Slowly he nodded. ‘I’d be only too happy to give you any assistance that you might expect from a brother officer, Commander,’ he said with a smile.
Aelang chuckled. ‘Brother officer,’ he said approv-ingly. ‘You have been here a long time. Still, as I said, you’ve not changed. It’s been good seeing you again.’ And, slapping Urssain’s arm affectionately, he strode off towards his waiting carriage, followed by his two companions.
Urssain cursed silently, and placing his left hand casually behind his back flexed his fingers frantically. Aelang had struck a nerve with his heavy gold ring and Urssain knew the arm would be dead for over a minute. It had been Aelang’s signature on their agreement.
That could have been poison, it said. Or I could have disembowelled you while you groped for feeling in that arm. So look to me. These things happen so easily. Urssain cursed again.
Aelang, reaching his carriage, turned and threw a jaunty acknowledgement to him with a flick of his hand. Urssain let his sleeve knife fall into his right hand and returned the same friendly gesture making sure that the light caught its blade as he let it slip back into his sleeve again. Aelang’s Mandroc grin and his grim laugh reached him, then the carriage was driving away, merging into the failing light.
Urssain turned and strode briskly through the maw of the Westerclave. His left arm was easier, but Aelang’s message had shaken him. Fear of Dan-Tor was one thing. That was deep and abiding, the fear of the rabbit for the lion. There was no question of resistance, so superior was the one over the other. But fear of Aelang-the old barrack-room fear-that was insupportable.
You’re right, Aelang, he thought, as his heels beat a relentless tattoo along the Westerclave’s corridors. I’ve grown too lax and easy away from Narsindalvak. But I’ll not risk everything I’ve gained out of carelessness. Not now. I’ve hacked my way through the ranks and now I hold the high ground. Your reminder’s most timely. It could also be your death warrant in due course.
Chapter 53
A strong, ill-tempered wind blew the rain in gusty squalls across the fields, bending and shaking the trees and bushes and confining most living things to the warmth of their nests and burrows. It rattled branches against windows like urgent messengers and whispered through cracks and crannies the draughty news that soon the weather would turn its face from light and warmth and start its journey into the cold Fyorlund winter.
Wrapped and huddled against its raucous jostling, four horsemen moved greyly through the countryside by quiet and little-used paths. For a moment they paused and then they faded into the gloom of a small copse. Within minutes they had rigged and camouflaged the small shelter that had housed them each night since they had left Eldric’s stronghold.
Sitting on the torch-dried earth, they ate a frugal meal in companionable silence as the wind buffeted their shelter peevishly and showers of raindrops cascaded intermittently from the wind-shaken trees to drum over their heads like horses galloping suddenly by.
Gavor eyed a spider struggling to climb its slender swinging thread, but settled ungraciously for the bread that Hawklan gave him.
‘We’ve been lucky so far,’ said Tel-Odrel. ‘The weather’s been very helpful. But we’ll not get much further by stealth; we’re nearly at Vakloss.’
Hawklan looked at the Goraidin and nodded. ‘We’ll have to separate soon, then,’ he said. ‘Having us around might jeopardize your mission.’
The two Goraidin exchanged glances.
Tel-Odrel shrugged apologetically. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid so.’ He looked a little embarrassed. ‘Estab-lishing contacts in and around Vakloss is vital. You realize that. Given that that must come first, we’ll help you all we can, but you don’t even know what you’re going to do, do you?’ There was a barely controlled exasperation in his voice.
‘I know exactly what I’m going to do, Tel,’ said Hawklan light-heartedly. ‘I’m going to meet Dan-Tor and ask him why he’s done what he’s done.’ But his affected levity merely darkened the mood that Tel-Odrel’s words had created.
Both the Goraidin frowned. They had stopped trying to dissuade the two Orthlundyn from what they saw as a suicidal mission, but its apparent futility still distressed them.
Hawklan continued, more seriously. ‘You’re a sol-dier, Tel, and you’ve a clear-cut task before you. I’m not and I haven’t. But we both know that when logic and reason end, we have to follow our intuition. I’m a healer. I have to go to the heart of the sickness, whatever it costs me.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Tel-Odrel quickly. ‘But… ’
Hawklan waved him silent. He leaned forward and looked into the Goraidin’s eyes. ‘Tel,’ he said. ‘As we near the City, every living thing is beginning to cry out to me. It’s as if there’s something in the very air round here. What Isloman heard in those mountains, I feel all around. A terrible purposeful corruption. It wasn’t there when we left the City… at least I didn’t feel it.’ He paused, momentarily shaken by the realization that he too was probably changing. ‘But in any case I’m scarcely master of myself because of it. It’s certainly beyond me to walk away from such pain. And I’m drawn inexorably to its centre. Only there will I know what to do.’
Tel-Odrel gave up his last attempt with a sigh. ‘Well, at least make yourselves less… conspicuous. Cover up your weapons, don’t talk too much… ’ His voice tailed off.
Outside, the blustering wind rattled the little shelter as it continued its relentless buffeting journey across the countryside.
Over the months since the arrest of the Lords, Sylvriss had pursued her resolve to free her husband from Dan-Tor’s influence and restore him to health. She had worked painstakingly and heartbreakingly, knowing that Dan-Tor could at any time, either on an inadvertent whim or as an act of malicious political necessity if he discovered the truth, undo her work with effortless ease.
She had long believed that Rgoric’s recurring illness was due in no small part to the medication that Dan-Tor plied him with. However, more subtle causes became apparent to her as she built up the silken wall of dutiful and acquiescent behaviour that kept the King from Dan-Tor’s sight.
She began to realize that the very presence of the man was important, with his treacherous words that undermined where they purported to support and increased the King’s burdens when he was at his most weary so that he would more readily relinquish them. It was a task of joy to replace these sinister blandishments with her own love and tenderness, and she frequently wondered what self-deception in Dan-Tor was prevent-ing him from realizing the effects of his absence from the King. The man puzzled her increasingly. For all his perceptive ruthlessness he had the strangest blind spots in his vision. However, as she watched the man she married fight through to some semblance of health and well-being, Sylvriss’s hate for Dan-Tor grew apace.
The deceit she practiced on Dan-Tor was a matter of deep satisfaction to her but she had also to practice a deceit on her husband to keep from him learning of the true state of his country, and that was a matter of increasing distress to her.
At first her lies had been matters of minor expedi-ence to quiet the restless monarch’s temporarily fevered mind. Then had developed a strange, idyllic period of mutual self-deception in which both had lost themselves passionately in their old affections new-found.
Sylvriss entered this world against her judgement, but it was as if the life they could have had, without the baleful influence of Dan-Tor, was allowed to them in those few months. Although in her darker moments Sylvriss saw its ultimate futility, she suffered no real regrets for what she was doing, but drew great strength and resolve from her husband’s happiness, albeit that it must be ephemeral.