The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (53 page)

Isak chuckled, but it turned into a painful wheeze that almost caused the child to bolt. ‘No, it’s yours to keep, and maybe even to
give to a son of your own one day. Do you remember what your father
told you when he gave you the ring?’

‘He said that we’re all men, and nothing more. But that didn’t mean we shouldn’t try to be as good as we can.’ The boy recited the
lines carefully, making sure he remembered every word.

‘Good. You must always remember your father when you look at it, and remember that he died to protect others. He saved my life, your father did - and probably the lives of the king, the queen, and every-
one else in the palace. Always remember that your father was a hero,
and not just a hero, but one worthy of the Age of Myths.’

The boy nodded miserably. Reality began to sink in and his lip
trembled. He tightened his eyes against the welling tears.

Isak reached out and gently nudged the boy back towards his mother. Lady Toquin knelt and sobbed unashamedly into her son’s
hair as he buried his face in her neck, her scarf bunched tightly in his
little fists.

Isak drew himself to his feet, wincing slightly, but unable to remain still now. ‘I don’t know whether you have any traditions of your own, but the commander’s body would be welcome at the Temple of Nartis if you wish it. He deserves a hero’s grave.’

Suzerain Toquin blinked several times as he took in the offer. From his reaction, Isak assumed few were permitted interment in the temple here. Isak didn’t care what objections the priests might have - he couldn’t imagine even the most senile refusing the new Lord of
the Farlan. It might still be a matter of heated debate whether Nartis’s
Chosen was in fact the head of the entire cult, but even the most
fervent secessionist could guess King Emin’s position on the subject.

‘Thank you, my Lord,’ replied the man stiffly. ‘My Order requires
burial to be completed before sunset, which the priests may object to,
but if that is possible, we would be very happy to accept your offer.’

‘It will be arranged for this afternoon, when I go to sacrifice at the temple with the king. Burial under moonlight is preferable because
Nartis attends, but I must grow used to being his representative in the
Land anyway. It will be done as you wish. Until then, if you would
excuse me - we have much to do here.’

‘Of course, my Lord. You do my brother a great honour. Thank
you.’ The suzerain bowed and turned, looking deflated now his anger
had dissipated. It was a less imposing man who left to grieve, one arm
supporting his trembling mother, the other around his nephew, who
was clinging tightly to his mother.

‘The commander’s body has been found, I assume?’ Isak murmured to the small palace official once Suzerain Toquin had reached the
door of the hall.

‘I, ah…
It
has, my Lord, but it was, um, badly burned.’

‘Then find a casket, and nail it shut so no one can view the body. Mihn here will go with you. You are to get the body prepared and down to the temple. Explain to the priests what is going to happen,
and ensure they are ready for the commander’s funeral this afternoon.
Mihn will hurt anyone who gets in your way, and continue to hurt them until they agree to help. If they still do not agree, you will be
lifting the casket over their corpse. Understand?’

The servant stared at Isak, quivering slightly at the coldness in his voice until Mihn grasped him firmly by the arm and led him away.

It was late afternoon by the time Isak and the king managed to extricate themselves from the chaos of the aftermath. The shadows had
begun to lengthen as a line of litters started out from the temple quarter, back through the shocked silence of the city streets to the palace. Mounted soldiers clattered along on either side of the gently swaying
litters. Isak watched the faces of those he passed: the bloody and the
scared, the tired and confused.

King Emin’s reign had brought more than a decade of peace to the entire kingdom. A professional navy dissuaded even the raids of the Western Isles pirates. War was something that happened in other
countries.

Now, talk of the Saviour and rumours of strange events in Raland that had left part of the city aflame had restored to Narkang a grim uncertainty that everyone had devoutly hoped would be a thing of
the past.

Emin had insisted they use the litters to go to the temples as a symbol of normal life for the rest of the city. It seemed to work, for the procession brought people out of their houses despite their fears and the risk of more fighting. Even with the dead at the palace - the Fysthrall soldiers who’d not died at the breach had fallen on their
swords - there were hundreds of people still unaccounted for.

