The stormcaller

CHAPTER 27

The desert smelled of age. Looking around at the withered trees clinging to the rocky ground, Kastan Styrax felt his own fatigue even more strongly. The ghost of an evening breeze yawned past his face as he removed his helm and looked at the cultivated scrap of land that, astonishingly, had warded off the desert long enough for the houses here to grow old and dilapidated.

Unhooking the golden rings of his belt from the great padded saddle, he slipped down from the wyvern's back and on to the dusty earth. The freezing air high above had left his muscles cold and stiff, but it took only a few careful steps to recapture his balance. He flexed his huge shoulders twice and then drew the fanged sword from behind

his back.

He stretched his back, arms and shoulders by working through forms, slowly, assuredly. As the massive blade hissed through the cool air, the grunting wyvern behind him turned its head, then returned its unblinking eyes to a figure trotting towards them from the distant

houses.

The figures completed, Styrax returned the obsidian – black sword to its sheath and sucked in a great gulp of air. The scent of the desert was more apparent down here, where the air was warm and calm, and he stood still for a moment to savour it. He spotted a miniva, one of the strange, dust-coloured plants that flourished all over this desert, providing food for animals and humans alike. Styrax bent down to examine the delicate fronds of the miniva leaf that absorbed what little moisture there was in the air. Lifting the flattened leaves, he exposed the deep-red plant stem. The tiny fruits were pale, not yet ripe, but he plucked and ate one, savouring the sharp sourness. A smile hovered on Kastan Styrax's lips as he waited for his vassal to approach.

'My Lord,' said the arriving soldier. He removed his black-iron helm

and dropped to one knee. His hair fell down untidily as he bowed his head. When he peered cautiously up he had to shake the long strands out of the way. After a pause he was motioned to rise. The man was small for a white-eye, and it was even more apparent when he stood before the Lord of the Menin.

'Duke Vrill. Everything proceeds as planned?'

'As well as I could hope for,' replied the duke. He cursed himself as he heard the nervousness in his voice; however slight, Lord Styrax would notice. In recent years their rare meetings had been in the comfortable surrounds of Crafanc and Anote Vrill had forgotten just how overwhelming his master could be, particularly when dressed for battle. The soul-sapping, weirdly curved armour grated on the edges of the duke's soul as much as the vile air of malice radiating from the sword Kobra. He shivered.

Styrax said, 'You've had problems with the centaurs. The Dark Knights are about to return home. Suzerain Zolin ran a sword through one of his own bondsmen, and a mage of the Order of the Five Black Stars was murdered last night.'

If any other man had said that, Vrill would have gaped in surprise. The duke prided himself on being better informed than his peers, yet his Lord always managed to surprise him. It had often occurred to Vrill that, in another age, he would have been Lord of the Menin, for no one, nobleman, merchant or politician, could match him for intellect and plotting – with the exception of Lord Styrax. As it was, Duke Vrill's lust for power had not overshadowed his intelligence and it was clear that Lord Styrax was at least equally adept at intricacy and cunning. Even the Mages of the Hidden Tower lived in fear of his skill. Only a madman would exercise the Menin right of challenge – though that most ancient of laws stated combatants should use identical weapons, it would make no difference. Styrax had won his right to rule at the age of twenty when he had killed his predecessor, who had ruled the Menin for three hundred years. The old Lord had wielded Kobra. Kastan Styrax used a steel broadsword. His prowess was unsurpassed and soon the entire Land would come to recognise that.

The duke put his musings to one side and concentrated on what his Lord was saying. 'How did you know about the mage?'

'I told Kohrad to do it. The man was a necromancer, and my son relishes any chance to practise his own arts.' There was a hint of laughter in that statement, but Styrax was a man who laughed alone. He didn't joke for the sake of others.

'So that's why he burned a unicorn. I hadn't realised there was reason to it.'

