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  ‘The price, Tiniq, of these gifts. Nothing is for free. The scales must always be balanced.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The sentence was almost a whisper. ‘I think I have yet to pay it. I’ll have fifty summers in the new year and I don’t look older than thirty - and I’m getting stronger.’

  ‘Stronger?’

  ‘My brother has noticed it too. When I saw him a few days ago, it was for the first time in two years. As I embraced him, he felt the difference.’

  ‘Curious.’ They reached the Wood Gate that led east out of the city. The frost in the air had suspended the gentle sway of the leaves; everything was still and silent. Bahl turned to the smaller man. ‘We’ll run until the hunter’s moon goes down. I expect you to keep up.’ Without waiting for a reply he broke into a jog, slowly building the pace to keep the ranger pushing himself to catch up. The darkness of night closed around them with a soft sigh. Under the cover of reaching branches they ran with hardly a sound, the moonlit mountains flashing in and out of sight between the trees.

  After he parted company with Tiniq, Bahl met no one as he took forgotten paths through the high ground. The foothills of the mountains were the preserve of herdsmen and rangers; superstition and a lack of arable ground kept the rest away. The early winter had already sapped all the strength from the trees, leaving tired, heavy branches hanging low on the ground. Withered leaves crackled underfoot. Crabbed oaks jostled in the breeze with alders and skeletal silver birch, all hunkered down under the determined beat of rain and light snow. It wouldn’t be long until the winter storms that would suspend normal life for a time.

  His destination was a small monastery in the suzerainty of Ked. It was a harsh place to live: though hidden within dense woodland, it was high up, and plagued by the wind coming down off the mountain. It was a far cry from those monasteries in towns, where monks and nuns figured in all parts of the common folks’ lives. This was both a retreat and a training ground, providing spiritual direction for a large number of novices as they worked on whichever path they had chosen.

  Bahl was familiar with the Chaplains, the zealot warrior-monks attached to each regiment, but his contact with the other sects was limited. Lesarl dealt with the Cardinals who ran the cult of Nartis and Bahl had little time for the priests who performed pastoral work.

  It was evening when he finally caught sight of the stockade wall of the monastery. He’d spent the morning recovering from spells he’d cast the previous night: he had been unable to bear being in complete ignorance of what was happening further east. The elven army had felt like a putrid sore on his skin when he let his senses spread over the forests. The army was keeping to the darkest corners. Split into three parts, it had a network of scouts spreading out from each section, and trails of magic reaching even further. Each one was a thread waiting to be triggered when their prey stumbled within reach. Bahl hoped he had managed to confuse them enough over the course of the night.

  A stone gate was the only entrance, above which shivered the light of a fire from a small watch-room. There was a roof to keep off the snow, but the wind came in through the narrow slit that ran around the chamber. Bahl could see the huddled shape of a novice - even with the fire, it would be bitterly cold inside. After a few hours of this cold, the novice would hardly be able to raise the alarm at anything he saw… but a monastery was not supposed to be a place of comforts.

  Bahl broke into a run, silently gliding over the grassy clearing that surrounded the square compound. The novice’s head was turned away, staring at the empty trees. In one leap, Bahl cleared the spiked wall and landed on the walkway that led to the gate tower.

  The guard heard the noise and fumbled with his bow as he turned, only to let it drop in amazement as he saw Bahl standing there, bow in hand and mask on. For a few seconds the novice just stared in amazement, then he gave a yelp as Bahl strode down the walkway towards him. His bow abandoned, the youth scrabbled first with the drape covering the door, then the latch, but when at last he did open it, Bahl was almost upon him. Terrified, he fell to his knees in the doorway, mittened hands clumping together beneath his chin.

  ‘L-l-lord Nartis,’ he whispered with reverence. Bahl stopped with grunt of surprise.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, boy,’ he snapped, moving past to the ramp that led down to the stone courtyard. He stopped to get his bearings, looking around at the interior of the monastery. Five columns of smoke rose from other parts of the building, reminding him which parts were sleeping quarters. Behind him was the gate tower, flanked by wooden stables for the livestock. On either side were the dormitories, one for novices, the other for the monks. Straight ahead was the chapel, and the flicker of candles through its rose window showed that he had arrived in time: the light that still burned for the abbot would only be extinguished when the man had passed through Death’s gates.

