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  Tochet broke into a smile and put his hand on hers. ‘Do you mean all these years of wooing have finally paid off?’

  ‘Hah, not unless there’s something you’ve been hiding from your men all these years.’ She delicately removed the Chetse’s hand from hers and gave him her best smile. Legana knew Tochet couldn’t resist that; he was a fool for any pretty face. ‘You know perfectly well that I meant to command the forces in Lomin; Scion Lomin won’t accept a Farlan’s authority and you’re the perfect alternative. He could hardly refuse a man of your experience.’

  ‘Well now, I’ve given my word and a mercenary has nothing if he breaks that. I have accepted the commission from Duke Nemarse and that’s where we’ll go. It will be a good rest for us after Tor Milist; I’m buggered if I’m doing that all winter again. I said as much to Duke Vrerr, so I don’t think I’m his favourite mercenary any longer.’

  Destech snorted in amusement. ‘You’ll be even less popular when his wife gives birth.’

  ‘And without you to support the duke?’

  ‘With me, without me. Lords stand on their own feet or they fall on their own. Vrerr is an idiot; he turns his own people against him. No one likes the White Circle, but he’s doing grand work in bringing over the neutrals. If it wasn’t for the men from Narkang he’d have died a handful of times already.’

  ‘Men from Narkang?’

  ‘I think so. They’re not a friendly bunch, and I must have seen five different agents over my time there, but my orders were always more intelligent when one of them was around. They’re hard men. I’ve seen the type at home; good soldiers, too good to waste on the line. They’re the bloody hands that drive history.’

  ‘Why would the King of Narkang get involved? He knows meddling in Tor Milist might bring him in conflict with the Parian.’

  ‘From what I’ve heard, that man’s not afraid of anything, but it would be an inconvenience to him if Tor Milist fell. This fair city of Helrect is run by the White Circle and rumour has it they pull the strings in Scree too. If Vrerr is overthrown, King Emin suddenly has a nation to rival his own just over the border; one full of experienced soldiers and mercenary companies. As long as King Emin’s not obvious about it, your masters will turn a blind eye because they don’t want the White Circle there either.

  Legana glowered: the White Circle was a sisterhood of noble-born women, one so close-ranked that even Lesarl hadn’t been able to penetrate far enough in to discover who was really in charge - or, more importantly, what their real ambitions were. Publicly they claimed no agenda beyond a fairer, less corrupt system of governance, but they were active recruiters and Lesarl considered altruism and power rare companions. Legana expected to be assigned to infiltrate the Circle one day soon; even she, a trained killer of both talent and experience, was willing to admit a slight unease at the prospect.

  ‘And is there any way I could persuade you to come north?’ Legana knew Tochet was a man of his word and would not be swayed, but as a friend she had to try again. ‘Land? A title? To go home?’

  ‘Farlan land? Hah! Too cold and too wet. Don’t care about titles; the only words that count are those carved above the entrance of your stonedun. Going home? That I could hope for, and nothing more than that. Lord Bahl might hold better sway with Chalat than any other man, but what I called him, no Chetse would forgive. I lost my head, I know, but there’s no taking some words back.’ He drained his cup and was about to reach for more wine when his hand sagged. Legana saw the fatigue and sadness on his face, the look of a man who was getting too old to be a mercenary.

  ‘But if a truce could be arranged somehow? Living your life out in Cholos or Lenei would be home enough, wouldn’t it?’

  Tochet scowled. ‘If he forgot himself and did welcome me with open arms, I’d push a blade under his ribs and plant a fat kiss on his lips as the life ran out of him. He had my wife killed, my children, my cousins…’ Tochet’s voice trailed off and men round the table fell silent. Legna saw anger on their faces, not sadness, and raw murder in their eyes. ‘There’s no taking back there. No forgiveness. And now I’m for my bed; the fun’s gone from the evening and we’re marching out tomorrow.’ Tochet rose and looked around at the tables of Chetse soldiers. His men had not risen at his departure, but they watched his every movement with sober eyes. Taking a leather purse from his belt, Tochet tossed it on to the table where it fell with a heavy clink.

