know where we are now?'

'Hard to say. There was no break in the forest all the way we walked. I would say somewhere in the Car Anagais still. Perhaps the southern slopes of the Car Criagar, but I don't think we covered that much ground.'

Orisian thought on that for a few moments. 'What are we going to do?' he wondered.

'Wait until you are a little more healed. Hope these creatures do not take it into their heads to kill us before we have a chance to escape.'

'These must be the Fox clan, though,' said Orisian. 'They would have no real reason to harm us. They're not like the White Owls...'

'The thoughts of a woodwight are no more human than his eyes. Never trust them, Orisian. We must guard one another here.'

Orisian wanted to say that it would be all right, that this was the clan of Inurian's father, but he knew it would make no difference to Rothe. The shieldman had been a fighter in the service of the Lannis Blood all his life, and throughout that time there had been two constant stars to steer by: the threat of the Gyre Bloods in the north, and that of the Kyrinin who filled the forests around the valley. Even Orisian, knowing that Fox and White Owl were not one and the same, could not keep the tales of massacred woodsmen and of families burned in forest huts wholly from his mind.

The Kyrinin woman came back then. Tension snapped into Rothe's eyes and arms at the sound of her entry, though he did not turn round.

'Enough talk,' she said. 'Both come out.'

'He should rest,' said Rothe, still refusing to look at the woman.

To Orisian's surprise, she laughed: a rich, musical laugh like none he had heard before save perhaps, in a way, from Inurian. Rothe was scowling.

'Enough rest,' she said. 'He is well.'

As she came forwards to help Orisian rise, Rothe interposed himself. He wrapped a powerful arm around Orisian and eased him up and out of the bed. The woman held out a cape of thick dark fur.

Rothe snatched the cape and laid it around Orisian's shoulders.

'Are you strong enough?' he asked.

Orisian thought about it. Although he felt weak and rather frail, there was not so much pain and his body seemed to agree with the Kyrinin woman that he had rested enough. His muscles were stale and ready to stretch themselves.