The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (34 page)

A ringing clatter echoed down the barbican tunnel and Isak drank
in the sights and sounds he wouldn’t experience for at least a year. The
people of Tirah stepped back and watched, awestruck, as the splendid
party cantered down Palace Way and struck out for the south. As they made their way through the ancient streets, each rider fixed the
images of home firmly in his or her mind: the bridges and towers, the
engraved stones that adorned all but the meanest of buildings, every
reason for loving their city.

Within what felt a very short time, they had reached the outskirts, where long straight roads led off to distant lands. The peaks of the
Spiderweb Mountains rose on both sides; ahead were river-valleys and
open fields. Isak smiled at the sight until he remembered what might be lurking in the shadows. They’d spent hours discussing each and
every possible danger.

He sighed, and prayed for a dull journey, something he knew only
too well from his previous life. These days, the prospect wasn’t as dis
mal as it had been then, but he still couldn’t bring himself to believe that it would be so easy this time.

The first day was easy enough. At times it felt more like a parade than
the start of a long journey; they overnighted at a manor belonging to Suzerain Tehran, where they were treated like royalty. By noon of the second day they were still travelling at the same pace and Isak’s patience was beginning to wear thin.

‘It’s slowing us down,’ he said, exasperated. ‘Did you really think you could get to Narkang like that? Do you realise how far it is?’

Tila regarded him with a cold eye, refusing to dignify that with an
answer.

Isak struggled to control himself-it was as if the girl knew instinctively how to infuriate him.

‘No matter how far it is, my Lord, she’s an unmarried woman,’ snapped Tila’s chaperone, a woman of fifty summers or so. She had introduced herself as Mistress Daran and given no first name, so, titled or not, Vesna and Carel had no choice but to address her as such, though it was a respect her station hardly afforded. Tila called her
Nurse, and Isak was very proud of himself for managing not to say out
loud the name he’d privately given her.

‘She could be a sniping old harridan for all I care, as long as she uses a real bloody saddle.’ Isak’s retort almost had the desired effect, but the women managed to hold back. They stood in a small circle, away from the soldiers, who were watching the entertainment with
great amusement.

‘Isak,
all
unmarried women ride side-saddle,’ Tila repeated with exaggerated patience.
‘If
you can’t work out why, then I’m sure your bondsman will draw you a diagram. It’s apparently something of a
speciality of his.’

The count’s broad smile fell at this, but Carel chuckled softly. For her remark, Tila received a hurt look from Vesna and a slap on the
wrist from Mistress Daran. She won back the first with a smile and ignored the second, planting her hands firmly on her hips as she squared
up to Isak.

Isak shot a look of irritation at Carel, who ignored it and suggested, ‘Perhaps you should use Tila’s spare saddle as penance, my friend.’ The looks he received made him throw up his hands theatrically and stomp off to join his men, who were supposed to be changing horses and eating, but were more interested in the little drama playing out a
few yards away.

‘Tila, we need to move faster, or it will take a few months to get
there. Even if you
could
manage the pace on that thing, you’d be hurting
so badly we’d have to stop for you to recuperate,’ he said more
calmly now.

‘But there is no other choice,’ Tila explained again. ‘You seem to have forgotten that the only reason my parents allowed me to accompany you was because they think it will mean a better marriage for me afterwards. That’ll be worthless if I’m damaged…’ Her face was bright red and her voice trailed off. Did she have to draw the
wretched man a picture?

‘And you seem to have forgotten how long and hard this journey is going to be.’ Now Isak was beginning to lose his temper. ‘Even using
a normal saddle, the first week will be hard enough. You’ll be sleeping
in a tent more often than not-‘

‘My Lady will stay in a proper bed in a good inn every night,’ Mistress Daran interjected.

Isak glared at the woman. He didn’t like conversations with two
people in the first place, whatever the subject, since he ended up not being able to concentrate on either. Mistress Daran was not as old as
he had first assumed from her permanently sour expression, but she
treated everyone - even Carel, a landed marshal, no less - like a foolish child.

