Bloodheir

I

A kind of fever had taken hold of Kolkyre. The ancient city was convulsed by anger, riddled with fearful rumour. The ferment was such that Anyara began to think that normal conversation was no longer possible. Every exchange she heard seemed to be conducted either in whispers or in the anguished, strident tones of outrage or grief. The death of Lheanor oc Kilkry-Haig had shaken his city out of balance.

The dead Thane was burned in the gardens that ringed the Tower of Thrones. The fire raged, turning pyre and corpse into a great column of flame, noise, smoke and heat, killing the grass around and beneath. The gardens would be scarred, at least until this winter was done with. As would the people of Kolkyre, Anyara thought, as she watched the faces of those come to witness the conflagration: distraught, stunned, vacant.

Roaric was there, arm about Ilessa, his now-widowed mother. Ilessa was weeping silently. The new Thane of the Kilkry Blood looked like a man barely in control of his emotions. His eyes were locked on the heart of the flames, as if there was nothing in his world save that fire, and whatever burned within him.

Cailla the kitchen maid had been put into an unmarked grave outside the city walls. On the very night of her burial, so Anyara had heard, someone had dug up and dismembered the old woman’s body. Roaric had spoken of Cailla only once within Anyara’s earshot.

“I would have her alive if it was possible,” he had said, “so that I could kill her again.”

Now the Thane was silent, like everyone else gathered about the crackling pyre. Lagair Haldyn was there, his expression unreadable, a knot of Haig warriors around him and his wife. Aewult had left a hundred or more men in the city, under the Steward’s command; just enough to keep resentment simmering amongst Kolkyre’s inhabitants.

A rising, gusting wind whipped the flames back and forth. Waves of heat came and went across Anyara’s face. She grieved for Lheanor. She had liked him. But the thoughts that smudged her vision with unshed tears were of her own dead father, Kennet, and of Croesan her uncle, and all the others of her family who had died. No one was left now save Orisian, and he had gone from her, out into an unsafe world.

Coinach her shieldman moved a little at her side, breaking her mournful reverie. He turned his face away from a blast of hot wind, and in doing so caught her eye for a moment. He gave her a faint, sympathetic smile.

The flames were dwindling, past the peak of their intensity. The centre of the pyre fell in, belching out a swarm of sparks. The wind took them and tumbled them away. They flared and died amongst the apple trees. Horns were blown. Their mournful voices drowned out the roar of the fire for a time, echoing off the smooth stone of the Tower. It was that sound, filling the whole world, that made Anyara weep at last. It carried every loss, every grief, within it, and it was, briefly, too much to bear.

She saw, as she brushed a tear from her cheek, Lagair the Steward moving away. He and his wife and their accompanying warriors turned and shuffled through the crowd. Roaric was watching them go. The Thane’s gaze was so sharp with loathing that Anyara feared, then, for the future.

On the day after Lheanor’s burning, Anyara went to visit Jaen Narran in her chambers in the town barracks. Coinach accompanied her, as always. She would be surprised now if one day she turned around and did not find him there, silent, attentive and observant.

If Anyara did not know better, she might have thought Taim’s wife flustered by her arrival. The woman rushed around, clearing unnecessary space on the table, searching for her own cloak. They were to go together to visit the few dozen Lannis folk who still lived in squalor in Kolkyre’s northern parts. The plan had been agreed the day before, so Anyara knew it was not surprise that made Jaen fuss so. Rather, she imagined, it was the anxiety that affected everyone in the city, like an affliction leaping from one warm body to the next through touch or breath or glance. And for Jaen, as for Anyara, its edge could only be sharpened by the knowledge that someone precious to her was still facing immeasurable danger.

“I brought as much as I could from the Tower kitchens,” Anyara said. Coinach, who had carried the sack of ham and bread and apples for her, set it down on the table with a thump.

“Good, good,” Jaen replied without looking up. She was burrowing now in a chest, digging amongst blankets in search of something.

“How is your daughter?” Anyara asked.

Jaen straightened, clutching a thin shawl in her hands. She settled it about her shoulders.

“Well, thank you, lady. Her husband takes good care of her. He will make a good father to the child, luck allowing.”

“Luck allowing,” Anyara said, nodding.