  The courtyard was only thirty paces across. A stack of cut wood was piled against the dormitory walls, as if for insulation. Cracks were visible in the stonework of the buildings; the skeleton of a creeper hung down, waiting for spring. Bahl walked to a smaller door to the right of the chapel entrance which led to the abbot’s rooms. The prior had adjacent chambers running down a common wall so the large fireplaces could be shared. Privacy was not something Nartis appeared to approve of here, though certain cardinals he knew had palaces to call their own.

  A rolled carpet had been placed behind the door to ward off draughts. Bahl heard the soft whisper as it ran across the floor, catching straw as it went. It opened on to a dark reception room, a traditional canvas-roll painting of Nartis the only ornamentation. It was empty and cold, normally used only for monks to sit and wait to be summoned. Three pairs of heavy fur boots were on the floor, two dropped carelessly, one carefully set perpendicular to the wall.

  Bahl placed his hand on the door latch, hesitated when he heard a voice on the other side, a droning murmur of prayer, then walked in. The abbot’s study showed the desk and shelves in the unused order of a dying man. On one wall were two columns of intricate pictures: twelve icons that showed the Gods of the Upper Circle. Bahl smiled at the sight of them; they were the abbot’s pride and joy, exquisite images collected over a lifetime.

  In the next room, the abbot’s bedchamber, he found the prior standing at the end of the bed, his tall slim figure and shaven head giving him the appearance of a vulture glaring down at its dinner. He rounded on the door with a look of outrage when he heard it open smoothly changed that into a bow when he recognised Lord Bahl.

  The monk sitting at the Abbot’s side, clearly the monastery’s healer, was less composed and gaped for a moment before following suit.

  ‘Get out,’ Bahl ordered quietly but firmly. The prior inclined his head and ushered the healer out with a sharp gesture. Bahl heard their footsteps go out of the study, then moved to one side of the bed. He glanced down its length to the fireplace. Through the flames he could see the prior, kneeling on the stone floor before a bow device hanging from the far wall, an imitation of prayer that would allow him to hear any conversation.

  The Lord of the Farlan’s face softened as he turned to his old friend, bundled up in a nest of blankets that smelt of lavender, sickness and age. The table beside the bed that in past years had been stacked with scrolls and books now held bowls of medicine and a lukewarm broth. A strained cough from the bed summoned him; Bahl crouched down to listen. As he did so, a faltering smile broke over the abbot’s face. Bahl forced a smile in reply, hiding his shock at the near-translucent skin that looked so tired.

  ‘Forgive me, my Lord,’ repeated the breathless whisper.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For my frailties; they shame me.’

  Bahl sighed. The abbot had been tall and powerfully built in his youth. To see him like this, small and withered, made Bahl feel the press of centuries on his own shoulders. ‘Nothing shames you. Time catches us all.’

  ‘I know.’ The abbot paused for breath, trying to push the blankets away but lacki
ng the strength even for that. ‘I had not planned to die this way.’

  ‘Most men dream of it: to die old, surrounded by family and friends.’

  ‘One friend, not much.’ Bahl couldn’t tell whether there was real feeling in that; the abbot was struggling to even make a sound for his friend to hear.

  ‘It was your own choice to come here; I know you don’t really regret it. The good you’ve done is worth that, I think, and I swore you’d not pass through alone.’

  ‘Cerrat.’ The word was gasped, any more swallowed by a spasm of pain that tightened every muscle in the abbot’s body. His lips drew back to show his teeth as he grimaced and fought it. Many years ago, in this very monastery, he’d been taught the mantras to overcome suffering. The Chaplains were the Farlan paradigms of bravery and resilience. Their lives were to serve as examples to the regiment they fought with. Only the strongest survived. Bahl could see the slight twitches on the abbot’s face as he ran those devotional words through his mind again.

