The Grave thief

CHAPTER 4

Lesarl left his lord to his thoughts as they walked back through the quiet streets, winding their way through dark alleys until they had reached a better district of the city than the docks. The Chief Steward had to walk quickly to keep up with Isak's long stride, but he was glad for it, for the air was chill and his prominent nose and cheeks felt like icicles. In all his years of service to the Lord of the Farlan, he'd never got used to the cold of Tirah's night-time streets.

It was strange to see the city so deserted. Hunter's Ride and the Palace Walk were main thoroughfares, usually only empty when snow lay thick on the ground. The tall stone buildings were dark and silent, with only the occasional pair of shutters showing a glimmer of light at the edges — night-watchmen's billets and servants' quarters, for the merchants' townhouses were as dark as if they were empty, with no light seeping through the heavy drapes that hung at every window to keep in the heat.

A pair of Palace Guards loitered on Irienn Square, the semi-enclosed plaza off Hunter's Ride which was surrounded by government offices. Their sharp eyes picked out Isak by his height. They saluted, making no move to intercept them.

It wasn't long until they reached the fountain at the centre of Barbican Square, just before the looming presence of the palace walls. After the enclosed streets the open ground felt even colder, and when Isak stopped in front of the statue on the fountain, what little heat was left in Lesarl's body felt like it was bleeding away as he obediently took up his position in his master's lee.

White-eyes! They're all the same when they're brooding, Lesarl thought, suppressing a shiver as the image of Lord Bahl came to mind. It's not taken him long to adopt that role. If I ever dreamed of ruling when I was a child, I know better now. I didn't know then that it scars in ways you could never predict; Lord Bahl once said that his soul felt worn thin, so thin it was hardly there. After Scree 1 think this one's the same already. Let's just hope it doesn't prove his undoing too.

'A year, only a year,' Isak rumbled from the shadow of his raised hood.

'Since you came this way for the first time?' Lesarl replied. 'Almost exactly, yes, my Lord.'

He left it at that, knowing that the white-eye wasn't asking for a conversation. Instead he turned his attention to the fountain itself. He passed it every day, and it struck him that he couldn't remember the last time he'd properly looked at it. It was a representation of Evaol, a minor Aspect of Vasle, God of Rivers. The scattering of coins in the fountain were likely nothing to do with her alignment, though, probably just whores hoping for a little luck.

The statue itself was of a column of water reaching up to the waist of a bare-breasted woman, who was running a fish-spine comb through her hair. Rain and wind had taken their toll on the pale stone, blurring some lines and leaving their own on the work. He resisted the urge to stamp some warmth back into his feet, but an involuntary shiver caught Isak's eye and woke him from his thoughts.

'Sorry, Lesarl, I'm keeping you out in the cold.'

'My Lord, that is one of the responsibilities of the high position I enjoy,' Lesarl said, keeping the reproach from his voice, though he knew he would have to explain the point yet again to his lord.

'That doesn't mean you should have to suffer because of my constant whims.'

'Yes, actually, it does, my Lord,' the Chief Steward said firmly. 'My remit spans every suzerainty and aspect of Farlan life, unmatched power within the tribe. However good and loyal a servant you have as your Chief Steward, to fully handle the duties required of that position, he — or she — must have the capacity for cruelty and scheming. And that sort of person enjoys the position of power all too much. Lord Bahl understood it well enough to insist that I do indeed suffer his every whim.' Lesarl gave a small smile. 'It was only several years after I took over from my father that I realised you train a dog in a very similar way. Without blind obedience to my master I might well have started to question why it was that I was running the nation yet he wore the duke's circlet.'

'So you're as much a slave to your instincts as I am?' Isak replied.

'I'm saying that those who love power are often least suited to it. Megalomania has its uses in a nation, whether anyone will admit it or not, but left unchecked, it is its own worst enemy.'

'And so for the good of the nation,' Isak continued, 'such a person should be trained to come running when I whistle?' He grinned. 'I see your point, I suppose. Maybe I should get you a collar as your badge of office.'

'Yes, Master,' his Chief Steward said, baring his teeth.

