The Grave Thief: Book Three of The Twilight Reign (7 page)

Isak laughed and led the way over the drawbridge. The gate was already opening, the light of a torch creeping through the widening crack. On a whim Isak turned right and headed for the guardroom, just as a Ghost in full armour stepped out. The man removed his helm when he saw Isak approaching. The white-eye stopped, recognition flourishing on his face.

‘You, soldier, what’s your name?’

‘Me, my Lord? Ah, Private Varner, my Lord,’ the soldier replied quickly, his voice sounding rough, almost grating. He was careful to keep his manner deferential, but he looked apprehensive, and Lesarl remembered how Isak had described his first meeting with Lord Bahl, and the aura of power that hung around him like the heat from a roaring fire.

Isak had kept clear of the other white-eyes in the palace during the last year there. Kerin had made it clear they were a vicious, foul-mouthed lot that Isak had nothing good in common with. It was a full-time effort for the Swordmasters to keep them in check, and there was a pretty high chance that any encounter would result in a fight, which in turn would result in Isak killing a valuable soldier.

‘I remember you,’ Isak said. ‘You were on duty my first night here, weren’t you? You punched out my father.’

‘Was me, yeah, my Lord.’

Isak smiled. ‘That was something I’d wanted to do for years. Thank you.’

The white-eye blinked up at Isak in surprise. Like the rest of his kind the man was tall and powerful, but he was closer to a regular soldier in build than to Isak. It clearly fascinated Isak to see the same snowy irises and black pinprick pupils in the eyes of another, but Lesarl saw the scrutiny was not welcome. There was no kindred spirit in those eyes, only ice.

‘I’ll go in this way, remind myself of simpler times,’ Isak said eventually. ‘Keep the gates open, though; we’re about to have a few visitors. They’re not to be delayed in any way; I want them in the duke’s chambers as quickly and as quietly as possible.’

‘As you wish, my Lord.’ The man bowed low, cast a glance back at his comrade still in the guardroom and then headed for the half-open gates.

‘Come on,’ Isak said to Lesarl, and ducked through the small doorway into the cramped guardroom, only just missing the lintel. He turned and frowned - he had grown so much over the last year, from an outsized youth to a seven-foot-tall giant, - that everything from that former life felt greatly reduced now.

Making his way to the Great Hall, Isak awkwardly acknowledged the various salutes he received. The deference was easy to accept, but he was still occasionally surprised when an entire room of strangers jumped up to salute, bow or curtsey every single time he hoved into view.

The hall was nearly full, as it had been ever since Isak had returned with the army. Scores of those with light injuries had returned on wagons or horseback, even walking, to avoid wintering away from their families, and many of the nobles answering their new lord’s summons had chosen to billet with the Palace Guard they had once served in. Money for lodgings was tight for many of the knights and hurscals who’d travelled with their liege lords, especially when the innkeepers of the city, who had also heard Isak’s summons, had cannily doubled their prices.

Lesarl had seen this as a good thing and he had instructed Kerin to make as much space as he could to accommodate anyone wearing the white. The Ghosts were the Farlan’s finest soldiers, so many nobles sent their sons there for training. Almost half the men knighted on the battlefield were raised from the Palace Guard’s ranks, and Lesarl was keen to encourage the return of veterans, men who’d completed their ten-year term and been recruited as hurscals by suzerains. They were men whose opinions would be respected, and it would do no one any harm to remind them of their primary loyalty, to the Legion.

Once the required personal greetings had been made to three marshals with white on their collars and a recent recruit, Scion Tebran, who was with his father, the suzerain - who, despite the stains on his tunic had obviously managed to find his mouth often enough to get roaring drunk - Isak headed through the rear door of the hall and down the long, cold corridor to the forbidding entrance to the tower, which was next to the main staircase to the private apartments.

The corridor was bedecked with mouldering flags, except for the green and gold standard of the Narkang Kingsguard, which shone bright and new. It had been presented to Lord Isak as a gesture of friendship by King Emin of Narkang after Isak had helped defend the city from a White Circle coup.

‘Makes the others look decrepit, doesn’t it?’ Isak said, pointing to the flag.

