Knights of Dark Renown

CHAPTER FOUR

Lamfhada awoke, his eyes unfocused, his vision swimming. Lines ran above his head — dark lines, like the panelled lid of a coffin.

‘No!’ he groaned, struggling to rise. A gentle hand pushed him back, and soothing words calmed him. His head rolled on the pillow and he saw a young woman with dark brown eyes who stroked his brow.

‘Rest,’ she whispered. ‘You are safe. Safe. Rest. I am with you.’

When his eyes opened again he saw that the lines were timbers, supported by a central beam. He turned his head, hoping the young woman was close by. Instead he saw a man sitting by his bed, a handsome man in a sky-blue shirt; he had long, shoulder-length hair and was beardless; his eyes were violet. He smiled as he saw Lamfhada looking at him.

‘Welcome back to the world, my friend.’ The voice was soft and almost musical. ‘I am Nuada. I found you in the forest.’

‘You saved me,’ Lamfhada whispered.

‘Not quite; there was another man with me. How do you feel?’

‘My back is sore.’ Lamfhada licked his lips. ‘Thirsty,’ he said.

Nuada brought him a cup of water, supporting his head as he drank. ‘You were struck by an arrow which lodged deep. You have been in a fever for five days but Arian says you will live.’ Nuada spoke on, but sleep once more overcame the youth and he dreamt of golden birds flying around the sun.

He awoke during a storm, hearing the shutters on the windows rattling and the rain pounding on the slanted roof. This time there was another man beside his bed — yellow-haired, with a red-gold beard and eyes the colour of storm-clouds.

‘It is time you roused yourself, boy,’ the man told him. ‘You are costing me dear.’

‘Costing?’

‘You think Arian and her mother do this for love? Much more time in bed and I will be penniless.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Lamfhada. ‘Truly. I will repay.’

‘With what? I have already sold your dagger.’

‘Leave him be, Llaw,’ said a voice and Lamfhada saw a middle-aged woman come into view. ‘He’s not ready yet; it will be days before he can rise. Get out with you!’

‘Into the storm? Your charity fails to impress me. And the food smells too good to miss.’

‘Then behave.’ The woman came to the bedside and rested a calloused hand on Lamfhada’s brow. ‘Good, the fever is passing.’ She leaned over the youth and smiled. ‘You will be weak for a few days, but your strength will return.’

‘Thank you, lady. Where is… the other woman?’

‘Arian is hunting. She will not be back tonight; she will have taken shelter from the storm. But you will see her tomorrow.’

‘A few more days,’ snapped Llaw. ‘Already he is thinking of a pretty face. Put some broth into him and I’ll wager he’ll proposition her.’

‘Why should he not?’ replied the woman, grinning. ‘Every other man has — but for you, Llaw Gyffes.’

‘I have no need of a woman,’ he said, and reddened as she laughed.

Lamfhada slept again.

The storm had passed by the time he woke. He seemed to remember being fed, but the memory was hazy and his hunger was great. He sat up, but winced as a sharp pain pulled at his back. The young woman was kneeling by the hearth, striking flint against iron to light the tinder in the grate. Lamfhada watched as a thin spiral of smoke rewarded her efforts and, bending over the hearth, Arian blew the fire to life. He found himself staring at her hips, and the stretched buckskin trews she wore.

‘It is rude to stare,’ she said, without turning.

‘How did you know I was staring?’

‘The bed creaked as you sat up.’ With the fire lit she rose smoothly and walked to his bedside, pulling up a chair. Her hair was honey-gold, her eyes deep brown, her mouth full, her smile an enchantment.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘Well, what?’ he stammered.

‘Am I fit for market?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You are staring at me as you would a prize cow.’

He looked away. ‘Forgive me. I am not usually rude.’

She laughed and took his hand. ‘And I am not usually so easily offended. I am Arian. You?’

‘Lu… Lamfhada.’

‘Are you sure? There seems to be some confusion.’