That was the reason. Kohrad is not completely gone yet, but I am hoping he overextends in the battle. Pitting him against the Order of Fire might amuse him enough to draw more magic than he can control. If that happens, Gaur knows what to do. You will assist him however he wishes.'

Vrill nodded, then ventured, 'Is Kohrad dying, then?'

The white-eye Lord drew in a sharp breath at the question, but Vrill had proved many times that he knew his place; that he intended to find greatness in Styrax's shadow. He could be trusted, as far as Kastan Styrax trusted anyone.

He answered the question. 'Eventually it will consume him, but I have no intention of losing this battle – or any other.'

Vrill nodded and bowed low, discreetly withdrawing from Styrax's presence. 'I will have a man bring you food.'

Styrax nodded distantly, staring away to the fading sun. As wisps of cloud stretched away like the sun's smoky trails, dusk wrapped the landscape in chill shadows. 'Make sure he's young, and of no consequence.'

Vrill hesitated, surprised by the command, then nodded curtly and marched back to his men. Styrax returned to the wyvern and unbuckled the saddle – none of his beastmasters were there to tend to the creature and a hungry wyvern wouldn't let a common soldier see to it. Once the ornate saddle was removed, Styrax took hold of the creature's nearside horn and roughly pulled its head towards him. The wyvern resisted for a second, then moved. Styrax peered into one massive green-veined eye and checked the shine and dilation of the pupil for a moment. He gave a grim smile, satisfied the beast remained sufficiently in his thrall.

He ran his fingers over the massive, blue-green scales that covered the wyvern's head. His left hand, snow-white now, was bare, as always. He felt little sensation through the skin since the day he'd won his armour on the battlefield. He ran a red-stained fingernail down the edge of one scale, teased out a small parasite and crushed it. He tapped lightly, listening carefully, and found two more of the potentially lethal parasites. There was no time to check the wyvern's entire

body so he stopped once the head was clear. That would do for now. From his saddle he withdrew a large, tightly wrapped bundle and untied the leather straps that held it together. He shook the bundle out and laid it on the ground. The woven silk looked creased and worn in the fading light. He didn't bother pulling out the waxed tent-cloth. There would be no rain tonight, only a biting cold that the many layers of silk would keep at bay.

The wyvern stamped one clawed foot and dragged a furrow through the ground, then shook its large homed head at Styrax, stretching out its wings to their full extent. He silenced it with a short gesture, but it was clear from the glare it gave him as it hunkered down that the wyvern was not wholly cowed. A minute or two of foraging found an armful of sticks, not enough to keep him warm throughout the night, but sufficient for his needs. Once the wyvern settled down for the night, it would willingly allow him to curl up against its belly.

Styrax divided the sticks into two piles and waved a hand over one of them. It burst into flame. He smiled, wondering idly when he had last lit a fire by natural means, until a snort from the wyvern made him look up towards the buildings in the distance. A figure trudged slowly towards him, a bulky soldier carrying a bag in one hand and a skin of wine in the other. He was tall and well-built but as he drew closer, his youth became apparent, as did his fear.

Styrax could imagine what was going through the young man's head. The Menin attitude to sex was open and permissive – the male form was rightly admired in a warrior tribe – but the youth looked less than pleased at the prospect. That wouldn't matter soon. What Styrax had in mind was something rather more unfortunate than buggery.

He turned quickly and retrieved two small leather bags from a larger one. Drawing a rough circle in the parched earth with his foot, he emptied the smaller of the bags into it. A dozen or so white objects tumbled on to the ground. Styrax quickly checked that none touched the edge, then pulled a pinch of black withered herbs from the other bag. As the youth covered the last few yards, Styrax raised his fingers to his nose and breathed in the sour, sickening flavour of deathsbane that had been soaked in blood and left to dry. It was a truly repulsive smell, but he had to ensure the herbs retained their potency.

The soldier reached him and dropped to one knee, but was immediately ordered up and told to put the food and wine by the fire.

