The Dusk Watchman: Book Five of The Twilight Reign (22 page)

‘I’m saying that Ruhen holds a unique position in the Land, but his message is one of peace. This child has no desire to lead an army, so why force one upon him? Whatever we do or do not acknowledge publicly, the common folk in every quarter of the Circle City see him as an emissary of the Gods. Given the iniquities the cults have imposed these past few months, his message is perhaps not as heretical as we might normally have believed.’

All four men blinked at him: Sourl in disbelief, Vener, Chaist and Afasin each trying to process the implications and to find the benefit for them.

‘You would cast out the priesthood?’ Sourl demanded at last, ‘and follow these peasant preachers all the way to the Dark Place instead?’

‘No,’ Certainse said firmly, ‘the priesthood cannot be cast out. There would be no Order without them. But it is this council, not unelected priests, which rules the Knights of the Temples, and it has always been clear that our soldiers must outnumber the priests.’

‘Why do we need this child, then?’ Vener asked, at last retaking his seat. ‘Even as a figurehead, the mission of the Order is clear enough, established down the centuries. So why now take direction from some child?’

‘A child who willingly faces down daemons,’ Chaist pointed out. ‘There our theology coincides.’

Theology? A child of that age shouldn’t know what the word means, you damn fool! You still think him just a child?
Certinse screamed in his head, but he smiled and said, ‘A wise observation, my friend. The child has set his stall against corrupt priests and daemons – which is entirely consistent with our creed – and if he truly is an emissary of the Gods, his word and followers deserve the protection we can offer.’

‘And what can the child offer us? The common folk are fickle; their approval of this child might not last through winter.’

Certinse nodded and opened his mouth to reply, then paused as though hesitating. He pulled his chair back from the table and sat. At last he started, ‘Ruhen counts the Harlequins among his followers; I hardly think he’ll be so easily forgotten. However, we are men of the Land, men of power and politics.’ He raised a hand to stay any objections as he continued, ‘Our obligations have always been to the temporal as well as the spiritual: ours is a Land where both armies and natural disaster have destroyed cities, where priests are murdered and temples lie empty because of the actions of the few.

‘Ruhen’s Children go to preach to all peoples, to reignite their faith in the Gods. Our military might can ensure that takes place safely. In the process both our reach and his will be extended accordingly. Gentlemen, on such an understanding I have a new member of the council to propose: Lord Gesh, Chosen of Ilit and Lord of the Litse.’

Both Afasin and Vener jumped in their seats when they realised the implication.

‘Ruhen offers us the entire Circle City?’ Vener demanded. ‘Can he really deliver Lord Gesh?’

Certinse nodded. ‘The Litse are a pious tribe who share our devotion to the Gods, but they have spent decades constrained by the cults in a way we’ve only recently been able to appreciate. For anyone – us or Lord Gesh – to take Ruhen as their declared lord is to invite chaos, but to foster understanding between par ties . . .Well, that is more palatable for all involved.

‘Byora will not object to the sight of our uniforms on its streets, but its free status will help Ruhen, and foster trade with our neighbouring states. Ismess and Fortinn quarters will formally become Knights of the Temples protectorates.’

‘The trading heart of the West,’ Vener mused. ‘Tor Salan was crippled when the Menin conquered it – Ruhen’s message might find fertile ground there if we carry it, Helrect and Scree too.’

‘In Sautin too,’ Afasin agreed. ‘Anyar’s murderous rule wins him little affection with his people.’

Certinse solemnly bowed his head in acknowledgement and pressed his hands together. ‘And Narkang’s eastern lands: the Menin have made that area a lawless, beleaguered place, the people abandoned to their fates by a godless king. Gentlemen, the Land itself cries out for intercession and the Knights of the Temples must answer that call. It is our holy and moral duty.’

CHAPTER 11

Travelling in the wake of Tirah’s Ghosts, Isak and his companions made good time heading north. Like all travellers in those parts they skirted well clear of Llehden, that strange, isolated shire in the heart of Narkang territory where Isak had recuperated. A sense of longing had Isak again and again turning Toramin in the direction of the cottage by the lake, and each time Mihn corrected the horse’s path without comment. He knew the direction Isak’s thoughts were taking: Llehden had been a sanctuary for him, a place of quiet and calm. But Isak could not return there now. The people of Llehden avoided the lake where Isak had lived for fear of the Ragged Man, a local myth of a vengeful spirit without a soul. That role had now been filled by another. The Menin lord was even more suited to it than Isak had been, and as a result that lakeshore would now be as perilous as the locals believed it to be.