Fleeing mercenaries tried to hide in alleys and sewers, but Narkang’s criminals, directed by the Brotherhood, had dealt with them, leaving corpses all over the city. Herolen Jex’s body had not been
among them so far, but King Emin was still hopeful.

The arrival of the relief troops, delayed for several hours by White Circle mages, had helped matters, but still there were too many questions unanswered. The first Emin had asked himself when walking in
the corpse-strewn gardens with Isak:
Why had this happened?
Getting
together a division of men, secretly, showed organisation and determination. There had to be a purpose behind attacking such a powerful nation, but too much didn’t make sense. Emin concluded - because he could see no other explanation - that the massive effort had failed
through bad luck.

Isak decided not to voice the opinion that sense might not have played too great a part; privately, he thought that prophecy might have supplanted practicality when the Fysthrall came to make their plans. Perhaps worse, prophecy itself had been supplanted - or more
likely, perverted.

There was a commotion up ahead. Isak leaned out past his bearers
to see what was happening.

Vesna, walking alongside, stepped away to get a better view. ‘There’s a carriage up ahead,’ he reported.

‘Can you see who’s in it?’

A burst of magic shivered out from the direction of the carriage - nothing aggressive, but enough to announce a presence.

‘A woman,’ Vesna said. ‘Her hood is hiding her face.’

Isak eased himself off the litter and set off without another word towards the tall black carriage blocking the road. He moved awkwardly to begin with, his muscles still feeling stiff and sore. Ahead he could see soldiers crowding around the coach, gesticulating to the driver and to the woman leaning out of the open door. A young lieutenant was crouching beside the king’s litter, talking in an urgent voice, as
Isak passed.

‘A friend of yours?’ Emin climbed out of his litter, pushed past the lieutenant and joined Isak.

‘I think I met her yesterday, at the arena.’

‘Really? Well then, her departure may be swifter than she hopes.’

‘I doubt that; she’s stronger than I am. She didn’t fight at the palace though; she had her own reasons for being with the White Circle.’

A rare moment of surprise flashed across the king’s face, but he asked nothing further as they made their way to the carriage. The
guards fell back quickly, glad the problem was no longer theirs.

‘Ostia.’ Isak received a thin smile in reply, but Emin’s flamboyant
bow was received with much greater warmth.

Zhia Vukotic gave the king a coquettish smile from the shadows of her hood. When at last she spoke, her voice was rich and smooth,
the rounding of her syllables sounding cultured, old. ‘King Emin, it is
a shame we’ve not met already. I have greatly admired the way you
govern your city.’

‘Yet you appear to be leaving it,’ the king countered.

Zhia’s smile widened further under the canopy of her silk hood,
wide enough for Emin to see all he needed to recognise her.

‘I would address you by your proper title, but I doubt you are currently using “Princess”, so I hope you forgive the informality,’ he
added.

‘Easily enough; such trappings are behind me now and the names I am called these days tend to be less than kind.’

‘Lady, it was the will of the Gods to make you thus; in this company I shall certainly not cast slurs on one’s nature.’

Isak gave a snort at the comparison but was ignored by both.

‘Well, you were discreet in your living arrangements,’ continued Emin. ‘I had no idea you were in the city. If you admire my politics,
then I am flattered. Your reputation precedes you.’

‘As does yours. During the months of enduring the White Circle’s childish games, I frequently wished we could have been introduced. I’ve not met an adequate Xeliache opponent for years - not one with a true understanding of strategy. Considering your rise to power, I think you would provide me with true diversion, for a time at least.’

‘Xeliache?’ Isak asked. The word sounded disturbingly familiar.

‘Xeliache, the more accurate name for Heartland.’ Emin didn’t
take his eyes off Zhia. ‘It comes from the core runes Xeliath, meaning
heart, and Eache, meaning the Land.’

The vampire smiled, something akin to desire in her eyes. Isak
looked from one to the other, but they were oblivious to his presence,
too caught up in the prospect of a challenging intellectual conflict. He
was glad. The connection between ‘Xeliath’ and ‘Heart’ had stunned him into dumb silence. He’d not suspected, but it made sense. The
threads to his life connected - he should have already guessed this.

‘My Lady, the next time we meet, we will find time for a game,’ the king promised.