Isak laughed and led the way over the drawbridge. The gate was already opening, the light of a torch creeping through the widening crack. On a whim Isak turned right and headed for the guardroom, just as a Ghost in full armour stepped out. The man removed his helm when he saw Isak approaching. The white-eye stopped, recognition flourishing on his face.

'You, soldier, what's your name?'

'Me, my Lord? Ah, Private Varner, my Lord,' the soldier replied quickly, his voice sounding rough, almost grating. He was careful to keep his manner deferential, but he looked apprehensive, and Lesarl remembered how Isak had described his first meeting with Lord Bahl, and the aura of power that hung around him like the heat from a roaring fire.

Isak had kept clear of the other white-eyes in the palace during the last year there. Kerin had made it clear they were a vicious, foul-mouthed lot that Isak had nothing good in common with. It was a full-time effort for the Swordmasters to keep them in check, and there was a pretty high chance that any encounter would result in a fight, which in turn would result in Isak killing a valuable soldier.

'I remember you,' Isak said. 'You were on duty my first night here, weren't you? You punched out my father,'

'Was me, yeah, my Lord.'

Isak smiled. 'That was something I'd wanted to do for years. Thank you.'

The white-eye blinked up at Isak in surprise. Like the rest of his kind the man was tall and powerful, but he was closer to a regular soldier in build than to Isak. It clearly fascinated Isak to see the same snowy irises and black pinprick pupils in the eyes of another, but Lesarl saw the scrutiny was not welcome. There was no kindred spirit in those eyes, only ice.

'I'll go in this way, remind myself of simpler times,' Isak said eventually. 'Keep the gates open, though; we're about to have a few visitors. They're not to be delayed in any way; I want them in the duke's chambers as quickly and as quietly as possible.'

'As you wish, my Lord.' The man bowed low, cast a glance back at his comrade still in the guardroom and then headed for the half-open gates.

'Come on,' Isak said to Lesarl, and ducked through the small doorway into the cramped guardroom, only just missing the lintel. He turned and frowned — he had grown so much over the last year, from an outsized youth to a seven-foot-tall giant, — that everything from that former life felt greatly reduced now.

Making his way to the Great Hall, Isak awkwardly acknowledged the various salutes he received. The deference was easy to accept, but he was still occasionally surprised when an entire room of strangers jumped up to salute, bow or curtsey every single time he hoved into view.

The hall was nearly full, as it had been ever since Isak had returned with the army. Scores of those with light injuries had returned on wagons or horseback, even walking, to avoid wintering away from their families, and many of the nobles answering their new lord's summons had chosen to billet with the Palace Guard they had once served in. Money for lodgings was tight for many of the knights and hurscals who'd travelled with their liege lords, especially when the innkeepers of the city, who had also heard Isak's summons, had cannily doubled their prices.

Lesarl had seen this as a good thing and he had instructed Kerin to make as much space as he could to accommodate anyone wearing the white. The Ghosts were the Farlan's finest soldiers, so many nobles sent their sons there for training. Almost half the men knighted on the battlefield were raised from the Palace Guard's ranks, and Lesarl was keen to encourage the return of veterans, men who'd completed their ten-year term and been recruited as hurscals by suzerains. They were men whose opinions would be respected, and it would do no one any harm to remind them of their primary loyalty, to the Legion.

Once the required personal greetings had been made to three marshals with white on their collars and a recent recruit, Scion Tehran, who was with his father, the suzerain — who, despite the stains on his tunic had obviously managed to find his mouth often enough to get roaring drunk — Isak headed through the rear door of the hall and down the long, cold corridor to the forbidding entrance to the tower, which was next to the main staircase to the private apartments.

The corridor was bedecked with mouldering flags, except for the green and gold standard of the Narkang Kingsguard, which shone bright and new. It had been presented to Lord Isak as a gesture of friendship by King Emin of Narkang after Isak had helped defend the city from a White Circle coup.

'Makes the others look decrepit, doesn't it?' Isak said, pointing to the flag.

