The Stormcaller: Book One Of The Twilight Reign (44 page)

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 Bahl 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.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Mihn muttered.

‘The Harlequins’ masks hide them from the Land. Unlike a Harlequin, I can’t hide behind my mask for ever. I have to be a part of the Land - it’s up to me whether my influence will be for good or bad. You might not be able to tell the stories, but you can influence them. Tila is forever laughing at my ignorance, but it could be a crucial failing if the Gods involve themselves in our lives. You can fight better than any normal I’ve met, but it’s your knowledge of the Gods, of the entire Land and its languages, that I need - and I won’t find that in any other soldier.’

Isak realised that he was trembling. The whole subject of being a failure was a little close to his heart. ‘Think it over. We’ll be back in the saddle soon, but you have until we leave Nerlos Fortress to make up your mind. After that, we’ll be outside Farlan territory. You can decide to become a ranger, or an assassin or a court jester, or whatever you wish, but if you want purpose in your life, here it is, for the taking.’

As the first cold rays of dawn reached out over the Land, a figure made his way on to a deserted stretch of battlements on the south-western comer of Nerlos Fortress. He was dressed only in a rough black shirt and billowing trousers, hardly suitable for the cool morning, but as he padded on to the corner-platform between two stretches of walkway he appeared unperturbed by either the wind or the cold stone against his bare feet.

He knelt, facing the sun as it crept up towards the cloud that covered most of the sky, then bowed and, eyes half-closed, whispered a mantra. The words drifted away on the wind as he repeated the bow and the prayer eleven more times, his voice smooth, almost hypnotic.

He sat back on his heels and beamed contentedly at the sunrise for a few minutes, then closed his eyes again and stretched out his right leg, laying it flat against the stone pointing north, then extended his left leg to the south, all with apparent ease. More words slipped through his lips, less formal, perhaps, but still full of reverence, as he leaned forward and placed his hands against the stone floor, tensing slightly, and eased his weight on to his palms. His legs wavered for a moment as he found his body’s centre of balance, then he drew them together, pointing straight up.

He straightened his arms and moved his weight on to one hand, twisting so he was facing down the empty walkway. In times of peace there was only a single lookout on the highest tower and no one else had risen with the dawn. He bent his body into a crescent shape, then propelled his body around and back up to a standing position.

‘And what was that?’ The voice made Mihn pause and he peered into the darkened doorway suspiciously until Isak stepped out into the crisp sunlight.

‘I was praying.’

Isak raised an eyebrow. ‘Praying? I’ve never seen a priest do that.’

‘You don’t need to be a priest to pray, my Lord. Every child should be taught the devotionals to each of the Upper Circle.’

‘No doubt they should - I can probably even remember some of them - but what was that last bit? If everyone had to do that at temple I might have gone more often.’ Isak’s laughter died when he saw Mihn’s grave expression.

‘That was a personal prayer, something we were taught in our tribe. It’s different for each person, a way of giving thanks for something you enjoy, or a particular ability—’

‘So I should be killing someone each morning? That’s all they made
me
good for.’ Isak immediately regretted snapping, but Mihn’s calm was not disrupted.

‘Not at all. I believe you have several things to be grateful for: your strength, your health, your position. And there are your gifts—’

‘Fine, I understand, just stop preaching. If you’ve decided to stay and piously whine at me as your life’s calling, I take everything back.’ Isak shifted uncomfortably. It hadn’t even occurred to him to say a prayer of thanks for his gifts. There had been little chance when Nartis was invading his dreams, and then he’d got caught up in his new life ... one had to hope that the Gods weren’t like people. Isak had seen family feuds grow out of those feast days where gifts were traditional. The idea of appearing ungrateful to the God of Storms was not appealing.

Mihn broke into his reverie. ‘Then I will try not to piously whine at you every morning - but yes, I have decided to stay with you. For a man whose first recourse is violence, you can be eloquent at times. The casual listener might believe you had given the subject some thought.’

Isak grinned. ‘If you’ve quite finished, you can go and fetch me some jugs of water.’

Mihn narrowed his eyes. For all of his power, Isak was still a young man, and one who’d rarely had a chance to enjoy himself at that. ‘Some might think Carel’s observation that he found it hard to wake up early these days was not intended as a hint.’

‘I know, but they’re the sort of people who pray every morning. I, on the other hand, have no morals - by divine mandate. And who am I to defy the will of the Gods?’

Mihn sighed. ‘Who indeed?’

 

Jeil moved swiftly through the trees, his bow held ready. Over the rushing sound of the river nearby he heard a faint birdcall, the short double-trill of a goldcrest, and he stopped to crouch behind an ancient hawthorn. Borl’s mimicry of birdcalls was brilliant, one of the reasons he had been picked to escort Isak to Narkang. It was the perfect way to keep his companions informed of enemy movements without giving himself away, and it meant Jeil, who was faster, could hunt them down from his calls.

This was the first person they had encountered since disembarking from the riverboat they had used to travel the border between Tor Milist and Scree towards Helrect. It was an obvious ambush point, as only coracles could traverse this section of the river, and they were no use for transporting horses.

The goldcrest trilled again and Jeil tensed, ready to step out, when a second call sounded from somewhere up ahead. He swore silently: either Borl’s mimicry was too good and had attracted a real bird, or their prey had caught on. Jeil hunkered down and kept completely still, listening hard. The Land was unnaturally quiet - until a piercing whistle broke the stillness, no bird sound, this, but a warning that Jeil had been seen. The ranger rose and drew his sword, stabbing it into the earth within easy reach before fully drawing his bow.