‘Should I order replacements? Some are defunct legions now, but we can have them copied without much difficulty.’ Lesarl stopped and turned to the flag nearest to the Great Hall. It was so old and dirty that it was hard to make out the zigzags of blue and green woven through each other down its edge, but there was enough to confirm Lesarl’s judgment. ‘My Lord, this one is the Boarhunters, one of the oldest Tildek light cavalry legions.’

‘They still exist?’

‘Indeed, though somewhat lacking the glory of centuries past that caused their flag to be hung here. That, if memory serves correctly, included ambushing and destroying a Tor Milist army four times their number, then blocking the main enemy force’s line of retreat for two days despite terrible losses.’

‘The battle of Hale Hills?’ Isak replied, his eyes lighting up at the memory of the heroic action.

‘The very same,’ Lesarl said. ‘My Lord, perhaps it would be a gesture of peace to the people of Lomin if you officially requested a replacement flag? I can find out who the commander is; no doubt he is in the city. One of my agents mentioned that the common folk of Tildek - and Lomin too - are concerned they will be held to blame for the actions of their suzerain and the rest of the Certinse family. This might send a sign to both Tildek and Lomin that we still value them.’

‘Do you want to make a show of it at my investiture?’

‘I would advise against that,’ Lesarl said, ‘it should belong to the people of the suzerainty, not the nobles. I will find an ennobled man to pass the request on, and that will ensure the men of the legion know of it too, not just their officers.’

‘Good. The investiture will be complicated enough without added theatrics,’ Isak growled as he started up the wide stone staircase. ‘Stay down here and bring Xeliath up to my chambers without letting that lot see her,’ he said, jabbing a thumb towards the Great Hall where voices were now raised in song. ‘She’ll sleep in my bedroom - I still have my room in the Tower. I suspect the journey will have taken a toll, and as the physician’s at my father’s bedside anyway he might as well keep an eye on her too.’

‘Your father’s condition is unchanged?’

‘There’s been no change since his fever subsided, and that was weeks ago. The priests of Shotir cannot heal a wound from Eolis, and the priests of Larat have been of even less use. He’s in no actual danger at the moment. I’m almost tempted to blame his lack of improvement on stubbornness. Sour-faced bastard knows he’ll have to bow to me if he ever gets out of that bed.’

Lesarl tried to read Isak’s expression as he spoke, but the white-eye gave nothing away. It was a miracle that Horman was even alive, having been possessed by a daemon and made to attack his own son in the Temple of Death. A priest of Shotir had been found in the Devoted camp and he had accompanied them back to Tirah, nearly killing himself in the process as he kept Horman from Death’s Halls.

He settled for a brief bow and a knowing look. ‘Perhaps your father will have noted the hours you’ve spent at his bedside?’

‘Bloody doubt it,’ Isak snapped, ‘but either way, it’s not a problem you need to be involved in.’ He stomped on up the stairs and turned the corner, Lesarl catching a flash of one colourless eye in the light of a torch before Isak disappeared from view.

‘Of course, my Lord, as you wish,’ Lesarl muttered. He turned to another door which would take him to the western part of the main wing where his office nestled at the heart of several dozen others. Adjoining it were the small apartments he shared with his wife and son; his townhouse was currently rented to Suzerain Nelbove and his household.

‘Perhaps I’ll look in on them before going back to work,’ he said softly to the Land in general. ‘The boy might find tonight’s events more interesting than sleep. We’re as alike as Lord Isak and his father are. Best we don’t let ourselves end up that way.’

 

Isak acknowledged the salutes from the guardsmen sporting his dragon crest and eased open the reinforced oak door to the duke’s chambers. The main room was dark, the only light coming from the fire and a single candlestick on a side table. A maid sat at the table with her elbows on it, her chin supported by her hands and her head angled towards the open doorway. He sniffed slightly and she leapt up, her mouth already opening to apologise.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said quickly, ‘you’re not here to guard.’

She curtseyed and straightened, waiting for the question he was about to ask. Isak took a moment. He couldn’t remember her name; she was a friend of Tila’s, the daughter of some local marshal. He knew Tila had told him - but he’d been told a lot since returning to Tirah.

‘How is he?’ he asked eventually.