‘I am sure. I was called Lug, but I gave myself a good name — a man’s name.’

‘Very wise. Lug does not suit such a pretty face. Why did you run away?’

‘I was sold to the Duke. I thought it was better to run. Where am I?’

‘In the Forest of the Ocean. Llaw Gyffes brought you to my mother. You nearly died. He should not have pulled the arrow out; you almost bled to death.’

‘I do not know why he saved me. I seem to be causing him trouble.’

‘Do not concern yourself with Llaw; he is a contrary man and few people understand him. What are your talents?’

‘I can cook… clean — and I have skill with horses. I play the flute.’

‘Can you hunt? Make clothing, fashion wood?’

‘No.’

‘Can you work clay?’

‘No.’

‘What about herbs? Would you recognize amarian or desarta?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ the young man admitted.

‘Then life will be difficult for you, Lamfhada. It would seem you are about as useful as a dead sparrow.’

‘I can learn. Will you teach me?’

‘You think I have nothing better to do?’

‘Of course you have. But will you?’

‘We will see. Are you hungry?’

‘Ravenous!’ he admitted. She brought him some cold venison and cheese, then gathered her bow and a quiver of arrows. ‘Where are you going?’

She looked at him and smiled. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she said, holding up the bow. ‘I’m going to pick flowers!’

After she had gone, Lamfhada pulled back the blanket and eased himself from the bed. He looked around for his clothes, and padded across to the hearth. His trews lay across the back of a chair and he slipped them on; his shirt was hanging on a hook by the far wall and he saw that someone had expertly sewn the hole made by the arrow. Once dressed, he sat down by the fire; his legs felt weak and unsteady. He added wood to the blaze and sat quietly, thinking of the terror of his flight and the sudden hammer-blow as the arrow struck his back.

He had been saved by Llaw Gyffes, the man he had come to join, but — as Arian had pointed out — he had little to offer the rebel leader. He felt suddenly foolish and, worse, useless. The door opened and a blast of cold air touched him.

‘How the young recover,’ said Nuada. ‘Good morning to you!’

Lamfhada smiled. ‘I remember you… like a dream. You were sitting by my bed. Nuada, isn’t it?’

‘It is.- I can see you’re feeling stronger, but you shouldn’t overstretch yourself. You really were extremely ill. Arian tells me you are called Lamfhada. A good name. A Gabala Knight, no less — one of the first, I think.’

‘Yes, so I am told. Are you a rebel?’

Nuada chuckled. ‘You know, I think that I am. But I fear I will strike no terror in the hearts of the King’s soldiers. Saga poets are rarely swordsmen.’

‘You are a poet?’

Nuada bowed and sat down beside the youth. ‘I am. Probably the best in the realm.’

‘Do you know many stories?’

‘Hundreds. When you are feeling better you must come to the hall. I perform there every night. I have become famous here and men travel from settlements all over the forest to hear me. If they had any money, I would be rich.’

Tell me of the Gabala Knights.’

‘A rather wide area, covering two hundred years. Could you not be more specific? The tale of Lamfhada, perhaps?’

‘Tell me of Ollathair,’ said Lamfhada.

‘Ah, a student of modern history,’ commented Nuada. ‘Do you know the origins of the Knights?’

‘No, not really. Weren’t they rebels at one time?’

‘Not quite. The Order was formed in 921 by the then King, Albaras. They were judges; there were nine of them and they travelled the land adjudicating on disputes in the name of the King. But in 970, during the War of the Rebellion, they saved the King from execution and spirited him away to Cithaeron. When he returned in triumph in 976, he granted the Knights lands for a Citadel and freed them from the jurisdiction of monarchs. They were still judges and they travelled the nine Duchies of the realm. They were the arbiters, scrupulously fair. As the years passed, the Order gained more rules. No wealth, for that could lead to corruption. Wives were forbidden to the Gabala Knights, for families could be threatened in order to extort favourable decisions. It was an honour to be chosen, but the price was high.’

‘But what of Ollathair?’ Lamfhada asked.