‘Always the wagon-brat,’ Isak had muttered to himself two days before they reached the Morwhent, the great river that ran all the way west to Narkang.

‘A little more than that, my Lord,’ Mihn responded.

The suggestion prompted a shake of the head from Isak. ‘Not any more. We’re coming full circle now: no longer a lord, no longer a man with a home. Llehden’s the last home I’ll ever have and I can’t go back there now.’

‘Look around you,’ Mihn said gently. ‘How many of us truly have a home? Me? Vesna? Legana? You are far from alone.’

Isak laughed unexpectedly. ‘I didn’t mean that as a complaint, my friend. If anything it was the opposite.’

‘This is your home,’ Mihn said after a moment’s thought, ‘riding in the wilds, not wearing a ducal circlet and playing statesman.’

Isak nodded. ‘This’s all I have ever really known. Here I can think. In Tirah I was as out of place as Bahl – that man was born to be some sort of saviour; it was never me.’ He smiled. ‘All those titles and expectations, the armies of men looking to me for guidance . . . Vesna could have been a king, but not me; I was born to tear things down. The best I can hope for is to give someone else the chance to rebuild.’

Mihn guided his horse closer and spoke quietly. ‘Not everyone has found such peace out here.’

Isak followed Mihn’s eyes to where Vesna rode alone, his head bowed. ‘What can I say?’ he whispered.

‘Nothing that will help, but still you must. He is your friend.’

He looked up at the sky. ‘When we stop for the night.’

When the light started to fade a few hours after that Isak called a halt and set to attending to his horses’ needs. The battle-mage, Fei Ebarn, walked a long circle around their small camp, warding it against daemon incursion. The effort was most likely unnecessary; daemon sightings had been few since they’d left Moorview, and if any still walked Tairen Moor they would keep their distance from power they couldn’t match.

At twilight, their brief meal finished, the others settled down. Isak watched Vesna for a few minutes as the Mortal-Aspect sat lost in his thoughts, his eyes fixed on the distant swirls of dark cloud on the horizon. Eventually Isak rose, carefully not to wake the hound lying between him and Mihn, and skirted the fire to reach his friend’s side. Only when Isak crossed his field of view did Vesna look up, but he said nothing by way of greeting. Isak looked down at him for a few moments, wondering how best to broach the subject with him, before a thought occurred to him:
I’m no duke now, no landowner or nobleman; I’m just another troublesome white-eye wagon brat.

He grabbed Vesna by the man’s metal-clad arm and hauled him up. In his surprise Vesna didn’t even try to fight him off. Only when he was on his feet did he shake Isak off, an angry look on his face.

‘Come on,’ Isak said, heading for the line of trees on a rise that was protecting the camp from the wind. Trusting Vesna would follow rather than argue with a turned back, Isak walked over the rise and sat down on an exposed root on the other side. He fished out a tobacco pouch and filled the bowl of his pipe and was lighting it with a brush of the thumb as Vesna appeared and sat down opposite. The white-eye looked out into the darkness beyond Ebarn’s invisible perimeter line. He still wasn’t sure how to proceed, and hoped Vesna would be the first to speak.

‘Well?’ Vesna demanded at last.

Isak shrugged. ‘Just looking to share a pipe with my friend.’ He offered it over and Vesna frowned.

‘You know I don’t.’

‘Ain’t sure of much these days.’ Isak tapped the depressions in his recently shaved head. ‘So much spilled out when this got cracked.’

‘I’m sorry, my Lord—’

‘No, I am,’ Isak interrupted.

‘For what?’

The white-eye turned to face him. ‘Do I really need to say?’

‘No.’ Vesna’s eyes fell. There was a long moment of quiet. ‘I don’t blame you – you know that, I hope?’

Isak nodded. ‘I do. There’s no shame in what you feel, none at all. It’s just a simple fact: I’m here and she isn’t. Death’s hard enough to deal with already.’

It’s hard enough to lose a friend, but a bride too? That’d break most men, and now he’s got to sit with the daemon’s plaything he used to call friend, and every moment’s a reminder that she ain’t coming back.

Vesna’s black-iron hand tightened involuntarily. Isak watched the fist form and slowly be forced open again. He freed his own left arm from the folds of his sleeve and held it up in the pale starlight. It didn’t look so horrific in this light; the scars and bleached-white skin became more of a dream that belonged to someone else.