“I have some stew I made,” Jaen said, pointing to a lidded iron pot that sat by the fire. “I thought some warmth would be welcomed, now that the weather’s set in its cold path. Nothing worse than not having hot food in winter.”

“No,” agreed Anyara.

“You’ve no word, I suppose, from the north. From home?” Jaen asked the question almost nervously, almost as if she doubted her right to venture it. Or perhaps it was the possibility of an answer that she shied away from.

“Nothing,” Anyara said, with a shake of her head. “The Bloodheir must be in Kolglas by now, but there’s been no word of what’s happening come back to the Tower of Thrones yet. Not that I’ve heard, anyway. You’ll be one of the first to hear, Jaen, when there is anything.”

The woman nodded, and smiled sadly.

“Should we go, then?” she suggested.

They went out into the streets, wrapped against the wind-driven flecks of snow, and headed north. A couple of Taim’s warriors — some of the handful he had left behind when he marched for Kolglas — went with them, carrying the food. They walked a little ahead, to clear the way, but in truth there were no crowds to part. The streets of Kolkyre, emptied by cold air and cold hearts, were seldom busy these days. The faces of those others they did encounter were grim. The death of a Thane would always dispirit his people, but the manner of Lheanor’s demise had done more than that: it had made them bitter and suspicious as well as grief-stricken. None — so Anyara hoped and believed, at least — looked upon her with hostility. Perhaps it was only that she reminded all those who recognised her of the cruelty of the times they lived in.

They heard the mob before they saw it: a maelstrom of angry voices. At once, Coinach slowed and put a restraining hand on Anyara’s arm. The noise was fat with violence. Jaen pulled her shawl tighter about her. A crowd of figures poured around a corner and onto the street ahead of them. It came surging up like a debris-laden flood wave. Two men ran at its head, fleeing it, but unable to outpace it. They were Haig warriors.

Coinach pushed Anyara unceremoniously towards a doorway. She did not resist, but managed to grab hold of Jaen’s shoulder and pull her along with them. The mob came rushing on. The objects of its fury crashed past the two Lannis men before they could get out of the way. The sack of food from the Tower’s kitchens fell and emptied its contents across the roadway. The pot of Jaen’s stew clattered down. The crowd poured around the Lannis warriors without pause, blind to them.

“What’s happening?” gasped Jaen.

Anyara, pressed into the doorway by Coinach, said nothing, but she had no doubt of what would happen if the crowd caught their quarry.

Peering over Coinach’s shoulder, she saw one of the Haig men go down, the other turn, trying to draw his sword. The mass of their pursuers broke over them and boiled around them like wild dogs biting at sheep. Bodies crashed against Coinach — Anyara felt the impacts through his chest — but no one had eyes for anything except the two fallen men. Anyara saw a heavy lumber axe rising and falling, a long staff beating down again and again. Fists. Boots. Jaen was hiding her eyes. Anyara longed to, but did not.

The storm blew itself out. The crowd scattered. Some of its members fled, running as if pursued by the horror of what had happened. Other lingered. Some spat on the two battered, crumpled corpses; some simply stared down at them, as if surprised by their own handiwork. Coinach carefully stepped away from Anyara. He had his sword in his hand.

“We should get back to the Tower,” he said.

Anyara, still standing in the doorway, her arm around Jaen, nodded.

Late that evening, Anyara was alone in her room in the Tower of Thrones, repairing the stitching in the sleeve of a dress. It was not even her dress — just one of those that Ilessa had found for her — and she could have summoned a seamstress to undertake the task, but she found the repetitive, precise movement went some way towards calming her thoughts. It required just enough concentration to keep at bay the worst of the memories and worries that might otherwise intrude.

Coinach admitted one of the Tower’s maids. The young girl bobbed her head respectfully.

“The Thane has asked for you, my lady, in the hall.”

Anyara hesitated. She was not dressed for an appearance before Roaric oc Kilkry-Haig and any others of Kolkyre’s elite who might be present.

“I should change,” she said.

“N-no need, my lady. The Thane… he said to bring you as I find you. As quickly as I could.”

Anyara set aside the dress on which she had been working and stood up. She did not want to leave this quiet room and submit herself once again to the grim atmosphere that prevailed beyond its door, but at the best of times it would be unwise to refuse a summons from a Thane. And these were not the best of times, and Roaric was not the most even-tempered of Thanes.