‘What my Lady requires is of little concern,’ Isak snapped. ‘We travel until I decide we should rest, and
if
there’s an inn when we stop, then that’s where we will stay, but once we’re past Nerlos Fortress, there won’t be many and not all towns are going to welcome a
party of armed men.’

‘Lady Introl was most specific as to her daughter’s requirements,’
muttered Mistress Daran, her lips pursing. Isak saw exactly what the
woman thought of white-eyes.

‘Lady Introl does not interest me in the least.’ He checked his
words for fear of insulting Tila’s family too much - however cross he
was, Tila
was
a friend - but he couldn’t control the look on his face: the wretched woman would not last much longer if she continued to irritate him. ‘What does interest me is getting to Narkang before
bloody Silvernight,’ he growled.

He was pleased to see Mistress Daran flinch, presumably fighting
the instinct to admonish him for his language. He determined to see how often he could make that happen on the journey to alleviate his
own boredom.

‘Isak, there’s nothing you can do about it, so if you want to make
good speed, then let’s eat now and not tarry too long.’ Tila shifted as
she stood; she was already feeling the strain of her new saddle.

Isak shrugged at her and walked off angrily to see to his horses instead. The argument would have to wait until Tila was too tender to he obstinate. Let’s see how she felt after her first night on the ground. He swapped the packs from one horse to the other and readied
Megenn’s saddle.

Isak patted both animals affectionately, then rubbed down Megenn’s
chestnut flanks where the packs had rested. They had very different temperaments: Toramin was a fiery young stallion of unbelievable
strength, while Megenn was older, a gelding, and as biddable as could
be wished. Both horses appeared to cope with his weight without complaint, but Isak felt only Toramin was desperate to gallop on. At times
he could feel the muscles bunch under the rich, dark coat and he’d have to tighten his grip to remind the horse who was in control.

Isak turned to watch the others for a while. Carel had already won over the Ghosts with his humour and his undeniable skill, still sharp,
no matter his age; Vesna’s reputation almost guaranteed respect in any
barracks.

The soldiers kept apart from Mihn - the only company he sought out was that of the two rangers. Now the three were sitting slightly apart from the others, Mihn carefully positioned so he could see both Isak and the road ahead. Rangers were all strange, reclusive, often to the point of surly disregard for any who might not match their own high standards. Mihn fitted in perfectly. The bulky northerner, Borl Dedev, was the more talkative. Jeil was a native of Tirah, a wiry man only slightly taller than Mihn. Jeil had probably been orphaned to
the palace as a child, judging from his lack of family name. A number
of rangers and Ghosts in Bahl’s service had been left as babies at the palace gates by mothers who felt they couldn’t cope. Without a parent to claim them - or denied by a spiteful father, as in Isak’s case - they
had no family name. Like Bahl and Isak, Jeil had had to make his own
name.

Isak made up his mind: now was the time, before they got too far from Tirah. He called for Mihn, and the small man was already rising, his staff in hand, almost before Isak had finished speaking. Isak led him away to a place where they could speak without being overheard, ignoring the curious faces that watched them. Borl had cropped Mihn’s hair close to his scalp the previous night; it suited him better, highlighting the dark gleam of his eyes.

‘We’
re going to be away for a long time,’ Isak started. ‘Longer than a year.’ He tried to think how to phrase what he wanted to say. His lack
of eloquence was already annoying him. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen, and every day, I feel like I know even less.’ He sighed. He’d have to be blunt. ‘I want to know your history, Mihn. You’ve avoided telling anyone very much, and when I don’t understand my own shadow, I’ve no chance with the rest of the Land.’