The boy kept his gaze glued to Styrax's face. The wyvern snorted and hissed in the background, weaving its head from side to side until a second glance from the Lord quietened it down. Styrax stood at one edge of the circle and beckoned the youth forward. One pace, then a second and the boy was standing inside the circle.

With no warning, Styrax's hand flashed forward and the soldier gave a gasp of shock, his hands flinching up to his chest as his entire body swayed with the unexpected impact. Styrax withdrew his hand and the youth wheezed in fear and pain as he saw a dagger buried to the hilt in his chest. Tiny noises escaped his throat; his knees trembled, but somehow he stayed upright. His shaking fingers reached up to touch the ornate bone handle that blossomed from his sternum.

Styrax reached forward with the treated herbs on his upturned palm, the desiccated plants twisted and cracked with the pain of being plucked from the ground. He raised his hand to the man's face and ignited the herbs as the soldier touched the hilt of the dagger. The agony of his mortal wound suddenly hit him and his eyes rolled as a hot lance of pain ran through his entire body. With one last gasp of horror that sucked in the dirty smoke of the burning herbs, the man crumpled down. As Styrax whipped the dagger from his chest, the soldier's descent halted with an unnatural jolt.

A gloom fell over the rough circle, the calm breath of the wind shivered to a halt and time itself seemed to shudder and slow. Despite himself, Styrax twitched as a chill ran down his spine. He stared at the corpse jerking uneasily back to an upright position: he could feel the void of death close by now. He sighed. Only a madman would be comfortable around this.

The boy's face looked hollow, drained. His lips were drawn back tightly over his teeth and his tongue lolled out, useless. The limp head angled its way up to meet Styrax's gaze, dropped down to check the circle that contained it and then returned to the impassive white' eye.

The dead features somehow managed to convey a hint of anger that it had to crane its head up to face the white-eye. 'You bind me?' The voice was grating and harsh, bubbling its way past the still-warm blood in the body's lungs: it clearly came from the corpse, though there was a strange, distant echo.

'I bind you,' confirmed Styrax. 'I have no interest in seeing you slaughter an elite regiment, not to mention my most valuable general.'

'Your promises are empty. You offered a river of souls, yet I have had a mere handful. I think you forget with whom you have made a bargain.'

'I have not forgotten. Your river of souls is gathering, and when it comes, the dead will number in their thousands.' Styrax stared down at the corpse and felt contempt. The daemon was a prince among its kind, incredibly powerful and as old as time, but it didn't care why he wanted its help. It was content with the deluge of death and destruction Styrax had promised. Its abilities far exceeded its desire and for that, Styrax could only despise it.

'But when?' The corpse's slack lips quivered.

Styrax could hear the hunger in that inhuman voice. 'Soon. We've cleared a path to Destenn. Soon the destruction will begin. If we are to win a decisive battle we need to catch the Chetse army out in the open and under-strength. Your servant had better have done its job correctly, or Lord Charr will not march out as soon as he hears of our presence.'

'Lord Charr weeps in the dark place; he cares not for his tribe. What inhabits his body loves battle. It will need no encouragement.'

'Then skulls will be heaped at every crossroads and your name spoken over them.'

At that the corpse gave some perverse representation of greedy laughter. Styrax felt bile rise in his throat. He had to resist the urge to draw Kobra and remove the creature's head. Instead he nodded along. He would not need to pander to this obscenity much longer. Already he had the strength to defy it; soon he would make it fear him, and beg to fulfil his every whim. Soon it would have nothing he could need.

'And in the north?' Styrax pressed.

The haunted does not sleep; the cries of the lost ring out through the night. He has sent the boy west and searches in forbidden places. He will do as you intend.'

The boy has gone west? Do any in the mountains remain bound to your name?'

Those who have sworn cannot escape their bonds. You would do well to remember that. To forswear is to draw down our wrath.'

Then fill their dreams with glory and riches. If both of the Chosen are far from home then the Farlan are ripe for revolt. Find a man who would be king.'