She and Coinach followed the maid down the long spiral stair and were ushered into the hall through a small side door. Many others were there before them: officials of the Tower, Ilessa and the Thane himself, sitting straight-backed and hard-faced on his great wooden seat. Roaric noticed Anyara as soon as she entered and beckoned her over. She went, with no little trepidation, and bent her head to listen to his murmur.

“I am glad you could join us. I wanted you to see what is about to happen. To see that the Kilkry Blood is unbroken, and still mindful of its enemies as well as its friends. Stand close.” He gestured towards a nearby gap in the ranks of the assembled audience. Anyara went to stand there and await events. She glanced questioningly at Coinach, but the shieldman just gave a shrug. He looked no more happy to be there than Anyara felt.

The main doors swung open and Lagair Haldyn marched purposefully in, flanked by Haig warriors dressed in ceremonial finery. Anyara’s heart sank.

“Steward,” Roaric said equably before Lagair could utter a word, “I heard you wished to speak with us. I am at your disposal.”

“With you, sire. Not with your entire household.”

“Well, on this occasion I think you had best take what you find,” Roaric said, much less warmly now. “I will be retiring to my chambers shortly, and interring my father’s ashes tomorrow. My time is limited.”

“Very well.” Lagair was, as far as Anyara could tell, untroubled by the hostility of his reception. “What I have to say is no secret. My demand is a just one, and I will gladly let any hear it who wish to listen.”

“Demand? This is not the place for demands, Steward. This is the Tower of Thrones, and I am Thane in it. Not Bloodheir, mark. Thane.”

“You may call it what you wish, Thane, once you have heard it,” Lagair said tightly. “Whatever name you give to it, though, I will have it answered. Two men of the Haig Blood were slain today. Men who marched from their homes to come to the defence of your Blood, and who would have died in that defence if called upon to do so. Instead they died like animals in a backstreet of this city, set upon by your people. Beaten to death like-”

“I heard that they brought trouble upon themselves,” Roaric interrupted him.

Anyara realised she had clenched her hands into fists. She forced her fingers to uncurl, willed herself to conceal the tension she felt. She had the sense that everyone around her was holding their breath.

“Did you?” cried Lagair, outraged. “Brought it upon themselves? Invited a mob of savages to murder them in the street?”

Roaric leaned forwards a fraction. “I heard that they were drunk, and were abusing the memory of my own dead father. I heard that they said none but an old fool would die by the hand of a kitchen maid. I heard that they said the Kilkry Blood could not keep its own Thane safe, let alone its borders. That we would be nothing without the Haig Blood to fight our battles for us.”

“You mean to excuse this deed by reporting gossip and rumour, then?” the Steward snapped.

Anyara did not know if either of these two men possessed enough restraint to back down. Roaric, she imagined in alarm, might even be capable of assaulting the High Thane’s Steward.

“I make no excuses,” the Thane said.

“Because you think none are required,” Lagair said accusingly.

Looking beyond Roaric, Anyara could see Ilessa, his mother, sitting at his side. She was staring down at the hands cupped in her lap, but Anyara could see the sorrow and alarm on her face. She knows, Anyara thought, what dangerous territory her son ventures into.

“Aewult nan Haig himself left those men under my command,” Lagair shouted. “I will have an answer to their deaths! I want the men who killed them brought to judgement.”

“Not possible. We have no names. The Guard found nothing but the two bodies, no sign that anyone else had been there.”

“I want them brought to judgement,” Lagair repeated, low and firm. “And I want rightful payment for their families, their widows.”

“Rightful payment?”

“A silver bar for each child they left behind them when they marched. Five, I believe.”

“For two drunkards?”

“Warriors! Men who served your master, Thane, and marched upon his command to defend your lands from the Black Road.”

“While he lived, and while I was Bloodheir, my father was my only master,” Roaric said. “I may be Bloodheir in name no longer, but still I am gladly subject to him. To his memory, to the honour he is due. The men who died soiled that honour.”

Anyara saw the slightest movement of Ilessa’s hand. The Thane’s mother reached discreetly out and touched him on the arm. At first Anyara was not sure whether Roaric had even noticed, but he moistened his lips and his gaze went for a moment to the arched stone roof of the hall.

“I have heard your petition, Steward,” the Thane said. “Let me think on it.”

“Not for long, sire,” Lagair muttered. “Not for long.”