  ‘Cerrat, is that someone you want to be brought?’ Bahl leaned away from the abbot as he raised his voice. ‘Prior, don’t pretend you can’t hear me. If I have to leave this bed to fetch you, I swear you’ll die before the abbot does.’

  That got the desired result. The man scrabbled to his feet and peered over the fire’s flames. His calm manner was gone; the politics of a monastery rarely included direct threats of violence.

  ‘Cerrat, my Lord? He’s a novice here, training to be a Chaplain. The abbot’s always been fond of the boy; he’s an excellent student although rather boisterous-‘

  ‘Fetch him now,’ Bahl ordered. He didn’t need to hear any more. The face behind the flames disappeared and Bahl turned back to his friend. ‘Cerrat’s coming.’ As he said it, Bahl wondered how he could help with the pain. A white-eye’s magic could soothe a little.

  By the time a tap came on the bedroom door, the moment had passed and the abbot was breathing again. A youth of some sixteen summers put his head around the door as Bahl called for him to enter. His alarm at seeing Bahl gave way to distress as he looked at the abbot.

  ‘Come in, sit by the bed,’ Bahl told the nervous boy. ‘He asked for you.’

  ‘Cerrat. My bow.’ The novice swallowed hard and fetched the wide, flat bow from the corner. From the way he held it, he’d done this before; he’d read the inscribed passage of Nartis’s words in praise of his tribe’s warriors. The bow was unstrung, so Bahl dug out one of his own spare strings and handed it to Cerrat. Even after so many years, the bow he’d presented to the abbot was oiled and still strong. The abbot reached out a withered finger and brushed the curve of the bow.

  ‘Lord Bahl gave this to me; now I give it to you.’ The youth’s eyes widened, but he could find no words to protest. ‘You show great promise; as much as Cardinal Disten did when I taught him. Bahl, when he is ready, give him the position I once refused.’

  The Lord nodded, looking over at the young man who was overwhelmed at the gift of a bow. He had a child’s face, but already the build of a man, with broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms. The abbot was a reticent man; he wouldn’t have told Cerrat about the heroics that had earned that bow - any more than he would have spoken of the day he refused the highest honour a Chaplain could hold, and one rarely bestowed - that of Legion Chaplain to the Palace Guard.

  Another rush of pain coursed through the abbot’s body and it was a while before he could speak again. Bahl cradled the man’s hand and waited.

  ‘It’s passed. How fares the Land, my friend?’

  ‘Winter is coming. I hope you’ve trained your chaplains well, I’m going to need-‘ He broke off as the abbot cried out in pain.

  ‘Oh merciful Gods!’ The words that followed were lost, but Bahl was sure he heard ‘the Master calls’ through the man’s torment.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ Bahl asked, hating the feeling of impotence.

  ‘An orb,’ panted the abbot. The pain was consuming him now, but this was a man who’d rallied a broken legion and led their charge with an arrow in his neck, trusting to Nartis that it would not tear the vein. He knew pain well enough; he had never submitted to it. ‘I want to feel power in my hands once more before I lose this battle.’ The effort of speaking was almost too much for him and he slumped back in his bed, a trickle of blood on his chin where he’d bitten his lip.

  Bahl lost no time, for he could feel the shadows grow longer as the presence of Death encroached. Sitting the abbot up, cradling the man in his arms, Bahl began to draw his magic, letting the energies flow through the abbot’s body. The old man had been a fair battle-mage in his time, as unsophisticated as a white-eye, but fuelled by his burning faith. An orb was a basic tool of training: it drew energy and spun it into a ball, an excellent way to practise control.

  Bahl felt the abbot’s body relax as the sudden torrent of magic coursed through his body; that much would kill him in a matter of seconds, but for those moments it overshadowed the pain, and that was enough. With one frail hand in each palm, Bahl trapped the magic between them. The room shimmered with greenish-blue light while the shadows grew darker and colder. Bahl allowed the energies to swirl and dance, touching on the edge of his control before crushing them into an orb smaller than the abbot would have ever managed. This he split into three, letting them orbit each other with ferocious speed as the unnatural light flew in all directions, lapping around the edges of the abbot’s magical books and lovingly stroking the hilt of White Lightning, the broadsword strapped to Bahl’s back.