'Should I order replacements? Some are defunct legions now, but we can have them copied without much difficulty.' Lesarl stopped and turned to the flag nearest to the Great Hall. It was so old and dirty that it was hard to make out the zigzags of blue and green woven through each other down its edge, but there was enough to confirm Lesarl's judgment. 'My Lord, this one is the Boarhunters, one of the oldest Tildek light cavalry legions.'

'They still exist?'

'Indeed, though somewhat lacking the glory of centuries past that caused their flag to be hung here. That, if memory serves correctly, included ambushing and destroying a Tor Milist army four times their number, then blocking the main enemy force's line of retreat for two days despite terrible losses.'

'The battle of Hale Hills?' Isak replied, his eyes lighting up at the memory of the heroic action.

'The very same,' Lesarl said. 'My Lord, perhaps it would be a gesture of peace to the people of Lomin if you officially requested a replacement flag? I can find out who the commander is; no doubt he is in the city. One of my agents mentioned that the common folk of Tildek — and Lomin too — are concerned they will be held to blame for the actions of their suzerain and the rest of the Certinse family. This might send a sign to both Tildek and Lomin that we still value them.'

'Do you want to make a show of it at my investiture?'

'I would advise against that,' Lesarl said, 'for it should belong to the people of the suzerainty, not the nobles. I will find an ennobled man to pass the request on, and that will ensure the men of the legion know of it too, not just their officers.'

'Good. The investiture will be complicated enough without added theatrics,' Isak growled as he started up the wide stone staircase. 'Stay down here and bring Xeliath up to my chambers without letting that lot see her' he said, jabbing a thumb towards the Great Hall where voices were now raised in song. 'She'll sleep in my bedroom — I still have my room in the Tower. I suspect the journey will have taken a toll' and as the physician's at my father's bedside anyway he might as well keep an eye on her too.'

'Your father's condition is unchanged?'

'There's been no change since his fever subsided, and that was week ago. The priests of Shotir cannot heal a wound from Eolis, and the priests of Larat have been of even less use. He's in no actual danger at the moment. I'm almost tempted to blame his lack of improvement on stubbornness. Sour-faced bastard knows he'll have to bow to me if he ever gets out of that bed.'

Lesarl tried to read Isak's expression as he spoke, but the white-eye gave nothing away. It was a miracle that Horman was even alive, having been possessed by a daemon and made to attack his own son in the Temple of Death. A priest of Shotir had been found in the Devoted camp and he had accompanied them back to Tirah, nearly killing himself in the process as he kept Horman from Death's Halls.

He settled for a brief bow and a knowing look. 'Perhaps your lather will have noted the hours you've spent at his bedside?'

'Bloody doubt it,' Isak snapped, 'but either way, it's not a problem you need to be involved in.' He stomped on up the stairs and turned the corner, Lesarl catching a flash of one colourless eye in the light of a torch before Isak disappeared from view.

'Of course, my Lord, as you wish,' Lesarl muttered. He turned to another door which would take him to the western part of the main wing where his office nestled at the heart of several dozen others. Adjoining it were the small apartments he shared with his wife and son; his townhouse was currently rented to Suzerain Nelbove and his household.

'Perhaps I'll look in on them before going back to work,' he said softly to the Land in general. 'The boy might find tonight's events more interesting than sleep. We're as alike as Lord Isak and his father are. Best we don't let ourselves end up that way.'

Isak- acknowledged the salutes from the guardsmen sporting his dragon crest and eased open the reinforced oak door to the duke's chambers. The main room was dark, the only light coming from the fire and a single candlestick on a side table. A maid sat at the table with her elbows on it, her chin supported by her hands and her head angled towards the open doorway. He sniffed slightly and she leapt up, her mouth already opening to apologise.

'Don't worry,' he said quickly, 'you're not here to guard.'

She curtseyed and straightened, waiting for the question he was about to ask. Isak took a moment. He couldn't remember her name; she was a friend of Tila's, the daughter of some local marshal. He knew Tila had told him — but he'd been told a lot since returning to Tirah.

'How is he?' he asked eventually.

'Still weak, my Lord.' Her voice reminded him of Tila's, less melodious, but with that same crisp intonation common to those of the landed gentry; it was traditional for the maids in the main wing to be drawn from the upper classes. 'Your father's injuries have not opened up again, and there's still no sign of infection.'