‘Patience, boy. The Knights were chosen by the Armourer. When one died, or was killed, the Armourer would travel the lands to find a successor.’

‘Why the Armourer? Was he not a servant?’

‘The Armourer was the Father of the Order. He supplied not only the magic armour they wore, but also the spiritual armour. He alone could command the Gabala. Ollathair was the last Armourer.’

‘What happened to the Knights?’

‘No one truly knows. But the King sent a messenger to Samildanach, the Lord Knight, requesting a special favour. It is said that his request took the Knights to a world of demons, where they battle still for the good of the Realm. I do not know what became of them. It was the first year of the new King’s reign. Perhaps he had them poisoned, for they ruled against him in several disputes. Or perhaps they were killed by assassins. Perhaps they fled to another land. Whatever their fate, the Armourer Ollathair was taken by the King’s men and imprisoned. He died in Furbolg. Why the interest in a dead sorcerer?’

‘I don’t know,’ Lamfhada lied. ‘It just interests me.’

‘The Realm could do with them now — the Knights I mean,’ said Nuada.

‘Just what we need,’ agreed Llaw Gyffes sardonically, pushing shut the door behind him and walking to the fire. ‘A handful of Knights in pretty armour! I am sure they would sway the King.’

‘They were more than Knights,’ said Nuada, ‘and greater than heroes. Do not mock them.’

Llaw warmed his hands before the fire. ‘You poets never see reality, do you? Everything is part of some great Romance. You came here looking for a rebel leader and found only an outlawed blacksmith. That is reality. The Knights were just men, and they knew greed and lust and despair just like all of us. Don’t make gods of them, Nuada.’

‘I’ll agree to that, Llaw Gyffes. But do not make fools of them either, for they were all better men than you.’

‘That is not difficult,’ Llaw agreed, slapping Nuada on the shoulder. ‘But I am alive, when many better men are dead. And I will remain so — by looking after my own interests and leaving the heroics to you and your sagas.’

The Once-Knight rode up the hill, dismounting before the charred remains of the house of Ollathair. The stallion, Kuan, stood nervous and afraid; as the acrid smoke swirled to his flaring nostrils, he whinnied and backed away. The Once-Knight stroked the stallion’s neck.

‘It’s all right, Greatheart. It is only the ruins of a house; there is no harm here. Wait for me.’ Carefully he picked his way through the embers, searching for any sign of a body. But there was nothing.

Returning to the stallion, he loosened the saddle cloth and lifted his food sack from the pommel. There was precious little left: three honeycakes and a canvas bag of oats. He fed one of the cakes to Kuan and ate the other two. Then he drew water from the well and drank, leaving the bucket for the stallion to slake his thirst.

Ollathair was gone. Taken by the armed men? He doubted it. Would they have destroyed the house? Perhaps. But there was no sign of a struggle. He saw tracks close to the well and knelt by them. Paw-marks, deep and sharp. Lions? Here, so close to a town? He stood and followed the tracks for a little way. Men running, slipping and sliding down the hill, the beasts bounding after them. He grinned, then laughed aloud, but this increased the pressure on his throat and he calmed himself. The beasts had padded back to the house, where two men had stood. The Once-Knight knelt again. The paw-marks suddenly became deeper. He thought for a moment, then noticed that some of the boot-marks coming from the house were deep also. Ollathair had loaded the lions with packs and set off towards the forested mountains… four, maybe five hours ago.

Kuan whinnied, his head turning towards the trail to the town. The Once-Knight stood and saw a party of riders galloping towards the gutted house. Swiftly he dragged his foot over the tracks; then he tightened Kuan’s saddle cinch and mounted, leading the stallion forward to disturb the ground still further.

As the riders neared, he saw they were all wearing breastplates bearing a painted raven on the chest. There were some fifteen men in the party.

‘Good day to you,’ said the Once-Knight.

‘What are you doing here?’ demanded a lean, hawk-faced man.