‘And if we are leading opposing armies?’

‘Would you really not have the time to spare?’

Zhia laughed, a seductive, velvety sound. ‘My kind always have
time to spare. Very well, your Majesty. When we meet again, we will
play. I hope it will not find us enemies, though.’

‘Can we be anything but? You can hardly have failed to notice the bees on my collar.’

‘Indeed I did not. Nor did I overlook the fact that you made no effort to cover them and save me a small discomfort. As for an enmity,
that depends on others. My family has no wish to take your crown,
but we cannot speak for the whole Land.’

‘Which others?’

‘But of course, you’ll not have heard,’ Zhia purred.

Emin’s eyes narrowed; he was fully aware of the advantage over him that she was enjoying.

Isak was barely listening now, until he realised the importance of
Zhia Vukotic’s news.

‘I hear the Temple of the Sun is in flames. The Menin have returned from the East and Lord Charr rushed out to offer battle. His
army was slaughtered and there were too few soldiers left in Thotel to
defend it. The city fell to the first attack. The Chetse have been conquered.’ Zhia smiled at them both and pulled the carriage door closed
again. ‘Until we meet again, your Majesty, my Lord.’ She inclined her
head gracefully and tapped on the carriage partition.

Ten days later, as sullen clouds lingered in the sky, the Farlan party
made their way towards Llehden. The death of Lord Bahl had cut short
their stay in Narkang, for time was now against them. The spectre of
civil war was growing stronger every day Isak was absent from Tirah.

The group riding towards Llehden was much depleted. Three Ghosts too badly injured to ride had been left behind, and more than half of those who had saddled up that morning had injuries that promised to
make the journey miserable.

Eight of their number had died in the battle, and their bodies had
been cremated. After some debate, the funerary urns had been placed
in the Temple of Nartis, on display beside Commander Brandt’s tomb.
None of the men had had much in the way of family, and the temple seemed to have become a memorial to the battle’s dead. The Farlan were seen as the city’s deliverers, and their dead were being treated with reverence by the population.

The light was strange, dull grey, more low autumn than spring. Half the day had already passed and the oncoming dusk was preying on Isak’s mind. He’d been born this day, on Silvernight, eighteen summers ago. His mother had gone into labour as the light began to fade,
and as Arian’s sparkle etched every surface she had screamed her pain and fear to the uncaring night. The trees glowed ghostly silver, standing careless guard as her blood had flowed: the terrible haemorrhaging that came with the birth of a white-eye. Isak had been born coated in the life’s blood of another. It was one death he felt the guilt for deep
in his bones.

A twisting river, the Meistahl, writhed its way north-east, marking two-thirds of Llehden’s shire border before it joined the Morwhent
five miles from Narkang. The far side was marked by a line of gigantic
pines that ran for more than thirty miles down towards a deep, still lake. Huge, broken round boulders lay scattered under those trees,
making it hard to pass that way on horseback.

They’re called twilight stones,’ King Emin told Isak. ‘If you come from that way at dusk you’ll see the gentry standing on them and
watching the sun fade. It’s the only time you’ll see them - unless they
want you to.’

‘You’ve seen them? I didn’t realise they actually existed.’

He’d expected Emin to smile at his ignorance, but the king’s mouth had stayed set while his blue eyes glittered. Isak had debated long and hard before telling King Emin where they were going, and why, but
he eventually decided that he would find out sooner or later, and with the Land on the cusp of war, it was better to show some trust.

They are not part of our Land; few of us are part of theirs. They care nothing for the Gods and less for men, just for the woods they live in. They’re the soul of the forest,’ he said. ‘I don’t know whether they even conceive of themselves as individuals. What I do know is that you don’t cross them. Your new Devoted friends might find themselves in real danger if they come across the gentry. I don’t believe the Order approves of free spirits, and the gentry have short
tempers.’

There was only one bridge across the river, which ran too fast to ford. Major Ortof-Greyl was waiting for them on the far side, sitting high and still in his saddle. He was wearing partial mail and some kind of uniform, but it looked ceremonial: wide scarlet sleeves and trousers
detailed with mother-of-pearl, and a fox-fur hood.