'But they're still not healing right?'

'No, my Lord.' She lowered her eyes, her hands clasped tightly together over her stomach.

'The priests of Shotir came again?'

'Yes, my Lord. Only one of them was crying when he left today.'

Isak forced a smile. 'So they're toughening up at least.' The smile faded. 'I might be calling on that soon enough. He's asleep?'

She nodded.

'Good. Please light the lamps and have the kitchen send something hot up, enough for several people.'

While she went about the lamps Isak looked in on his father. Horman lay on his back, his head turned towards the door. His face was half-obscured by his ragged hair. He had always slept in an awkward sprawl of limbs, but now he was constrained by bandages and was lying as though fighting them. The pungent smell of sweat hung in the air, for the heavy drapes covering the window to keep in the warmth also kept the air close and stale.

Guilt slithered down Isak's spine again. Horman's left hand had been amputated at the wrist and the wound refused to heal fully. His right elbow had been repaired after a fashion, and the old injury to his knee was only marginally worse, but it was the overall effect of a daemon's possession that had taken the greatest toll on his father's health. He had wasted away in the weeks following the fall of Scree until he looked as pale and weak as la corpse. The effort required for eating proved too much for him most days and he rarely managed more than a couple of mouthfuls.

'Is this how they'll all end up?' Isak muttered, 'all broken and beyond the help of healers? Maybe tonight's death-omen will be the saving of my friends.'

Outside the door he heard the sharp click of halberds on the stone floor: his guards were letting him know that a friend had arrived; anyone else would have warranted a verbal greeting. He shut the door to his father's room and rubbed his hands over his face to wake himself up.

'My Lord?' Tila said as she entered cautiously, Count Vesna at her elbow. Both were still in their formal clothes, although Tila had a thick woollen blanket draped over her layered grey silk dress now. She'd taken out the gold flower-head pins she'd used to put her hair up and the long dark tresses now spilled down to her waist.

'You were waiting up for me?'

'The guard on the gate let us know when you returned,' Tila said, coming into the room and casting a glance towards Horman's door.

'He's fine.' Isak could see she was itching to ask about where he'd been, but she understood her position within his inner circle. As Duke of Tirah, Isak's word was law, and they all had to adjust to that.

'My Lord?' Vesna echoed Tila, his eyes also fixed on the white-eye.

The maid caught the count's tone and, with a curtsey to Isak, hurried out without even waiting to catch Tila's eye. When the door was shut, Isak removed his tunic and Eolis before throwing a lew more logs onto the fire.

'Isak,' Vesna said, dropping the formality once they were alone, 'you look troubled.'

'My friend, when can you last remember me any other way?'

'Enough of that,' Vesna said firmly. 'What happened at your meeting?' The count was without his broadsword but his tunic was fastened up to the neck, as it had been earlier.

The white-eye paused; there was something different about the famous warrior. He thought for a moment. 'You're not wearing your earrings,' he commented, pointing to Vesna's left ear where the count normally wore his two gold earrings of rank. 'I hope my return didn't disturb anything important?'

'No, my Lord,' Vesna said in a flat voice.

'Good. She's still unmarried, you remember?'

'Yes, my Lord,' Vesna replied, refusing to rise to Isak's needling.

'Isak, what's happened?' Tila asked, firmly changing the subject. 'Is everything all right?'

The white-eye sat heavily into a chair facing the pair. With all the chaos of Scree's aftermath, they had yet to officially announce their betrothal. There was a grim mood throughout the city, made worse by the onset of winter. He knew they would happily forego the state wedding offered by Lord Bahl — and by him — but neither one wanted to broach the subject until the period of mourning had finished. The Farlan had lost many soldiers, men and women, and the urns were stacked high in the Temples of Nartis. There had been no comforting words from the priests to disperse the anger and resentment which lingered like a black cloud.

'You know about my dreams,' Isak said eventually. 'It was a reminder of those.'

'What sort of reminder?' Tila said, suddenly alarmed.