'Tear down the temple and speak my name there.' The corpse sagged as Styrax began to drive the daemon from its host. Styrax nodded his agreement and caught the daemon's final words, almost too faint to be heard. 'Then tonight, Lomin will dream of his crown.'

The clicks and buzzing of night's creatures filled Styrax's ears as the air around him returned to normality. He felt his body tremble with the power he'd expended. To raise a daemon was no great effort, but they were otherworldly and aside from the march of time; to keep it long enough to hold a conversation required strength, more each time.

He turned to the fire and sank down, his white hand almost touching the flames as he sought to absorb its warmth and purge the daemon-cold. Almost as weak as an old man, he waved in the direction of the wyvern. With a snarl, the creature scrabbled to its feet and fell upon the dead soldier, scimitar claws making light work of the man's leather armour. Soon savage teeth were tearing chunks of the boy's flesh away.

'I see you, shade,' called Styrax wearily, keeping his eyes fixed on the fire. 'You take a great risk, spying on a prince of your kind. I wonder why.'

'My kind?^’ The voice was entirely unlike any daemon Styrax had previously encountered. 'And yet not. I hardly feel kinship to such an introverted creature, so unable to see beyond its own needs and obsessions it could almost be human.'

Despite himself, Styrax laughed, a cold, weary humour. This was a daemon after his own heart. 'Then why are you here? Do you wish to bargain with me?'

'I require no covenant, but perhaps you would appreciate a warning. The Farlan whelp will not be the only one to return to a cold reception.'

Styrax considered the words, and the voice that spoke them. From the corner of his eye he could see nothing more than a shadowy outline. The voice, though rich and cultured, sounded both ancient and sinister.

'And who gives me this warning?'

'An observer of events. An approver of ambition. He who is hidden conceals more than you might assume.'

'How much do you observe?'

'Much. "Inflames, destruction found."'

Styrax stiffened. 'That's a line from the prophecy of Shalstik?'

Inside, he was raging. If one daemon, however unusual, could discover his secrets, then others could, others that might be bound to his enemies. Styrax was not yet strong enough to challenge the Gods, and ownership of a Crystal Skull was not encouraged, even among their greatest Chosen. There was no reply. CHAPTER 28

Doranei idly scratched at the stubble on his cheek, keeping his eyes low and disinterested as he eavesdropped on the next table. He sat alone in a dark corner of the inn, sipping weak beer and occasionally checking the scarf had not slipped from his neck. The bar was warm and the tightly wrapped scarf had attracted some attention, but Doranei didn't have the sort of face that encouraged questions. The next table was occupied by a group of farmers discussing the topic that occupied everyone else in this town: word of Lord Isak's imminent arrival had come two days ago, and he was expected this evening. Tongues were wagging.

'Can't see that one sending the Krann away if they've fallen out. He's a mad bastard when he's roused-'

'They all are,' interrupted another. From Doranei's brief observation of the trio it seemed this speaker had been born surly. Only bitter little miseries had passed his lips throughout the evening. 'A traveller told me that the Krann was too ashamed to leave his tent for three days after the battle of Lomin. Even for a white-eye he'd fought like a blood-crazed daemon.' The man was bent over his drink, staring into the near-empty pot with a resigned air.

The inn was hardly the best this small town had to offer. The wooden walls were cracked and warped; the stench of sweat and mould and old smoke and spilt beer filled the air. Doranei was well used to sleeping under the stars or in a stable, but the ingrained grime nagged at his mind.

Face it, Doranei, he thought with a wry smile, the king's made a snob of you. This is the sort of tavern you spent far too long in when you were younger.

'So why's he coming, then?' urged the youngest of the three. The dirt wasn't yet ingrained into his skin like the others. A spark of

interest in the Land remained yet.