At the bridge Megenn shied away at first, staring down at the dark silent water and twitching his ears nervously. None of the horses seemed very happy about entering the shire, but with calming hands and gentle voices they were coaxed over. The wind shook the trees as Isak crossed, as if the forest shied away for a moment and then reached out to embrace him. Isak scowled, but he was glad enough for their cover when he reached it. Isak ignored the major as he rode
alongside and tried to engage the brooding white-eye in conversation.
Only when Vesna plucked at the man’s sleeve and frowned did the major move ahead and allow the grim silence to return.

There had been no mention of Isak’s birthday, other than Tila’s delicate kiss on his cheek and Carel clapping a knowing hand on his shoulder as they breakfasted - that was all Isak needed, to know that he had friends to remember it, and that they knew him well enough to not mention it.

Ahead of them, the third moon, Arian, sat high in the sky. Arian appeared for a week every three years, and the middle day of that
week was Silvernight. For two days either side, the night was merely a little brighter, but everyone knew they were bad days to be abroad.
There were tales galore of all the evil deeds of the past three years that
had risen up from the ground in this week. True or not, there was no doubt that spirits and unnatural creatures certainly roamed the Land
when Arian was high; no man of sense would enter open country. Each time Arian appeared, there would be fresh tales of horror and murder told in the taverns and inns and whispered at hearths and
bedsides. It was an unchancy time.

For all that, Silvernight itself was so enchanting that every town and village held a festival to celebrate it. On that middle day every surface touched by the bright moonlight appeared to be coated in
silver. It was impossible to resist the lure of being outside after dusk,
and unlike the days before and after, no fell creatures stirred that
night, so it was a time of safety as well as joy.

As they travelled further into Llehden, the light began to wane and open ground gave way to increasingly dense woodland. Hawthorns
stretched their twisted branches out towards the road, fat oaks rustled
their brittle twigs and sinister yews reached down low to cover the
ground about themselves with a concealing skirt of night. They saw
few creatures. A solitary kite passed overhead and small birds and
early bats darted past their eyes, but only a bandit lynx had paid them
any attention. The large cat watched them lazily from a high elm, paws hugged about the smooth bark of the branch. Isak could see tufts of grey fur protruding from the cat’s chin like the wisps of a
beard. Coppery streaks on its back meant the lynx disappeared when
it dropped down into the twilight of the undergrowth, long before
the soldiers approached. No sound reached even Isak’s keen ears. The
lynx just melted away to add another set of eyes to the shadows all
around.

The road was nothing more than a wide track, overgrown and old, but easy enough to follow as it threaded a path through the trees.
They passed a few isolated farmhouses looking dark and abandoned,
though cattle lowed from the barns. Even for a farmer, Silvernight
meant society and merriment. Only Isak was unmoved.

Two hours of travelling took them deep into the ancient heart of
the woods. The last vestiges of day gave way to silvery twilight. All
along the road the trees leaned close over their heads, the moons casting a flurry of leaf shadows underfoot, until the path opened out
and became the neglected approach to a large stone house. Tall weeds
almost obscured the low wall that surrounded the grounds, a hundred
yards of lawn gone to pasture, and at the back, a darkened building
that looked derelict.

The gates were gone and as Isak reached the gap and looked down the driveway he reined in and stared.

Major Ortof-Greyl had started on down the road when he realised his party were no longer following. They had stopped before the open gateway. The old grey walls, set against the black background of a tall laurel hedge and the encroaching trees on each side, shone in the
moonlight. Crawling trails of ivy reached up the cracked stone wall.
Isak set off down the driveway towards the house, his companions following behind. In an open window on the upper floor he saw an
owl, bright in the moonlight and as still as a statue until Isak was only
twenty yards away. It suddenly stretched its wings out and hooted, breaking the evening silence. The owl’s haunting call prompted a strange chattering sound to ring out around the grounds as voices
echoed from the shadows.

Isak turned to look around, unsettled by the sudden stir. He drew Eolis half out of its scabbard. He couldn’t feel any other presence
nearby, not even what was making the noise - then a woman, swathed
in a long dark cape that covered a long robe that looked black in the
moonlight, stepped out from the trees. She called out in the Narkang
tongue.