  ‘There you go; you’ve all toasted my boys before and you’ll do it again tonight. Make sure you can walk in the morning.’

  Touching Legana on the arm to say goodbye, he made for the door of the inn. After a moment, she caught him up and slipped an arm under his. She knew she couldn’t ease the pain in his eyes, but a friend had to try.

  CHAPTER 6

  Gradually the darkness gave way to leaden shades of grey and a seeping chill that drained the warmth from Isak’s blood. All alone in the void, he felt his body grow numb and fade until he could hardly sense any part of him.

  Then there was pain; a cold discomfort that grew to become a hungry licking flame. The swirls of grey began to thicken and press down on him, swamping his eyes and mouth, causing him to choke in the silence. He tried to struggle free, to fight his way clear, but the cold had sapped his strength and the pressure was all around. There was nowhere to escape to and soon he fell into helpless exhaustion, surrendering to the tug of icy depths that dragged him further down to a place of no light and no memory, only the chill cradle of the grave.

  And a voice.

  ‘Isak.’

  ‘Raise your head, Isak.’

  ‘Raise your head and see me.’

  He had scarcely enough strength to obey, but somehow, he did lift his head. He could see nothing, but an image of a figure was imprinted on his mind: a man, tall and powerful, terrifying, and yet almost featureless, with blank eyes, smooth, midnight-blue skin and only the impression of a mouth. The only shape that had any definition was the ornate bow that rested at the man’s side. The pitch-black frame was flecked with gold and silver, and set with spirals of jewels.

  ‘I am your master now. You are the blade I wield; the arrow I send high into the night. You are my Chosen, you share in my majesty and the Land will see my glory echo in your deeds.’

  Isak tried to flee the voice, to hide from the words crashing through his head. He could sense others all around now, the faint touch of their movements and the melodious echoes of their voices, but the figure swept them all aside - except for one, the softest touch of them all, one that was scarcely noticeable until the others were gone and then it was a thread of pure light, distinct against the dark background and impervious to the figure’s palpable fury.

  It began to move, caressing the curve of his hip and moving up over his belly towards his heart. Isak relaxed under its soothing touch, then curled tightly as the stench of burning flesh filled his nostrils. Pain blossomed on his chest, then drove so deep the light burst through his body and burned a path through the darkness. In a heartbeat it had dissipated and all that remained was a faint voice: the sound of a girl calling a name, but so distant her cry was lost on the wind.

  Isak woke with a scream, feeling as if the walls lurched and shuddered around him before reality reasserted itself. He took great gulps of air and tried to open his eyes, but the light streaming through the window made him gasp. Grasping at the unfamiliar sheets Isak battled to regain his wits. A shiver ran down his spine and into his legs; it felt like his soul returning. Every part of him ached, his throat burned and his limbs throbbed, but it was the smell of burnt flesh that scared him most.

  He sat up and grabbed the copper mirror from the desk to inspect his reflection, but he had to squint down to see it: a runic shape in stinging scar tissue on his sternum. It wasn’t anything he recognised - not that he’d really expected to - but it wasn’t even something from his dreams of the island palace.

  In the looking-glass he could see it more clearly: a circle of scar tissue with a horizont
al bar across its centre, no more than two inches across. The bar did not quite span the width of the circle, but a vertical line at either end made that connection, with one going straight down, the other up.

  Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by the taste of magic emanating from the chimney at the centre of the room: Lord Bahl. He grabbed his ragged shirt and quickly pulled it on, making sure the bone thongs were fastened and the scar covered. As Lord Bahl appeared, the scar was covered, but Isak could not hide the haggard look on his face.

  ‘You slept badly. Dreamed badly.’

  It was not a question. Isak looked up at his new master with incomprehension. As he struggled up and propped his body against the wall, he realised he was shivering uncontrollably. Bahl noticed the cold as well and threw several logs on to the dead fire, then made a flicking motion with his wrist. Flames at once sprang up in the fireplace, hungrily devouring the dry wood. Isak stared in wonder at the fire, but Bahl just waved it off and drew up a chair for himself.