Doranei knew the answer. Underneath his scarf he was concealing the bee emblem. He was dressed in studded leather and mail, but that was common enough here; no one would take much note of a soldier. The bee device would mark him out as a King's Man. Dark things were whispered about the King's Men, rumours that they were above the law, which was actually one of the few truths told about them. With the bee in full sight, honest men would go silent in his presence and wonder what indiscretions they might be accused of. No magistrate would dare touch Doranei, no matter what the crime, in case it bore the royal sanction. It would be futile to explain to people that the king demanded absolute selflessness of service from his men. He punished corruption savagely – and had an uncanny knack of rooting

it out.

The Krann's probably here to sign some treaty,' declared the first farmer after a thoughtful pause. 'Everyone knows the Farlan have claims on Tor Milist, probably they don't want a war with us, so King Emin and that Krann, what's his name again-?'

'Isak, they say. His father named him out of spite – typical bloody Farlan. Probably regretting that now his son's Krann!' The surly individual laughed at his own words as his companion nodded.

'Isak, that's the one. Bet he's here to draw a line down Tor Milist and offer the king half. Bastard'11 probably take it too, another few towns to hang his colours in.'

Doranei's fist closed instinctively. The three farmers chuckled on, unaware of how close they were to a beating, when a trumpet rang out through the night. This was a border town, with lookouts on constant watch. The men looked at each other, the smiles falling away: riders approaching. It was a fair guess that one of them would be the

Krann.

Talk in the tavern quietened, then stopped completely as folk looked at each other to see who was going to move first. They all wanted to see the white-eye in his fancy elven armour, but no one wanted to be the first to rush off and stare at a foreigner. Farlan arrogance wasn't appreciated here, not now that Narkang's strength neared that of Farlan and Chetse.

Doranei stood slowly, the scrape of his chair drawing all eyes. He unwound his scarf with deliberate care, drawing great satisfaction as the three farmers started shaking at the sight of the golden bee on

his collar. He pulled on a worn pair of gloves, retrieved his cape from the spare chair at his table and then made his way out. In his wake Doranei felt people stir, but he had reached the stables before he heard eager footsteps run for the walls. He ran an affectionate hand down his horse's grey neck, she turned to nuzzle at him, then nosed his hand, questing for food.

He draped an arm over the horse's neck and, looking straight into her hazel eye, said, 'Well, my friend, shall we go and see this Krann who's got everyone so excited?'

The mare snorted and shook her head. Doranei chuckled and patted the creature. 'Ah, you could be right there. However, it will be as the king commanded. The Krann might be bringing dark times, but that's been our life for a spell anyway.' He swung himself easily up into the saddle, then the tall grey started out at a brisk trot towards the gate tower.

'Hey, where do you think you're going?' demanded the watchman belligerently. Behind him, Doranei could see a collection of men eyeing him nervously. One was riding a handsome hunter, probably the local suzerain. He was old, but he could obviously still wield the blade at his hip. The others were town councillors, nervous and sweating under the ceremonial finery of their offices. Doranei suppressed a smile – their opinion of all Parian as peacocks would hardly extend to a white-eye.

'I've been sent to greet the Lord Isak and put myself at his disposal.'

The watchman advanced with a curse on his lips before noticing the emblem on Doranei's collar. He reined in sharply, eyes narrowing in the dim light. 'You're a King's Man?'

'No, I just wear his badge because I hear he's a good man to irritate,' Doranei snapped. Without waiting for a reply he directed his horse around the man and advanced on the others. To one side a mounted figure stirred, only to be stopped by a raised hand from the suzerain.

As Doranei reached them he saw the figure in the shadows was wearing fine clothes, but his gauntlets betrayed mail underneath. Doranei guessed it was the nobleman's son. That was all he needed now, a provincial hothead who was yet to learn he couldn't be rude to everyone he met. The old soldier who'd sired him obviously had wits enough to be cautious. The king was very specific about his men

getting the right amount of respect due their position. If that meant fighting duels with incautious noblemen, he was happy to pay the price.