‘I saw the smoke and wondered if anyone needed help. I take it you are upon the same business?’

‘My business is none of your concern. Who are you?’

‘I, sir, am a man of manners,’ the Once-Knight replied, ‘and ill suited to conversation with men of no breeding.’

The riders sat very quietly, waiting for a response from their captain. His face burned red and his dark eyes narrowed as he heeled his mount forward.

‘It ill becomes a stranger to insult an officer of the Duke. Apologize, sir, or I shall be forced to deal with you.’

The Once-Knight leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle. ‘When last I met the Duke, he had won the Silver Lance for his prowess on the jousting field. I recall him saying that a gentleman should learn three things: honour, that he might bring it to his name; swordsmanship, so that none could take his honour from him; and humility, so that he could always see where honour lay.’

‘You are a friend of the Duke?’

‘I am the man he beat in the tourney — but then I was always better with the sword than with the lance.’

The captain thought for a moment, then came to a swift decision. ‘My apologies, sir, if my words caused offence, but we are hunting an outlaw and the Duke has charged me with his capture.’

‘Your apology is accepted — and allow me to offer my own. I have travelled far and I fear my temper is short. Tell me, do you seek a heavy-set man, travelling with three large beasts?’

‘I do indeed, sir. Have you seen him?’

‘About two hours ago, that way,’ answered the Once-Knight, pointing away from the forest. ‘I thought the creatures might be lions, but I did not see them closely.’

‘My thanks to you, sir Knight. Are you heading for Mactha? The Duke is in residence, and I am sure he would be delighted to see you again.’

‘I think perhaps I will. Good luck in your hunt.’

As the riders thundered away, the Once-Knight tugged on the reins and touched his heels to Kuan’s side. The forest was maybe two hours’ ride, and with luck he would find Ollathair before nightfall.

As he rode, he remembered his joust with the Duke. The man was a skilled horseman and a deadly lancer. Had the tips of the weapons not been covered with wooden plugs, the lance would have pierced his heart; even so, he had endured the pain of two cracked ribs. It was a shame the man’s character was not as well honed as his skills. The Duke had not uttered the words he credited him with — these had been said by the Lord Knight Samildanach, as a reproof to the Duke.

The Once-Knight grinned as he thought of Samildanach: a true Knight, and a man of great humility. Had the Duke found the temerity to challenge Samildanach, the outcome would have been considerably different.

Memories of his friend flooded back, filling him with sadness…

Samildanach riding to the joust against the King of Cithaeron’s champion, or in single combat against the rebel Duke of Tarain, or leading the prayers at the Citadel, or dancing with Morrigan at the Feast of Souls. There never was a better Knight of the Gabala, he thought. Or a better friend.

‘I am sorry I betrayed you,’ murmured the Once-Knight.

Furious when the report of the escape of Errin’s Nomad servants was brought to him, Okessa took the news to the Duke and demanded Errin’s arrest. The Duke in turn berated Errin, but accepted his assurance that his servants had run away, stealing some two hundred Raq in gold in the process.

‘You are a dreadful fool, Errin,’ said the Duke. ‘But then you have always believed the best of people. Now I you see, do you not, that these people cannot be trusted?’

‘Indeed I do, my Lord. I curse myself for my stupidity.’

‘It cannot be helped. Okessa would like you hanged, but it is one pleasure I shall deny him. After all, where would I find another Lord of the Feast? And who would prepare the swans cooked in wine?’

Errin smiled. ‘And the quail, my Lord.’

‘Indeed, the quail. Far more simple to acquire another Lord Seer! By the way, one of the King’s Knights will be here some time today, to finalize the arrangements for the visit. Make him welcome, would you?’

‘Of course, my Lord,’ Errin answered, bowing and leaving the room. Okessa was waiting in the hallway; his eyes shone with malice and sweat gleamed on his bald pate.

‘Do not think,’ he hissed, ‘that you fool me. You conspired to allow those Nomads to escape justice — just as you did not tell me about Ruad Ro-fhessa. But you will fall, Lord Errin, and I will spit upon your grave!’