‘Still weak, my Lord.’ Her voice reminded him of Tila’s, less melodious, but with that same crisp intonation common to those of the landed gentry; it was traditional for the maids in the main wing to be drawn from the upper classes. ‘Your father’s injuries have not opened up again, and there’s still no sign of infection.’

‘But they’re still not healing right?’

‘No, my Lord.’ She lowered her eyes, her hands clasped tightly together over her stomach.

‘The priests of Shotir came again?’

‘Yes, my Lord. Only one of them was crying when he left today.’

Isak forced a smile. ‘So they’re toughening up at least.’ The smile faded. ‘I might be calling on that soon enough. He’s asleep?’

She nodded.

‘Good. Please light the lamps and have the kitchen send something hot up, enough for several people.’

While she went about the lamps Isak looked in on his father. Horman lay on his back, his head turned towards the door. His face was half-obscured by his ragged hair. He had always slept in an awkward sprawl of limbs, but now he was constrained by bandages and was lying as though fighting them. The pungent smell of sweat hung in the air, for the heavy drapes covering the window to keep in the warmth also kept the air close and stale.

Guilt slithered down Isak’s spine again. Horman’s left hand had been amputated at the wrist and the wound refused to heal fully. His right elbow had been repaired after a fashion, and the old injury to his knee was only marginally worse, but it was the overall effect of a daemon’s possession that had taken the greatest toll on his father’s health. He had wasted away in the weeks following the fall of Scree until he looked as pale and weak as a corpse. The effort required for eating proved too much for him most days and he rarely managed more than a couple of mouthfuls.

‘Is this how they’ll all end up?’ Isak muttered, ‘all broken and beyond the help of healers? Maybe tonight’s death-omen will be the saving of my friends.’

Outside the door he heard the sharp click of halberds on the stone floor: his guards were letting him know that a friend had arrived; anyone else would have warranted a verbal greeting. He shut the door to his father’s room and rubbed his hands over his face to wake himself up.

‘My Lord?’ Tila said as she entered cautiously, Count Vesna at her elbow. Both were still in their formal clothes, although Tila had a thick woollen blanket draped over her layered grey silk dress now. She’d taken out the gold flower-head pins she’d used to put her hair up and the long dark tresses now spilled down to her waist.

‘You were waiting up for me?’

‘The guard on the gate let us know when you returned,’ Tila said, coming into the room and casting a glance towards Horman’s door.

‘He’s fine.’ Isak could see she was itching to ask about where he’d been, but she understood her position within his inner circle. As Duke of Tirah, Isak’s word was law, and they all had to adjust to that.

‘My Lord?’ Vesna echoed Tila, his eyes also fixed on the white-eye.

The maid caught the count’s tone and, with a curtsey to Isak, hurried out without even waiting to catch Tila’s eye. When the door was shut, Isak removed his tunic and Eolis before throwing a few more logs onto the fire.

‘Isak,’ Vesna said, dropping the formality once they were alone, ‘you look troubled.’

‘My friend, when can you last remember me any other way?’

‘Enough of that,’ Vesna said firmly. ‘What happened at your meeting?’ The count was without his broadsword but his tunic was fastened up to the neck, as it had been earlier.

The white-eye paused; there was something different about the famous warrior. He thought for a moment. ‘You’re not wearing your earrings,’ he commented, pointing to Vesna’s left ear where the count normally wore his two gold earrings of rank. ‘I hope my return didn’t disturb anything important?’

‘No, my Lord,’ Vesna said in a flat voice.

‘Good. She’s still unmarried, you remember?’

‘Yes, my Lord,’ Vesna replied, refusing to rise to Isak’s needling.

‘Isak, what’s happened?’ Tila asked, firmly changing the subject. ‘Is everything all right?’

The white-eye sat heavily into a chair facing the pair. With all the chaos of Scree’s aftermath, they had yet to officially announce their betrothal. There was a grim mood throughout the city, made worse by the onset of winter. He knew they would happily forego the state wedding offered by Lord Bahl - and by him - but neither one wanted to broach the subject until the period of mourning had finished. The Farlan had lost many soldiers, men and women, and the urns were stacked high in the Temples of Nartis. There had been no comforting words from the priests to disperse the anger and resentment which lingered like a black cloud.