'One that made an impression. But that's not a concern for tonight — more importantly, Xeliath has entered the city.'

'Xeliath? Are Morghien and Mihn with her?'

Isak shook his head. 'Can't tell, but I hope so. It will be good to see Mihn again.' He pictured the tidy little man with his placid expression and acrobatic skills whose failure of memory in the final test had led to his exile from the Harlequin clans. Since coming into Isak's service, Mihn's many abilities had proved invaluable, as had his undemanding friendship. Yes, it will be good to have Mihn in my shadow again.

'Do you want us to sit in on your first meeting?'

'This isn't an arranged marriage; we're not negotiating terms,' Isak said wearily. 'I'm sure they'll all want to sleep for a week — there's no urgent intelligence we need and the journey will have taken a toll on Xeliath's health.'

'Should we leave?'

Isak sighed and stretched his feet out, planting the heels of his boots on a slender mahogany table that wobbled alarmingly under the weight. 'Could you stay?' He stretched his neck and twisted his head to one side and then the other, trying to work out the cricks. 'I don't really want to talk about tonight; I'd like to just sit with my friends and pretend the Land doesn't want me dead, at least until they arrive.'

The guardsman, a lone figure on the drawbridge, took long measured steps back and forth in the quiet cold of night as he waited for life to stir in the city. It was well past midnight and the streets were silent. Alterr was hidden by cloud and Kasi had fallen below the horizon long ago. The soldier resisted the urge to turn his head and glare at the guardroom, where his watch partner was sitting in the warmth. As he reached the end of the drawbridge he started walking backwards immediately, keeping his eyes on the empty roads ahead at all times.

The fact that he was a white-eye and thus not required to walk the freezing streets keeping the peace did nothing to improve his mood. When at last he caught sight of movement in the distance, it was met with a hiss of irritation, one that increased as the horse-drawn carriage made its way up towards Barbican Square at little more than a gentle walk.

There were two figures on the driver's seat and no luggage on the roof. The coach was plain — not a nobleman then, just a merchant with money to spare. Both figures were hooded and cloaked, and hunched over against the cold, their faces hidden. If it hadn't been lor Lord Isak's direct order, he would have summoned the duty squad on principle, but as it was, he stood still and patiently awaited the coach as it rumbled towards him. It stopped at the last moment, the front wheels on the very lip of the drawbridge. The passenger jumped down from his perch on the driver's seat and walked straight up to him, pushing back his hood to reveal a face he recognised.

'Fetch your watch partner and a stretcher, now, please,' he ordered.

The white-eye narrowed his eyes at the foreigner barking orders at him. 'Can't leave the gate unguarded,' he said in response, 'and last I heard, you'd been dismissed from the duke's service.'

'And that would make you wrong on both counts,' Mihn replied. There was no antagonism in his voice but the white-eye bristled anyway, unwilling to be ordered around by a man without position, rank or weapon who stood more than half a foot shorter than him.

'Who's in the carriage?' he asked brusquely.

'Have you received no orders from your lord?' Mihn asked.

'I have.'

'So stop arguing and take Lord Isak's guest up to him. Then take the lady to the Chief Steward and get her the gold crown she's been promised.' Mihn jabbed his thumb towards the driver, who had remained hunched in her seat. Before the soldier had a chance to speak again the door of the coach opened and a man leaned out to look at them.

'What's the hold-up, soldier?'

The white-eye looked at the pair of them for a moment and decided discretion was the better part of valour. He stepped aside and waved the coach forward. The driver gave a click of the tongue and set the horses walking forward again, down into the tunnel that led underneath the barbican and into Tirah Palace. As it reached them, both men stepped up onto the coach to let it carry them through, Mihn hopping back up to the driver's seat like a mountain goat. The white-eye gave a short whistle once they'd entered the tunnel and the gate immediately started to close behind them.

Instead of stopping outside the Great Hall they took the coach around to the rear of the main wing, where there was another way up to the state apartments, a rear door that was normally kept locked and guarded. While the stretcher was being fetched the white-eye watched as Mihn and Morghien helped the last passenger out of the coach. It was obvious they didn't want his help, and they took great care to keep her face in shadow. Their precautions made no difference; as soon as he got within a few yards of her, the white-eye felt every nerve in his body quiver.