'My Lord Suzerain,' Doranei called, inclining his head respectfully to the man. He made a point of ignoring the others, turning his back on the councillors as he rode past them.

'I'm Suzerain Coadech,' confirmed the older man. 'And you're no royal herald. Why would the king send a soldier to greet the Farlan Krann?'

Doranei kept his face impassive. Though he would prefer to be friendly with the suzerain – and he had heard good things of Coadech – his job meant he stayed apart. King's Men were an unknown quantity to all but the king himself.

'He would not; he sent me instead. However, I'm sure he would prefer you, his most venerable subject, to ride out and greet the Krann.'

The son made an indignant noise, but the suzerain merely smiled. He'd seen enough of life not to react to a small jibe, given in a friendly way. King's Men held no titles, but their power rivalled any subject of the king's.

'Then I would be pleased to. I hope the king would not find me impertinent if I don’t offer your services to his honoured guest, other than as a guide – it might appear strange to put all of your skills at the disposal of a foreign power.'

Doranei's eyes narrowed. He was very aware that many believed the wearers of the bee to be little more than royal assassins – but there was a crinkle of humour around the suzerain's mouth. He returned the smile and gestured for the elderly man to take the lead. A whistle from above set the men opening the great ceremonial gates. The suzerain trotted forward, followed closely by his scowling son so there would be no room for Doranei. The King's Man ignored the youth and turned to the councillors.

'Wait here. If the Krann has had a long journey, he might not want to meet a whole line of officials before he's even got off his horse.'

They looked dismayed at his words, but found no courage to protest as he tapped the hilt of his sword impatiently.

Doranei followed the suzerain out and allowed his eager grey to catch up to the horsemen fading into the twilight. Up ahead he could see a neat troop of soldiers, bright against the shadows in their white tunics. At their heart, riding the biggest charger Doranei had ever

seen, was the Krann, gleaming in what light remained of the evening. Even Doranei caught his breath at the sight. The Krann was masked to resemble the blue face of Nartis, but it was the liquid silver that encased his body that made him appear like a God looming in the dark.

The soldiers around him were in full battle-dress, yet their drapes were not the austere colours of the Palace Guard but a dragon design Doranei recognised only from the reports they had received. With the eyes of the forewarned, he picked out the black and gold of Count Vesna riding just behind the Krann, and a startlingly beautiful woman, obviously noble, close to the hero. Behind them rode a thin woman of middle-age and proud bearing, a chaperone, presumably, given Count Vesna's reputation. Who the man riding alongside her was, Doranei could not imagine. He wore the dark, functional clothes of a scout instead of armour, but two rangers already flanked the soldiers.

Well, this is a curious collection we have here, the King's Man thought as he watched the formalities unfold. Suzerain Coadech reined in and the Krann's guards split neatly to allow their Lord to pass through them to the front. The drill had obviously been well practised, Doranei noted with a soldier's eye: there was not a horse's hair moving out of step.

The Krann trotted forward with serene grace, towering over them all. Already I'm wondering how many stories are playing out here, and I've yet to meet the man at the centre.

'Lord Isak, Chosen of Nartis, Heir to Lord Bahl and Suzerain of Anvee,' called the suzerain in a clear voice. 'On behalf of Emin Thonal, King of Narkang and the Three Cities, I bid you welcome to his realm.'

Isak looked out of the window and down on the rows of tables set out in the square below. The old suzerain had given them his own house to use – the finest in town, from what Isak could see. A bath sat, grey and cooling, behind him as he surreptitiously observed the feast being prepared below. The servants were scurrying about, flowing neatly around the town official whose efforts at ordering them around seemed to be creating only disorder. A raised platform stood at the far end of the square, cordoned off from the rough benches where the townsfolk would congregate and toast the health of any foreigner whose arrival prompted free beer.