“I will not yield!” Roaric cried, red-faced with anger.

Anyara could hardly bear to watch. The Thane and his mother confronted each other across a narrow table in one of the side rooms off the hall. All Roaric’s fury, so barely controlled during his exchanges with the Steward, had burst out now, in the privacy of this tiny chamber. Anyara alone had been brought — by Ilessa, not by Roaric — to stand witness. Why, she could not imagine. It was a scene that should have been played out between the two of them alone.

“I will not,” the Thane repeated. “They died the death they deserved, and Gryvan oc Haig will get nothing from this Blood in answer to their deaths. You think he’ll shed a tear when word reaches him of my father’s death? Do you think so? Or do you think he’ll laugh, and fill his cup with wine, and drink to the health of the bitch who killed him?”

“I do not care what the High Thane does or thinks,” Ilessa said wearily. “Your father — my husband — is dead and will remain so whether Gryvan laughs or weeps at the news. He will remain so no matter how loudly you argue with the Steward. It is not something that can be undone, any more than can your brother’s death.”

Roaric thumped the table with his fist and spun away.

“I am not a child, needing lessons in my own grief.”

“You are no child,” Ilessa agreed quietly, “but you are my son. And you are not so old that there are no lessons left for you to learn. None of us are.”

Roaric slumped into a chair against the wall. He glared at his mother, but could not maintain his indignation.

“What would you have me do?” he asked her.

“You could take counsel with our friends, if nothing else,” Ilessa said, glancing meaningfully at Anyara. “This is thin ice, Roaric. Every time you deal with the High Thane, or his heir, or his Shadowhand or Steward, it is thin ice. And if you stamp so hard that it cracks beneath your feet, it will never be just you who’ll fall through it. Never.”

Roaric glared at Anyara. She longed to be elsewhere. It was not her presence that so infuriated Roaric — she hoped not, at least — but his anger, or grief, was so all-encompassing that she did not trust him to see clearly.

“Your brother is not here,” Ilessa said to her gently, “but in times such as these Lannis and Kilkry have always walked in step. We both stand to lose — have already lost — a great deal. There should be no secrets between us.”

“No,” Anyara agreed, “but I don’t think I can speak for Orisian, if that’s what you want. He didn’t…” She shrugged. “I’m not sure what he would want me to say.”

“I don’t ask you to speak for him, though I do not doubt he would be happy to have you do so. I only ask you to tell my son whether you are content to see him risk an open breach with the Haig Blood, now that their armies are your best chance of recovering your home.”

Anyara thought she caught a glimpse in Ilessa’s face, just for a moment, of the great ocean of weariness and sorrow that lay behind her words. After all the loss the older woman had suffered, she was still trying to hold on to what remained of her family, to protect her people. She knew her son too well, Anyara suspected. She was afraid of what Roaric might do. That was why she had brought Anyara into this little room: she had feared she was not strong enough to influence her own son alone.

“There’s no need to say anything,” Roaric said. “I know the answers to my mother’s questions already.”

“You could arrange for the men who did the killing to disappear from Kolkyre,” Anyara suggested. “Let them escape to Il Anaron, or into the Vare Wastes. They might not be found for months, once they’re out of the city. Or never.”

Roaric acknowledged the idea with a half-nod, though he did not look very enamoured of it.

“And we can spare some silver, if the Steward wants to insist on it,” said Ilessa. “The Haig Blood has always been easily distracted by glittering things, and Lagair is more bluster than anything. He doesn’t care about the men who died, he’s just fearful that Aewult will blame him for their deaths. He has to show that he did something about it.”

She was leaning heavily on the table now, tired. She lacked the strength for all of this, Anyara thought. Too much had happened too quickly for an ageing body and heart to bear.

“We’ll have nothing left with which to buy food for our own table soon,” Roaric muttered. “But yes. Perhaps. We can throw some more silver at them, if we must. What is all this obeisance, this submission, meant to achieve, though? For us, I mean? Our Blood? There’s no purpose to it, if it doesn’t even buy us peace, or safety within our own borders. Cannoch let Haig raise itself up as highest amongst the Bloods to spare our people unending strife. My father suffered Gryvan’s arrogance for the same reason. But if all we’ve gained is the right to have Haig armies marching back and forth across our lands at will… the honour of paying so that they can plot and scheme in their palaces…”

He thrust himself up out of the chair, full of renewed exasperation and anger. He pointed at Anyara.