Instinctively he found his nostrils flaring, seeking her scent: she was the same as him, and more. When he lifted the stretcher the white-eye found himself taking great pains not to touch her in any way. As strong as he was, his hands trembled and his throat tightened at the power humming through her body. They started up the dark stairway and he kept his eyes on the stairs underneath him, not trusting himself to look at the hooded head inches away from him. All the way up he felt her attention on him, and a threat hanging in the air.

Isak was up and on his feet long before they reached the door to his private chambers. Vesna and Tila hovered in his wake, broad smiles on their faces at the sight of Mihn hovering beside the stretcher.

'Take her into my bedroom, then leave,' Isak commanded before grabbing Mihn in a bearhug.

'It's good to see you again, my friend — but why the stretcher? Does she need a doctor?'

The smaller man smiled up at his lord and shook his head. 'She's well enough, merely exhausted. The journey took a great toll, but I wouldn't want to be the one to force a doctor on her!' He looked a little thinner than the day they'd parted, but that was the only indication that the failed Harlequin had just returned from a long and gruelling journey.

Mihn embraced Tila and Vesna before following the soldiers into Isak's bedroom. The young lord gripped Morghien by the wrist as he followed them in, but the ragged-looking wanderer cut short the pleasantries. 'That can wait; right now you must go and introduce yourself. We can talk while she sleeps.' It looked like the journey had taken its toll on Morghien, who was tired and drawn, but his grip was as strong as ever. Isak had to remind himself that Morghien, known as the man of many spirits, was far older than he appeared — he should be permitted some trace of fatigue.

Isak patted his shoulder and went to his bedroom. The soldiers had put the stretcher onto the bed and were about to slide it from under her when Isak bustled past.

'Leave that,' he said, 'we can manage. The kitchen should be sending up food for my guests; check it's ready, then return to your posts.'

He didn't even wait to see they'd left the room before he was leaning over the bed. He gently pushed back Xeliath's hood. The young woman blinked up at him and Isak barely managed to hide his shock. Gone was the healthy, radiant girl he'd seen in his dreams. Instead, he saw a near-parody of that beaming beauty.

Trails of sweat ran down her twitching cheek and the crumpled skin of eyebrow and eyelid drooped limp over her left eye. As well as the permanent damage done to her body, her soft brown cheeks were flushed with spots of colour that made him think she was feverish.

'Isak,' Xeliath whispered. Her lips curled on one side and trembled on the other. She was trying to smile. His name on her lips was tinted by the heavy rolling sounds of the Yeetatchen dialect.

'Xeliath,' he replied softly, smiling down at the wan face below him. He eased her legs onto the bed and slid a hand under her body so he could pull the stretcher away. Her thin limbs reminded him of a pigeon he'd shot; lying dead in his hands, the bird had felt far too light, as though something was missing now it lacked life.

Xeliath looked tiny, even bundled in her heavy woollen cloak. He raised her hand and placed a courtly kiss in her palm. He folded her fingers around it and said, 'Sleep now, you need to rest. I'll bring you some soup later.'

'Wait, listen,' Xeliath whispered, straining to form the unfamiliar words. Isak remembered his first meeting with her, on a featureless, rolling field in his dreams, where she'd told him she couldn't even speak his language. That night, and every other time they'd met, she'd spoken directly into his mind. Now, as he strained to make out each syllable from her ravaged throat, he realised Mihn must have been teaching her FarIan as they travelled.

Her right arm fought its way free of the folds of the blanket, and Mihn had taken a half-pace forward even before she beckoned him over. Isak, shifting slightly so that Mihn could take her hand, sensed a sudden flicker of power from her left hand which was obscured by the cloak. He pushed it back, and gasped when he saw the Crystal Skull fused into the palm of her hand, her long, thin fingers clawed around it, drawn a little way into the body of the Skull. Isak ran his finger down the side of her thumb: the skin was fused to the Skull, so perfectly bonded there was no seam between the two but a complete melding of materials.