‘Reckon I’ll glow bright white on my birthday, on Silvernight?’

Vesna gave a snort. ‘If you do, some damn fool will probably try to worship you.’

More silence. Isak found his words were caught in his throat, unable to fight their way through to be spoken.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Vesna asked at last. ‘These plans you made with Mihn and Ehla – why keep them secret from your closest friends?’

‘You would have tried to stop me.’

‘Of course I would! It was
insane
! Look at yourself, Isak, look at what you put yourself through – there had to be a better way!’

‘I couldn’t find one,’ he said softly. ‘And you – you had a life to lead, a family to hope for. Mihn chose to be a weapon in this war and I – well, I was born to be one. It didn’t make sense to ask that of anyone else.’

‘What about your family, your friends? What about the chaos back in Tirah? Lord Fernal is barely holding the Farlan together, and his grip is even more tenuous without the Palace Guard on hand!’

‘And if I had stayed in Tirah, fighting a civil war while Narkang falls to the Menin, forever frightened to face them in battle because I know it will mean my death? Who does that serve?’

Vesna gave up, unable to find the strength to argue further. ‘I only wish you’d told me, not let us mourn your death.’

‘I didn’t know if it would even work,’ Isak whispered. ‘Some days I’m still not sure.’

‘The news of your death – it broke Carel, you know? Aside from when he shook me from my grief, he couldn’t look me in the face.’

‘Who?’

Vesna looked up, remembering too late. Tears were leaking from Isak’s eyes, and his faced was screwed up in the pain of lost memories.

‘Carel,’ he said gently, ‘the father you should have had.’

Isak’s hand started to shake and he hunched over, his elbows clenched tight to his body as though protecting himself from blows. ‘Tell me,’ he croaked, ‘tell me about him.’

‘He—’ Vesna didn’t know where to start. For a while was paralysed by the sight of the shuddering white-eye, but at last he said, ‘He loved you like his own. He tempered you; you always said Carel helped you be more than just the colour of your eyes. He retired from the Ghosts when you were a child and worked as a wagon train guard. He was the one who taught an angry boy how to fight, and when not to. He would – ah, he would be amazed you’d bought your own tobacco for a change.’

‘If he was broken by news of my death,’ Isak said, ‘what would it do to him to know I can’t even remember him?’

The Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn looked Isak in the face, the ruby tear on his cheek glowing with inner light. ‘It would kill him.’

Isak smiled sadly and rose. ‘Perhaps it’s best he doesn’t know, then.’ He tapped out the pipe and turned to head for his bedroll, but then he hesitated. ‘I stole this from Sergeant Ralen though,’ he said, tucking the pipe away. ‘Maybe there’s still hope for us.’

The miles passed quickly, thanks to daily changes of horses and the advance supplies secured by the Ghosts. The locals were curious, but they were glad to see the soldiers, for nightfall brought lone daemons prowling the village boundary stones. This was a part of the country that had known peace for a long time, the garrison towns on the Tor Milist border ensuring Duke Vrerr’s mercenaries had looked elsewhere for plunder during the civil war there, so even foreign soldiers didn’t provoke much fear.

Vesna, Karkarn’s Iron General, drew the most curiosity. King Emin had been careful to spread the news that the God of War had favoured them with his Mortal-Aspect. Though he might scowl at the pointing fingers and whispered awe, it was clear Vesna was born to play such a role, willingly or not. The Farlan hero was tall and strong and handsome, and adulation settled naturally on his shoulders.

Behind the tattered shawl he used to shade his face from the afternoon sun, Isak smiled as he watched Vesna chafe under the attention. He didn’t need to remind anyone of their last journey together through Narkang lands: Isak Stormcaller, riding like a figure of myth in shining armour of liquid silver, a crowned emerald dragon on his cloak. Now he was anonymous in tattered clothes and a face masked by scars; marked out only by his size, he could be any hired Raylin mercenary.

At the southern border of Tor Milist they found Doranei and Zhia waiting for them at a ferry station with a large barge ready to take them all downriver. They would travel down the River Castir halfway to the sea, then follow the King’s Highway to Canar Thritt, around the slow-to-traverse hills south of Vanach and into the crumbling city-state itself. Mage Ashain would be sent here with a mirror, ready to provide them with an escape path, should one be required.