The platform itself had been draped in white linen and carefully decked in flowers. There was enough room for at least eighty people to sit. Isak sighed heavily at the thought of all the preening nobles and officials lined up and oozing affected pleasure at his presence, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it. Bahl wanted him to be comfortable in court life. Perhaps he intended to reduce the distance that existed between the Lord of the Farlan and his nobles; perhaps he just didn't want to do it himself.

Isak watched the view while drying off, then let the towel drop to the floor as he ran his hands over his head. It was strange to have hair again. Tila had advised him not to keep shaving his head, pointing out that he looked intimidating enough without highlighting the blunt lines of his skull. Turning back to the room he eyed Siulents on the armour stand that had been provided. He took a step towards it, and then caught sight of himself in the mirror.

The armour forgotten, he stood before the full-length mirror and angled it up to observe his naked frame. His reflection had always fascinated Isak: the image he presented to the world was so different to how he saw himself. The stranger in the mirror peered back with equal curiosity, looking for the slender child Isak still pictured himself as. Neither his increased height nor added bulk looked quite right. He didn't particularly care to look as brutally powerful as he obviously did. He sighed. He did like the power residing in his limbs. That would have to be compensation enough.

A knock on the door caused Isak to jump and his gaze flew immediately to Eolis, hanging from one corner of the four-poster bed.

'My Lord?' Mihn's voice sounded from behind the door.

Isak grabbed at the fresh underclothes that Tila had laid out on his bed, pulled them on and then called for his bondsman to enter. Now he knew Mihn's past, Isak found himself remarkably secure in the failed Harlequin's presence. He'd kept all other enquiring eyes from the scar on his chest – the mark of Xeliath's affection, as he joked to himself – except for Mihn, who had seen it and said nothing. Bahl considered it Isak's own business, and Mihn would stay silent until Isak was ready to talk about it. Isak wasn't sure whether he should involve the others to such a degree – Carel, Vesna, Tila: they still had the option of another life.

Vesna grew more devoted to Tila each day. Just watching them share a joke, or smile tenderly at each other, spurred a pang of guilt in Isak. He knew he might well have to ask a lot of his bondsman in the years to come: would he be able to endure Tila's silent condemnation if he called upon the father of her children to commit murder – or worse?

He felt a different shape of guilt at how he might use and abuse Mihn, but he understood the need, and Mihn had nothing else. The foreigner shared something with Xeliath: another broken life Isak carried as a burden, another damaged soul he'd use as a weapon when the time came.

That thought made Isak pause. Even he was beginning to think that he had a purpose in life… In the darkest hours of the night he lay alone and worried that the assumption the Land made, that he had a cause for which to fight, would bring destruction, that any prophecies would be self-fulfilling. Could he cope with what might be required of him?

Mihn entered the room, took one look as Isak and slammed the door shut behind him. Isak's eyes darted up in surprise. The man Doranei has come to speak with you. He will wait.'

Isak pulled on a linen shirt and cream trousers similar to those worn by his guards. 'Send him in,' he ordered. Picking up the tall cavalry boots sitting at the foot of his bed Isak sat and began to fit his feet into them. Doranei sauntered through the door and past Mihn, checking the room for whatever he'd been excluded from seeing before his eyes settled on the Krann. Mihn cut across his path, forcing the King's Man to stop dead, and knelt at Isak's feet to help him with his boots.

Isak gestured to a chair and Doranei drew it up, carefully placing it to one side of Mihn before sitting.

Isak left the boots to Mihn and inspected his visitor. ‘That's an interesting tattoo on your ear.'

Doranei stiffened slightly and turned his head slightly away. Isak couldn't see the actual shape, but he didn't want to make it appear that he was too interested. He'd have bet the entirety of Anvee that he had something to match it.

'Merely the product of a wayward youth, my Lord. I trust everything has been to your satisfaction thus far?'

'It has, but I don't think you're here to see I have enough blankets. So would you like to tell me what a member of the Brotherhood is doing here?'