‘They’re welcoming you,’ Mihn translated, unbidden.

‘What are?’ Isak felt immediately ashamed that he’d shown his blade, even half-drawn - it was traditional not to draw weapons on
Silvernight, whatever the reason. Old soldiers swore that Arian would
burn and corrode the surface of any blade exposed on this magical night. He looked down. Eolis shone all the more brightly, unearthly
and dangerous.

‘The gentry,’ Mihn said softly after she had replied.

Isak looked more closely at the woman, who appeared to be no
more than thirty. She had long dark hair creeping out from under her
hood, and piercing, knowing eyes. She stood so still it was as if she were of another place and time, set apart from worldly concerns. Isak could see a soft smile on her face.

‘I thought they had no interest in men,’ he said through Mihn.

‘They don’t, but they welcome you as a brother.’

‘Have they told you that?’ Isak asked.

When Mihn translated Isak’s words, her only reply was a sniff of
scorn.

‘Are you the witch of Llehden?’

‘I am a witch,’ she said.

A figure stepped out beside her. It had the shape of a slender, lithe
man, but little else was human. Its pale, hairless skin drawn tight over
harsh features reminded Isak of the mercenary Aracnan. The figure - the gentry - had sharp, narrow eyes that looked completely black in this light - almost the complete opposite of Isak’s own white eyes. The gentry looked poised either to attack or flee, but neither impulse
showed on its impassive face. It wore a robe of stitched leaves, tied at
the waist by a switch of what looked like willow. Its feet were bare,
and the two largest toes were pushed in the black soil where it stood.
By the time Isak had finished studying the gentry he realised there
was a group of them; they had arrived as silently as wraiths. The first,
their representative maybe, regarded Isak. He remembered the king’s
warning that the gentry had short tempers. If they truly were greeting
him as a brother, then sitting atop Megenn and staring down at them
was probably deeply insulting.

Isak pulled off the silk mask and slipped from his horse, dropping
lightly to the ground.

The gentry shot him a grin, flashing long canines, and bowed low,
though keeping his eyes on Isak all the while. Isak found himself bowing too, almost as low, which produced another predatory smile. Then
it spoke in a barking chatter, firing sounds out through the night that were echoed out by the unseen gentry still among the trees. Without
waiting for a response, the figure turned and darted away. All around,
Isak heard sudden movement and glimpsed shapes flashing through the slivers of moonlight between the trees. He guessed at least fifty
gentry had gathered.

The witch arched an eyebrow. From her expression, Isak was sure
she’d never seen the gentry act like that.
They say that they will escort
you to the Ivy Rings, where soldiers wait. They call you a friend of the
Land. That the soldiers still live is a gesture of respect for you.

His surprise at a voice appearing in his head must have shown as the corners of her mouth curled into a smile. How?
I
am a
witch.
Your heart is not
the
only one with abilities.

You know of her?

I
have heard her in the night. A song of fears; for you and for the Land.

She
feels your pain as her own.

My injuries!
The pain of your future, and of your soul. There is a storm on the horizon, one you feel in your blood, but it is wild and uncontrollable.
So much
is
drawn to your light that you will make your own future only if you can
control that storm. Consider
your
choices well, for
they will
impact on the
whole Land as much as
her.
What
is
your part in
this?

I care nothing for the plans of Gods or the pride of men. I am a witch of
Llehden,
bound to the Land and bound to protect its
balance. Those who
need help will find it in me; those who need haven will find it here. That is
the bond
I
gave for the
powers I bear. Go now. Events are waiting upon
you. When my help is needed, it will be given.
When it’s
needed?

You are not here to see me; now is not the time for that. All I know
is that a time will come when you will need a light in dark places. Then,
young dragon, you will need my help.

And you’ll give it so freely? It
doesn’t sound like you even know what
you’re committing to. Isak tried hard not to sound insulting in his
head.

No one can see the future exactly. Those who see furthest and with the
greatest clarity are prophets, and that is the source of their madness. I can
feel an echo of the
future, no more. Until that time when you need a light
in dark
places, I do not need to understand more.