  And then the shadows grew and the magic fled. Bahl felt a tremble in his stomach as the Chief of the Gods reached out to gather in the abbot’s soul and free him from pain. His friend wore a smile as he died; remembering happier times and honoured by a single tear from the white eye of his lord.

  CHAPTER 12

  A light shone around his body, tracing the curve and line of his hardened figure, illuminating scars long faded and signs of injury he could not remember. He moved with dreamy lethargy to a silent song. His armour was gone, stripped away from his flesh, but Eolis remained, secured by a bond stronger than ownership. Terribly heavy and crusted with age, it looked frail and vulnerable. Despite that, he felt sustained.

  The chatter and voices that assailed his mind were muted and weak. His shell of flesh and memory was impervious to their touch, but still they gnawed, hungry for attention, or thoughts to feed off. The only one he listened to was a whisper beyond his understanding, a girl’s voice that called out, searching for him in the dismal black of night. It was a language he did not recognise, words he could not fathom, but a voice he knew from deep within.

  He felt the earth closing around him, as if falling into a grave, but he was not destroyed. He rose again as a shadow, unnoticed by the figures walking past him, wrapped up in their own lives. With Eolis in his hand he was suffused with calm; he patiently ignored the emptiness of death. Though broken and scarred, there was purpose in his bones, and he let them carry him forward towards the shore of a still lake and a figure, stiller than that. The breeze coming off the water brought voices with it, and the tastes of salt and cold blood. Silver shimmered in the sky and the smell of heather and wet stone was all about. He smiled as his blood ran into the earth at his feet.

  ‘My Lord?’

  General Lahk’s voice jolted Isak from his doze. His eyes shot open in alarm, as vestiges of his dream made him forget momentarily where he was.

  ‘You were sleeping in the saddle again, my Lord.’ Though the words contained a reproach, the tone was bereft of emotion.

  ‘Well? What of it?’

  ‘Well, falling from your horse would hardly be a glorious death for me to report to Lord Bahl. If it started suddenly-‘

  ‘It won’t start suddenly.’ Isak reached out and patted the neck of the huge horse underneath him. ‘I know perfectly well that this is the best charger in the seven shires, and I’m not going to fall.’

  He rubbed his eyes, trying to keep himself
awake. They had been riding for several hours that morning, but still he couldn’t shake off sleep’s embrace. With his blue silk mask on and his fur hood pulled up, Isak had made himself a small pocket of warmth, even while the temperature dropped further every day. The nights on the road were far from peaceful, for the bright warmth of magic of the gifts that Isak kept in reach at all times attracted lonely voices in the night. For the time being, reviving deep sleep eluded him.

  He pulled his hood off to let the breeze wake him up a bit. He was always more irritable when he was sleepy, and the general’s monotone brought out the worst in him. Scratching at the stubble on his head, Isak sighed and at last turned to look at the man, who sat high and proud in the saddle, his face as blank as ever. Isak had never yet seen him show emotion of any kind - what he would be like in battle was anyone’s guess. It was unusual for a white-eye to go through life like that; it was inconceivable that he would be the same on the battlefield.

  ‘So, did you wake me for a reason, or just concern for my health?’ he asked, grumpily.

  ‘I thought you would prefer to be awake as we enter the next town. It’s not seemly for the Krann to be asleep when his subjects come out to cheer him. I also have word from your knights from Anvee.’

  ‘What about them? Have I offended them by not sending them orders to accompany me?’ In his other life he’d found people took offence at most things, but a court rank had apparently enlarged the range of possibilities, and the things he didn’t do were causing him almost as many problems as the things he did.

  ‘They are your subjects. You may offend if it so pleases you.’

  ‘Enough scolding, General, I’m too tired.’

  ‘I lack the rank to scold you…’

  ‘Just shut up and tell me what they said.’

  ‘They were enquiring as to whether they could present themselves to you.’

  Isak turned in his saddle, shifting Eolis on his back to sit more comfortably as he waited for further explanation.