‘My Lord,’ he said, quietly, ‘I’ve told you that I come from a small tribe on the northern coast-‘

Isak bared his teeth in irritation. That’s not what I mean. You’re
saying so little you might as well lie to my face. No common tribes
man speaks perfect Farlan. Your accent is more refined than mine. No
normal moves the way you do - not even any man of Kerin’s, and he’s
trained our best. I doubt many of the Chief Steward’s agents would survive long against you. And the man practically went down on his knees to Lord Bahl to get you working as an assassin for him - he promised he’d have the entire tribe swearing oaths of loyalty within
six months.’

Mihn flinched; if anything, it looked like the idea sickened him, though Isak knew he didn’t have qualms about violence. Mihn wouldn’t meet his gaze and his fingers shifted and flexed round the
shaft of his staff as he stared at the ground.

‘Well? Have you got nothing to say? I’ve seen you fight. Either
you’re a very short true elf, a Harlequin or-‘ The words died in Isak’s
throat as Mihn’s entire body jerked at his words and his eyes went wide with shock. Isak realised that the man was caught somewhere between anger and terror, then the strength drained out of his body
and Mihn sank to his knees, gasping for air.

Isak gaped at the change in his bondsman, then crouched down
beside the man, placing a hand on his shoulder to steady him as much
as calm him. Before he could think of anything to say, Mihn choked
out a handful of words. ‘Please don’t send me away. I have nothing - I
am nothing now. My life has been…’ His voice trailed off into a
language Isak didn’t recognise, his own tongue, perhaps.

Finally Isak understood. ‘You’re a Harlequin?’ It was scarcely possible to believe. No one knew very much about the Harlequins - not
even where they came from, let alone how they were able to remember every story and song they had ever heard. The androgynous storytellers
who carried a pair of slender swords and dressed in diamond-pattern
clothes and white masks were as mythical as the tales they told.

‘I am nothing,’ Mihn repeated, as if in a trance. He looked up to meet Isak’s eyes for the first time and calmed himself a little. I’m a
failure. They had such high hopes for me; all the elders said I would
be the best they had ever seen. I had surpassed the masters with the
blades by my eighteenth summer.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘I failed the last trial. There were only three of us. Those who are
allowed to take the test should be certain to pass. But I failed.’

‘How?’

The last trial is to tell one of the sagas, in full, one that should
last for a day at least, but I
…
I could not remember my tale, not a single word, not a name, not a place. I had spent my life training for
this, learning every language in the Land, all the dialects and accents
and idiosyncrasies, repeating the stories the Gods taught us, practising
each step of every play, the voices of animals and accents of man and woman. But at the test I could not remember one word of my favourite tale, one I had memorised before my tenth summer.’

Mihn leaned forward, his chest pressed down on his thighs. ‘I was
cast out. The mask I was to put on was burned, my blades broken. I
vowed never to wield an edged weapon again, as penance for failing those who had trained me and invested their faith in me.’

‘One story? One forgotten story and your life is over?’

With a bitter laugh, Mihn replied, ‘A Harlequin who cannot remember? The Gods themselves wrote our laws in stone, carved into the wall of our holiest place. A Harlequin is emissary of the Gods.
Without perfection in thought and word, it would be blasphemy.’

Isak gently grasped the broken figure by the shoulders and lifted him up. As he felt a shudder run through Mihn’s body, he realised it
was just as well Mihn had come with him: he was too similar to Bahl
- left alone, he’d end up a shadow, walking the corridors of the palace like a restless phantom. Mihn’s face had crumpled into complete hopelessness. He was searching for something to give him meaning
again.

‘One moment of pain can rule you, but it doesn’t have to. Lord
has been dwelling on the death of his love for so many years that
it has become his life and might even be his death,’ Isak said. ‘Listen to me. Harlequins may be wonderful; they may be blessed - but you
can be more than that.’

Mihn gaped at his lord, mouth half-open to protest, when Isak went on, ‘Think about it. What do Harlequins do? They teach us
where we came from, and
hope
we heed the warnings of history. They
have so many skills, but they hardly use them. They have so much
knowledge, but when do they ever exploit it for the good of anyone,
even themselves? You have all of these gifts, and
one
more - you don’t
wear the mask.’