“What has the Lannis Blood gained by making obeisance to Gryvan oc Haig? All its lands are gone. That’s how much Haig cares about us, about the unity of the Bloods. That’s Orisian’s inheritance. We’ve got the Black Road bearing down on our borders, and we’re forbidden — forbidden! — to gather our own armies. All the men I brought back from the south, the ones who haven’t already died for Gryvan oc Haig, have scattered: gone back to their postings, or their homes, by Aewult’s command.”

The Thane paced back and forth, his arms swinging. Ilessa was hanging her head. Anyara wondered whether Roaric truly could not see how drained, how much in need of gentleness, his mother was. Perhaps not. She understood a little of how he felt. Blind rage was not a wholly unreasonable response to much of what had happened.

“All right,” Roaric said. He gave every appearance of talking to himself now, of voicing the struggle between his warring instincts. “All right. We’ll find an accommodation with them in this. We’ll show enough obedience to keep the Steward happy. I’ll not have one man punished for those deaths, though. Not one. And I will have my army back. I don’t care what Aewult nan Haig thinks, he can’t tell me, in my own lands, what to do with my own warriors. I’ll send messengers tonight. The Steward won’t be so sure of himself if we’ve five thousand swords gathered within the city walls.”

The Thane stalked out with only the most cursory of glances at his mother.

“You will have to forgive him,” Ilessa said. “This is hard for him.”

She went slowly, hunchbacked, fragile, to the chair that her son had vacated. As she sank down into it, she closed her eyes. Anyara watched her exhaustion and grief take hold of her.

“It is hard for all of us,” Anyara said. “You need rest, I should think.”

“Oh, yes. I do need rest. I need to sleep. But when I do, I dream of grief. I miss my husband very much.”

“Yes,” Anyara murmured. She had no idea what she could, or should, say. Ilessa deserved comfort, she deserved kind words and more. Nobody, Anyara was beginning to think, received what they truly deserved. “I didn’t know him well, but… he was a kind man, I thought. Good.”

“He was good,” Ilessa said. She nodded, her eyes still closed, a weary frown still across her brow. “He often said that there were too few good men left in the world. One less, now. And the world much darker to my eyes.”

Anyara began to back away, edging towards the door. She felt guilty at her inability to offer this woman any succour, though such profound, private sorrow was, in her experience, not often salved by the sympathy of others anyway. Ilessa summoned up a rueful smile from somewhere.

“We’re all to suffer loss this winter, it seems. All to take on our own burdens. You carry yours well, Anyara. Your father, your uncle, would be proud of you, and of your brother. I am sorry to draw you into the sorrows of my family as well. You deserve better, but.. I do need help. My son does.”

“I’ll give you whatever help I can,” Anyara said sincerely. “I don’t know what it is you think I can do, though.”

Ilessa rose to her feet. She had recovered some of her poise.

“Roaric is young. He has been Bloodheir for only a few weeks; Thane for just days. It will take time for him to… he makes everything a personal matter. Always has done. Any blows against our Blood, against our honour or pride, he feels landing on his own back. Every failure or shortcoming that he perceives in himself, he makes into a crisis fit to convulse nations. Your presence alone will help. Anything will, that reminds him there are others — your Blood, not least — with much to lose if he mis-steps.

“His father… Lheanor spent half his life restraining himself, submitting himself and our Blood to slights and petty humiliations. He did it to preserve the peace. It cost him a great deal of his pride, and of his strength. He missed the young, fearless man he had once been. Oh, you should have seen him when he was young. He thought himself reduced by time, but I loved him just the same, and never thought the less of him. He served his people better than they know.”

Ilessa sighed. She regarded the worn surface of the table thoughtfully, brushing it with her fingertips as if it was spread with some fine, soft material.

“Is it true that you saw the Haig men killed?” she asked Anyara quietly.

Anyara nodded. “It was not… pleasant.”

“I am sure. Times like these bring savagery closer to the surface. I think perhaps men like Aewult, like my son, do not fear it, or hate it, quite enough. Perhaps, if they are given the time to do so, people will remember the value of the peace that our forefathers built. Perhaps they will understand the sacrifices that are needed to sustain it.”