‘What a charmless man you are, Okessa. And as for this Ruad, do not forget that I came to you concerning Ollathair. How was I to know that he was alive and living in the Duchy under another name? You are said to be a Seer. Surely you should have been able to find him? Or are your powers fading?’

Okessa smiled. ‘We will see, Lord Errin. I cast your horoscope this morning. In five days your life will face a critical time — so critical that you might not survive. How does that please you?’

Errin swallowed hard and tried to force a smile, but it did not fool Okessa, who chuckled and stalked away. Errin lifted a trembling hand to his face. He was angry with himself for showing fear, but he knew Okessa would not have lied to him. What would be his purpose? No, Errin was sentenced to death. How would it come? Poison? Suffocation? A fall? A stray arrow?

His first urge was to run to his home and flee to Furbolg; he had friends there. But what would the Duke make of his flight? No, he was trapped. He wished Ubadai was close. The little Nomad had a nose for trouble and would die to protect him. Not that Errin wanted anyone to die for him, but it was pleasant to know that Ubadai was asleep outside his door. If an ant broke wind in the meadow outside, the Nomad would be instantly awake. Without him Errin felt isolated and vulnerable.

That night he slept badly, his door barred, the windows shuttered and locked. In the morning he bathed and dressed in a green tunic of eastern silk embroidered with gold thread, soft boots and a cape of yellow-dyed wool edged with the softest leather. Okessa’s threat seemed less dreadful on this bright morning, and with the King’s Knight due the Lord Seer was unlikely to risk an assassination. Errin was determined to make a fine impression on the Knight; as matters stood, he needed all the friends he could get.

It was sunset before the Knight arrived, and Errin was relieved when the guard on the watch-tower signalled a rider approaching. Errin and the Duke hurried down to the gate to greet him. The Knight wore crimson armour and rode a great black stallion of some seventeen hands. The rider’s visor was down, and the sun was setting behind him as he made his slow progress to the castle gate where he drew to a halt under the portcullis.

‘Welcome, sir Knight,’ said the Duke.

‘My horse is to be stabled alone,’ said the Knight, his voice muffled by the helm. ‘No other beast must be present.’

‘Of course,’ said the Duke, nonplussed, turning to Errin who whispered instructions to a sentry. The man ran off to warn the ostler.

‘We have a fine feast for you,’ said the Duke. ‘It will be ready within the hour. And there are rooms prepared in the north tower.’

The Knight dismounted. ‘Where is the stable?’

‘Errin,’ said the Duke, biting back his anger, ‘show the King’s messenger to the stable. I will see you both in the great hall.’

As the Duke departed, Errin approached the Knight. ‘Was your journey arduous?’

‘The stable, if you please.’

‘Certainly. Follow me.’ Errin led the Knight across the square and into the stable yard, where the other horses were being led away. As the stranger entered the yard leading the stallion, several horses began to whinny and rear. Their handlers fought to control them, but the Knight’s horse remained motionless, its head still.

‘He is well trained,’ said Errin.

The Red Knight did not reply but walked past Errin, leading his horse. Errin reached up to pat the beast’s back but his hand recoiled as it touched the flesh of the creature’s flank; it was cold as ice.

Inside the stable the Knight unsaddled the stallion and led him into a stall. The horse stood silently, ignoring the feed box.

‘There are blankets close by. I’ll have them fetched,’ said Errin.

‘There is no need.’

‘I beg to differ, sir Knight. The horse is cold.’

The Red Knight swung on Errin. ‘Do not touch him again. I do not like to see others place their hands upon what is mine.’

‘As you please,’ said Errin. ‘What is your name?’

‘I am the King’s messenger. You, I take it, are Errin, the Lord of the Feast?’

‘I am.’

‘Show me to my rooms. And have a woman brought to me… a young woman.’