  ‘That’s nothing. I’m surprised that you can’t do that already, considering how the tower responded to you. But that can wait. Right now, we should speak of what you are.’

  Isak struggled to answer, his head still fogged from the dream. ‘What I am?’ he muttered. ‘What else is there? Carel said white-eyes are born to be warriors, to fight for the tribe.’ ‘Carel?’

  Isak opened his mouth to reply, but stopped when he realised Bahl’s face was uncovered. The reclusive Lord of the Parian rarely went out in public without the blue silk hood tight around his face, and Isak had never before seen Lord Bahl’s actual features. He wondered how it could have taken him this long to notice, but after a moment he shook the question from his mind - considering what had happened to him, such a small detail was easily overlooked. Now he saw a powerful man with a harsh face, solid features all sharp lines and blunt corners. His brow was thick and strong, and his nose, but his features had an abrupt look, as if a craftsman had been interrupted in his work. The shape was there, the basic lines hewn with skill, but there had been no time to smooth the edges.

  That in turn reminded Isak of the palace in his dreams and its unfinished statues, but before that could distract him further he forced the memory away. This was not a face used to patience.

  ‘Carel is my friend, a friend of my father’s. He was in the Palace Guard before he joined the wagon-train. Sergeant Betyn Carelfolden, Third Squad, Vanguard Company, Eighth Regiment. He was the only one who didn’t care that I was a white-eye. He taught me to fight so I could come and take the trials for the Guard.’

  ‘A squad sergeant, that’s good news. He’ll have bawled you into the right habits then, so I won’t have Kerin whining that he has to teach you the different ends of a sword. But that’s not going to be enough now; if you outlive me, you’ll be Lord of the Farlan one day. Before anything else, remember that nothing Sergeant Carelfolden -or anyone else - has taught you can prepare you for the life you will now lead-There are dangers that ignore all of your strength, all of your skill. You are but a child among wolves, blessed by the Gods for the whole Land to resent and envy. You have no friends now; no one you can trust with your innermost thoughts. Over the months to come you will realise that you now stand apart from the rest of the Land, between mortals and the Gods, but kin to neither.’

  Isak, following this with some difficulty, broke in and asked, ‘But you had someone once. Couldn’t you trust her completely?’

  Bahl stood silent for a few moments, then a deep breath signalled a victory for control. He answered, as if nothing had happened, ‘Her I could trust, yes. She was the only person I could trust completely, and because of that she was used as a weapon against me. Don’t speak of her again, unless you want bad blood to come between us.’

  Bahl stopped again, but this time it was to gesture towards Isak’s trembling hands. ‘You’re tired, I know; let me explain why. It was Nartis who spoke to you in your dream. Now that you’re one of the Chosen, you are his property’- whether you want it or not. White-eyes were created to signal the end of the Age of Darkness; to show that the Gods were once again with us. We are born to rule, to lead the armies of the Seven Tribes of Man. By choosing one of us to lead, the Gods broke the dynasties and the traditions of blood-ties and birthright that had contributed to the Great War. I know the dreams are difficult to endure, but through them Nartis will give you the strength you need to survive. You’ll be as big as I am, able to endure pain that would kill any normal man, and still have the strength to fight back afterwards. You’ll feel the storm running through your veins-‘ ‘What about the thread of light?’ Isak interrupted again. Bahl frowned, leaning closer to Isak to stare deep into his eyes, a mesmerising, unremitting glare like a cobra staring down a rabbit. ‘I don’t know about a thread of light. You should have been alone with Nartis, becoming part of him.’

  Isak shook his head. ‘No, we weren’t alone, I felt others all around us, other minds. There were whispers I couldn’t make out before Nartis drove them away.’

  ‘That’s all they are,’ Bahl said firmly. Isak blinked. ‘What?’

  ‘The whispers; that’s all they are, just voices. Spirits holding on to a few memories; they’re attracted by life, by strength, by magic. They’re distractions, nothing more. You’ll learn to ignore them easily enough; As for the light, it’s the same: another entity - stronger perhaps, but not what you were born for. Stay true to your nature and your God.’