'Take it, cut it from her flesh', hissed a voice at the back of his mind.

Isak bit back a growl and drove the spirit of Aryn Bwr from his thoughts. That was one blessing over the last few months: the voice had become quieter of late, cowed almost, and Aryn Bwr had been more willing to withdraw when pushed. It was a mixed blessing, though, for it served only to increase Isak's suspicions that it was the Reapers lurking on the edges of reality.

Again he felt a flicker of power from within the Skull. Isak withdrew his hand, an apologetic look on his face until he realised that it was not anger he felt. Xeliath was staring into space, her good eye looking past him, while erratic spark's of magic started to dance from one finger to another over the surface of the Skull. He sensed pulses of energy flowing up her arm.

'What- what's happening?' he asked softly.

'She's drifting,' Mihn replied quickly. 'This has happened a few times — usually after she's contacted you in her dreams. There's nothing to worry about, it's just the effect of being tied to your destiny.'

'I remember,' Isak said. 'Her mind was almost broken when she was Chosen, when she was tied to a thousand destinies and to none, or something like that.'

Mihn stroked her hand. 'She still doesn't understand it fully, but it has had some sort of prophetic effect on her, perhaps like the Seer of Ghorendt — not true foresight, but glimpses of the future, though they don't make much sense. She doesn't go into a trance, or anything like that — and sometimes she hasn't even remembered it happening.'

'Has she said anything that made sense to you.7'

The small man shrugged. 'Once she said she saw you walking around a statue of a man holding a sword to his chest, made of obsidian. A man with two shadows, one tinted with blood and one with white eyes, was watching you. Her description put me in mind of the ranger, Tiniq.'

'General Lahk's brother?' Isak said in surprise. 'Well, I suppose he does rather live in the shadow of his white-eye twin.'

'Isak,' Xeliath croaked suddenly.

The two men looked down, Mihn still with his hand wrapped around the young woman's.

'Thank you,' she managed.

'For what?' Isak asked.

'For bringing me to safety, you fool,' she managed, again forcing her lips into her semblance of a smile. Disengaging her hand from Mihn's, she gave the small northerner an affectionate pat on the cheek. 'You are lucky to have such a loyal friend; I believe he would follow you anywhere.'

Isak's face fell. 'Don't say that — it might be the Dark Place he ends up visiting.' He looked at Mihn, whose face was calm, the image of a man at peace in the Land. Rarely did the failed Harlequin give away much, but surely he'd have thought about what horrors he would face if he stayed at Isak's side.

How is it I'm served by a man whose qualities surpass my own so completely? Isak wondered, not for the first time.

A sharp pain in his wrist brought him back to the present. He looked down and saw Xeliath had jabbed her thumbnail into the skin, leaving a red mark. 'Stupid boy,' the hazel-skinned white-eye growled before switching to Yeetatchen and spitting a dozen or so angry words.

Without pausing to think, Mihn translated for Isak. 'You claim I have a problem with prophecy? You, a fulcrum of history, should know better than to speak so carelessly.'

Isak was stung by the admonishment in her voice. 'I'm sorry,' he said after a moment of silence. 'All I meant was that such a thing would be too much to ask of any man, no matter how loyal.'

'Too late,' Xeliath replied, closing her eyes. 'It is said.'

Isak looked at Mihn but the man just shook his head. 'We all have our parts to play.'

'What if I have to ask something monstrous?' Isak asked in dismay. 'You accept the burden too easily!'

'I am proud to serve you, whatever you ask of me,' Mihn replied with rare openness. While he had the colouring of a Farlan, his hair and eyes even darker brown than most in Tirah, Mihn lacked the sharp, pronounced features of the tribe; his were small and neat, every edge smoothed off, every expression minimal.

'Is my part simply to ask things of others, then?' Isak said softly.

Mihn blinked. 'In that, I do not envy you. I am glad I merely serve.'

' Mihn, you don't even carry a proper weapon! You never wear armour, I've already asked too-'

He raised a hand to cut his lord off mid-sentence. 'I will do what I must. You should too.' He gestured towards the door. 'For now, we should let Xeliath sleep.'