‘With respect, sir Knight, I am not a procurer of women. There are many inns in Mactha, and many women who sell their services. I would suggest you attend to the Duke and then make your way there after the Feast of Welcome.’

The Knight stood silently for a moment. ‘You are quite right, Errin,’ he said at last. ‘I am tired after my journey, and my… manners are lacking.’

‘Think nothing of it, sir. Let me show you to your rooms,’ replied Errin coolly.

In the main room a fire blazed and a hip-bath had been filled with warmed, scented water. Errin left the Knight to prepare himself and rejoined the Duke in the great hall.

‘What a humourless, mannerless dolt!’ stormed the Duke. ‘Is the King trying to insult me, do you think?’

‘I would think not, my Lord. The King has always held you in high esteem — and quite rightly. Perhaps the Knight is tired; he did apologize to me at the stable.’

‘Yes — and that’s another matter. His horse is to be stabled alone! Is this a prince among horses?’

‘It is.a strange beast, my Lord. When the other horses were being led away, they seemed terrified of it. I think that is what he was thinking of.’

‘Well, his attitude will not do, Errin. I am of a mind to write to the King about him.’

‘Might I suggest — respectfully — that you suspend judgement until we have seen him again? The King obviously favours and trusts him.’

‘Wise words, Errin. But he would do well to show good manners this time.’

‘I am sure that he will, my Lord.’

As he spoke, the Crimson Knight came into view at the top of the staircase. He was still in full armour, but had removed his helm. His face was ivory pale and extraordinarily beautiful, his hair white and cropped close to his skull. He seemed in his early twenties. Errin moved forward, greeting him with a smile. Seen closer he looked older — perhaps thirty, perhaps more. The Knight bowed; his eyes were dark and bloodshot and he seemed weary beyond words.

‘Are you well, sir?’ Errin asked.

‘Well enough, Lord Errin.’

‘Your armour will wear you down. Tonight is a time for feasting and dancing.’

‘I do not dance. I am here to inspect the Duchy on behalf of the King. Dancing I leave to others. But do not concern yourself about my armour; it never leaves me. That is part of an oath I have sworn.’

‘I see,’ said Errin. ‘Tell me your name, sir, so that we may introduce you?’

The Knight hesitated for a moment, then responded with a swift, almost shy, smile. ‘My name is… Cairbre.’

Errin, resplendent in hose and doublet of blue silk shot with silver, sat at the Duke’s left hand during the Feast of Welcome, the Red Knight taking his place on the Duke’s right. There were some thirty of the Duke’s retainers present at the great square table, nobles all, from minor gentlemen of the Duchy to Knights of the Order. Errin had surpassed himself and the food, as all agreed, was exquisite: giant mushrooms, filled with minced beef and coated with Northern Duchy cheese; ten roast swans; honeyed ham, spiced beef and cakek of surpassing sweetness. But Errin noticed that the Knight scarcely touched his food, and asked for water to replace the wine he was served.

The Duke grew more ill at ease during the feast and was unable to draw his guest into any lengthy conversation. Finally he gave up altogether and turned his attention to Errin.

‘Splendidly organized! Fit for a king,’ said the Duke, wiping sweat from his brow with a scented handkerchief.

‘I can assure you that the King’s feast will be even finer, my lord. In the spring there will be many other delights which, sadly, the autumn denies us.’

As the slaves cleared away the dishes, Errin clapped his hands and rose.

The guests fell silent. ‘Friends, the Duke hopes you have enjoyed the meal, and now asks that you make your way to the Narrow Hall where musicians are waiting for the dances to begin.’

As the guests filed away a flute began to play in the Narrow Hall, joined by a harp. The sound was lilting and light, and the Duke’s mood changed.

‘By heavens, Errin, is that Corius playing?’

‘It is, my Lord. I took the liberty of requesting his presence for the evening.’

‘The man charges a fortune!’

‘I hope you will accept his performance as a gift, sir.’

The Duke bowed his head. ‘You have outdone yourself. Well done!’ Turning to the Red Knight, he said, ‘I overheard you tell Errin you did not dance. Would you prefer to retire?’