  This time Isak nodded. Carel had spent many an evening entertaining them all with tales of mythology: the Land’s pantheon of Gods were eternally plotting and feuding. Larat, God of Magic and Manipulation, was particularly famed for stealing the followers of other Gods, and for making reviled traitors out of devoted servants. The pain Isak had felt during the dream must have been a taste of the price of betrayal, and if that was the case, he knew it was not something he ever wanted to experience in full. ‘Could it have been another God like Larat? Trying to cause trouble?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s possible - Larat lives for discord,’ Bahl said, although he sounded uninterested in pursuing Isak’s theory much further. ‘But don’t think too hard about it, just stay true to what you are. Only Death is stronger than our patron, Nartis. No other God can offer you more than Nartis has promised you by making you my Krann.’

  Isak nodded, his eyes dropping as the sting of his chest intruded on his thoughts. His hand instinctively rose to touch the sore area before he forced it back down, unwilling to draw Bahl’s attention there. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he didn’t want to show the scar to anyone yet.

  Try not to worry about it now,’ Bahl began, interpreting the movement as nervousness. ‘We can talk again when you’re feeling more yourself. Right now you should compose yourself and report to Swordmaster Kerin; he will need an idea of your abilities before he begins your training. Once that is done, the day is yours. I don’t have time for you today. I have told Kerin to give you a sword that befits your new rank, but I suggest you don’t leave the palace; let Lesarl introduce you to useful men like Suzerain Tebran and the colonel of the Ghosts instead. At some point you should go to the temple and sacrifice to Nartis, but there’s no rush. We’ll send some men with you to give you some space from the curious.

  ‘Beyond that, your first priority is your weapons training. In a few days Lesarl should have time to formally draw up your ownership of estates, incomes and the like; just remember he is in my service to bully the nobility, so don’t let him do the same to you.’ Isak sat and and stared up at Bahl. He hardly knew what to make of the situation - everything was flying at him so fast. Even after Bahl’s words in the hall the previous night, it didn’t feel real. Estates, a suzerainty, a court rank? Yesterday Isak could have been whipped for looking a knight directly in the eye.

  ‘What are people supposed to call me now?’ he asked, a little diffidently.

  Bahl gave a laugh. Considering the full import of Isak’s elevation, it was an inane question, but he
could see why it was important. The boy had been the lowest of the low; now he was at least determined to know what respect he could demand from others. He understood why that would be important to a wagon-brat.

  ‘They have a few choices. “My Lord Suzerain” or “Lord Isak” is the formal way to address you, but since your court rank is technically that of a duke rather than a suzerain, “Your Grace” would also be perfectly acceptable. No doubt you’ll hear it from someone wanting to flatter you. Just remember your rank is below the other dukes, so you’ll still have to bow to them. Krann Isak would be a little direct, but also acceptable. Otherwise, you are Isak, Suzerain Anvee, Krann to Lord Bahl and Chosen of Nartis. Ah, but some might call that impious. It would be better to say: Chosen of Nartis and Krann to Lord Bahl.’

  ‘So I have a family name now.’

  ‘I suppose so, but don’t grow too fond of it. As one of the Chosen, tradition says you should be addressed as Lord Isak, and you lose it when you become Lord of the Farlan anyway, though I hope that will be a long-distant day.’ Bahl smiled, rather uneasily, as though the expression was unfamiliar. ‘Anvee is dull and overgrown in any case. There’s not much of interest there, only a handful of towns and villages populated by shepherds.’

  Isak opened his mouth to ask another question, but Bahl had already turned and entered the central chimney. He shut up and watched the giant disappear, enveloped in a grey blur.

  Left alone again, Isak clambered to his feet, draping a woollen blanket from the bed around his shoulders, and made for the fire. He nudged the chair Bahl had sat in out of the way and squatted on the floor to stare into the flames. The fire looked just like any other, with no sign of its unnatural birth. Isak smiled; maybe, after today, he wouldn’t envy it that. After a while he realised his head was clear and the dull ache in his muscles was receding. He stood and stretched-perhaps he could face the day after all.