Doranei didn't blink. 'I, that is, the king, merely wishes to ensure

your passage to Narkang is as unimpeded as possible.' Doranei's Farlan was fluent, with barely a trace of an accent. Lesarl had told them that Farlan was fast becoming the country's second language. Most traders in the north-west spoke Farlan, and the keen merchants of Narkang took even greater pride in their linguistic proficiency. It showed how cosmopolitan Narkang was.

'And I had been advised that these lands were remarkably lawful. Or does the king expect any trouble in particular?' Isak asked.

'Of course not, my Lord. However, I wear the king's device and that gives me the right to commandeer supplies or lodgings on his behalf for your party. Some might also say that our laws are rather more permissive than those of the Farlan. There are several, sometimes competing, parties who call these lands home.' He paused. The Knights of the Temples, for example.'

'Well then, I trust there will be no unpleasantness on their part,' Isak growled.

'I am sure that will be the case. The Knight-Cardinal has submitted a request via the king for an informal meeting, but as such it can be refused with little offence given. In part, my visible presence will ensure that those you meet will not have another guise unknown to you.'

The king's spies are that efficient?'

They are more than competent. Our enemies cannot be certain of what we do or do not know – that limits them in itself.'

Isak rose and took the dragon-embossed tunic from Mihn. As he pulled it on and fastened the toggles he retained eye contact with the King's Man.

'You have an unusual manservant, my Lord.'

A flicker of discomfort passed over Mihn's face.

'Really.'

'And Count Vesna rides with you too. I'm sure he will be as popular with the husbands of this town as that attractive young lady will be with the wives.'

Isak made no reply as he fixed his long white cloak about his shoulders with a dragon clasp. The evening was going to be quite long enough without having to banter words now. He turned to the mirror to see how the Land would view him now. There was no hiding the bulging muscles and massive frame, but the reflection was as civilised as Isak had ever looked. A smile appeared on his lips.

Apart from his first fitting of this suit, back at Tirah Palace, this was the first time he had worn his crest like this. He spent a wordless minute following each and every line of that dragon image, the golden curls of its claws and proud rampant stance.

'So tell me about Morghien. I hear he is more than he appears.'

Doranei chuckled at that, scratching at his freshly shaved face as he smiled. To tell you about Morghien, that is where I would start. Unfortunately, it also explains how I would end. Did the Seer tell you about him?'

'No, he was waiting for me on the road.' Isak caught Doranei's reflection in the mirror, but saw nothing more than vague surprise on the man's face.

'I learned a little about Morghien – and you – from the Seer, but not enough, I suspect. What did interest me was that Morghien gave me a letter for your king.'

'And you read it?'

'I could hardly believe that was not the intention. It's there, in that pack by Siulents.'

Isak pointed to the one he meant and Mihn retrieved the scroll. Doranei opened it and scanned the first few lines. 'Velere's Fell,' he muttered to himself.

'A year ago I would have thought that to be a ghost story, but not since I heard about the Malich affair, about the Azaer cult-' Isak saw the hardened soldier flinch at his words and knew he'd scored some sort of hit.

'Please, my Lord, now is not the time. As it is, I am not the man you should speak to about this…' His voice trailed off as Isak held up a hand.

There was an angry glare in his eyes. 'Let me guess, the king is the one I should speak to. I've heard that before and it grows old.' The white-eye took a step forward, but Doranei managed not to shrink away from the looming figure.

Then I can only apologise. I am a servant of the king and I know only what I need to know to perform whatever function is required of me. As you can tell, King Emin is a man who keeps much to himself – but from this letter, from my presence, I can only assume he intends to provide you with answers. I understand your frustration, but please, be patient and enjoy our hospitality until we reach Narkang.'

Isak grimaced, but made no further comment. He swept the

sheathed Eolis off the bedpost and fastened the sword-belt about his waist. With one hand resting on the emerald hilt, he cocked his head at Doranei and forced a smile on to his lips. 'Well then, lead on to this hospitality.'