‘Enough of the birdsong,’ called a voice no more than thirty yards ahead. ‘I know you’re there, so come out.’

He heard footsteps crunching over dead branches advancing towards him and stepped around the hawthorn, still certain that no one could have seen or heard him. The silk of his bowstring caressed his cheek as he caught sight of the speaker. He wasn’t much to look at: dressed in roughly patched leathers and a ragged wolf’s pelt, with a longbow slung over his shoulder and a short-handled axe at his belt.

‘I’m alone,’ he said. ‘I’ve been waiting for you all morning.’ He looked about fifty summers, with traces of white on the week’s growth of beard. An easy smile hovered on his lips, one that put Jeil on edge.

‘The border with Scree is a strange place to be waiting alone and on foot,’ Jeil replied, keeping his bow raised. ‘A boat couldn’t have brought you to this stretch of the river and you don’t look much like a local waterman to me.’

‘Send the other ranger back to fetch your lord,’ the man continued. ‘I would speak to him.’ He didn’t sound like he was a native of these parts. His accent was awkward, as if his own dialect were markedly different.

‘What’s your business with my lord?’

‘Someone sent me to speak to him. Look, boy, I knew you were coming, I could have ambushed you all if I wanted him dead. Just send your friend to tell them I’m here and then we can relax with a pipe until they arrive.’

Jeil eased the tension in the bow enough to free up his right hand. Without taking his eyes off the man, he raised his arm and motioned in the air. A whistle told him that Borl understood. Still keeping his eyes on the man, Jeil backed away and retrieved his blade; the arrow stayed nocked.

‘Don’t get comfortable,’ he warned as the man squatted down on the roots of an oak and pulled out his tobacco pouch.

‘We’ll go some of the way back, this way.’ He pointed back to where he’d left his horse.

The stranger sighed theatrically and pushed himself to his feet. A mocking smile remained on his lips as he passed the ranger. Jeil couldn’t help but wonder just what he had found instead of an ambush.

 

‘So who are you?’ Isak’s hand rested very obviously on Eolis’ emerald-studded hilt. Standing face to face he dwarfed the man, but the stranger showed no sign of discomfort. Either he was mad, or there was a lot more to him than met the eye. The man seemed vaguely interested in Isak’s gifts, but no more - the white-eye’s hooded face drew more attention than either Siulents or Eolis.

‘Greetings, brother,’ the stranger said, with a laconic bow. Isak saw his own confusion echoed on the faces of his companions. ‘My name is Morghien, but that will mean little enough to you, I’m sure.’

The Krann grinned under the blue silk as he caught Mihn’s eye. The small man shifted in discomfort, but did not hesitate to speak. ‘You are called the man of many spirits.’

Morghien arched his eyebrows in surprise, the smile fading momentarily, much to Isak’s satisfaction, but he didn’t falter for long. He shrugged his shoulders, causing the moth-eaten pelt to twitch as if in the final spasms of death, then said, ‘Your man knows his stories. I did not realise my fame had extended to the northern clans.’

It was Mihn’s turn to be surprised now, but Morghien simply chuckled and continued, ‘And now the introductions are out of the way, perhaps we can get to business.’

‘What business do you have with us?’ demanded Carel. ‘How did you know we were coming this way, and why did you call him brother?’

‘Explanations can come another time, but as for how I knew you were coming, let us say the girl of his dreams told me so.’

Carel laughed, but he saw Isak tense. There was a strange assurance about Morghien that worried the veteran. The man looked younger than Carel was himself, but he had an almost otherworldly air; he suited the strange title Mihn had used:
the man of many spirits.

‘Should we talk alone?’ asked Morghien softly. Isak nodded and waved the others back, never taking his eyes off the man. Carel recognised Isak’s mood and moved off without a word; Vesna and the soldiers followed his lead, but Mihn didn’t move. He tightened his grip on the steel-shod staff in his hand.

Morghien turned a sympathetic eye on him. ‘It’s all right, lad. If you know about me, then you’ll know I wouldn’t stand a chance against him.’

Mihn kept very still for a moment and then bowed his head in acknowledgement. He joined Carel, but kept his eyes on Morghien. When the older man reached out to touch his arm, Mihn jumped in surprise.

‘What was that about?’

When he answered, Mihn’s voice was distant. ‘Have you heard of the Finntrail?’

‘No, who are they? Another northern tribe?’

Mihn shook his head slowly. ‘No. I will explain later. Though I don’t think he poses a threat to Lord Isak, that man is dangerous.’

 

‘Now we’re alone, tell me exactly what you mean.’ Any mention of Isak’s dreams put the white-eye on edge. How a stranger could know about the girl’s voice in them was something Isak couldn’t fathom.

‘I’m not sure entirely,’ Morghien began, but the words died in his throat as a silver gleam appeared at his throat.

‘No riddles, old man,’ warned the Krann in a low tone.

Morghien swallowed and nodded as best he could. ‘I am afraid I may not have as many answers as you would hope. Four times now I have had dreams that are more than dreams.’

‘You said the girl of my dreams,’ Isak said impatiently. ‘Explain that.’

‘My dreams have been of a girl, talking to me. She told me about you and asked me to come here to meet you. I assumed you must have dreamed of her too, for her to know who you are and where to find you.’

‘Who is she? How does she know me?’

‘Her name is Xeliath. She tells me she has been looking for you for over a year now, hardly knowing for whom she was searching, until you put on Siulents.’