‘I will watch the dancing,’ said the Knight, rising. Errin followed him into the hall, where many couples were now engaged in the Dance of the Winter Sun. The music was merry and Errin saw Dianu dancing with the young knight, Goan. Her dark hair was bound with silver thread and she wore a dress of shimmering white silk.

‘I think,’ said the Knight, ‘that you would prefer to dance rather than to stand with such a sombre guest.’ The ghost of a smile touched his lips as he spoke.

Errin grinned. ‘That is the woman I hope to marry.’

‘Then lead her to the music, sir.’

Errin needed no second invitation. Moving smoothly across the hall to the dancers, he tapped Goan on the shoulder. ‘Goan, my dear fellow, would you introduce the King’s messenger to the other guests?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Thank you.’ Errin took Dianu’s arm and led her into the dance. When the music stopped he took her to the rear of the hall, where slaves were stationed carrying silver trays on which were goblets of light, white wine. Errin took one and passed it to his companion.

‘You are looking exceedingly beautiful this evening,’ he told her.

‘I only came because you asked me,’ said Dianu. ‘What do you know of that strange young man with the white hair?’

‘His name is Cairbre. I know nothing of him, save that he is the King’s messenger.’

‘His face is very sad.’

‘These are sad times,’ he whispered. ‘Come, let us seek some air.’

They left unnoticed through a side door and mounted the steps to a small chamber, where Errin had ordered a fire lit. The room was warm, the window open. Dianu wandered to it, staring out over the town of Mactha and its twinkling lights.

‘I am leaving for Cithaeron,’ she said.

‘Leaving? But why?’

She turned suddenly. ‘Oh, Errin, don’t be such a fool! The King is murdering Nomads, the kingdom is falling ever more deeply in debt. Every day there are stories of unrest, of murder and robbery. Where will it end?’

He moved to her and led her from the window. ‘Best not to speak of such things where you can be overheard,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘But Furbolg is a long way away, and in Mactha we do not suffer.’

‘We do not suffer. But there are food shortages in the countryside — and winter is not yet here. It is all right for the nobility, with its roast swans. But swans will not feed a nation, Errin.’

‘I had hoped we could be married at Midwinter,’ he said. ‘Are you saying the marriage will not take place?’

She took his hand and kissed it. ‘Of course I am not saying that. I love you. But we could be married in Cithaeron?’

Errin shook his head. ‘You cannot leave without the King’s blessing,’ he said, ‘and he will not give it. The Duke was telling me that seven noble families have secretly left the realm, taking their riches with them. They have been branded traitors and their lands forfeited. This is your home, Dianu. Do you want to live the rest of your life in a foreign land, hated and despised by your countrymen?’

‘You do not see as I see,’ she answered sadly. ‘There is evil here, Errin. Real, terrible evil, waiting to engulf all of us. The King is mad and surrounded by madmen. Did the death of Kester not trouble you? A fine man. A noble man. Put to death for having a Nomad grandmother? Sweet Heaven, Errin! Why do you not see?’

Pulling her to him, he kissed her face. ‘I do see,’ he told her. ‘These are dangerous times. But they will pass… we can ride out the storm.’

She pushed him from her. ‘It is not enough to ride out the storm. I am leaving here in two days; all the arrangements are made. My father, rest his soul, had many contacts in Cithaeron and I have transferred funds through the merchant, Cartain. All that is left here is the palace — and I can live without that.’

‘All that is left here?’ he said softly. ‘You will leave me here, Dianu… and I cannot leave.’

For a long moment she looked into his eyes, saying nothing.

‘It is your choice,’ she said at last.

‘I know that,’ he answered, backing away. ‘May fortune follow you.’

He turned swiftly, opened the door and made his way to the Narrow Hall. The music was faster now, punctuated by the laughter of the dancers as they swept into the furious pace of the Dance of the Storm. Unnoticed, Errin passed through the double doors and out into the night.