The sentry scrutinised the pass. Of course, he couldn't read it but the royal crest and seal of Araluen looked official and impressive. He looked at his companion.
`They're all right,' he said. He handed the document back to Halt, who passed it to Horace. Then the sentries uncrossed their spear shafts and stood back, allowing Halt and Horace to pass into the courtyard of the castle.
They rode towards the central keep, where the administration section of the castle would be situated. They went through the rigmarole of having their documents examined once more, this time by a sergeant of the guard. Horace reflected that Halt had been right. Few people looked at the Ranger. Instead, they tended to concentrate their attention on Horace, who, in full armour and riding a high-stepping battlehorse, appeared to be the more impressive of the two visitors. If any of the guards were asked later to describe Halt, he doubted that they'd be able to.
They left their horses outside the keep and were directed inside by another guard, to the third floor, where
Ferris's audience room was situated. Here they were stopped yet again – this time by his steward, a young, pleasant-faced man. Horace studied him keenly. The steward had the look of a warrior about him. He wore a long sword and looked as if he might know how to use it. He was nearly as tall as Horace, although not so broad in the shoulders. Dark, curly hair framed a thin, intelligent face and he had a ready, if slightly tired, smile for them.
`You're welcome here,' he said. 'We're always glad to see our Araluan cousins. My name is Sean Carrick.'
From the shadows of his cowl, Halt looked at the young man with interest. Carrick was the royal family name. This young man was some relative of Ferris's. That made sense, he thought. Kings often appointed their family members to positions of trust. It also meant he was a relative of Halt's.
Horace reached out a hand. 'Horace,' he said. 'Knight of the court of Araluen. Company commander of the Royal Guard, champion to the Royal Princess Cassandra.'
Sean Carrick glanced down at the document that Halt had tendered yet again, a small smile on his lips. 'So I noticed,' he said. Then he added, his head cocked sideways, 'But I've heard rumours about someone called the Sunrise Warrior?' He let the question hang between them, looking pointedly at the insignia on Horace's surcoat. In addition to the shield art, Halt had provided Horace with a new linen surcoat bearing the sunrise coat of arms.
`I have been called that,' Horace told him, neither confirming nor denying the identity. Sean nodded, satisfied with the answer. He glanced at the woodsman standing slightly behind the tall warrior facing him. He frowned. Was there something vaguely familiar about theman? He had the feeling that he had seen him somewhere before.
Before he could frame the obvious question, Horace said casually, 'This is my man. Michael.' He recalled that he had been Michael earlier in the week. It was a name that got about, he thought, grinning to himself.
Sean Carrick nodded, instantly dismissing Halt from his mind. 'Of course.' He glanced at a massive pair of doors behind his desk. 'The King has no visitors with him at the moment. Let me see if he's prepared to receive you.'
He smiled apologetically, then slipped through the doors, closing them behind him. He was gone for several minutes. Then he returned, beckoning them forward.
`King Ferris will receive you now,' he said. `I'll ask you to leave your weapons here.'
The request made sense. Horace and Halt left their various weapons on his massive desk. Horace noted, with slight misgivings, that although Halt's throwing knife scabbard was empty, the weapon was nowhere to be seen on the desk. He pushed the moment of doubt aside. Halt knew what he was doing, he thought, as they moved towards the big double doors.
Carrick ushered them into the throne room. It was small as throne rooms went, Horace thought, although he really only had experience of Duncan's throne room. That was an elongated affair with high, soaring ceilings. This was square in shape, with the sides of the square no more than ten metres in length. At the far end, on a dais and seated on a plain wooden throne, sat King Ferris.
Sean Carrick introduced them and then backed away. Ferris looked up at them curiously, wondering why there was a delegation from Araluen and why he hadn't heard of it any sooner. He beckoned them towards him. Horace led the way, Halt shadowing him a few steps behind.
As they came closer, Horace studied the King of Clonmel. The relationship to Halt was plain, he thought. But there were differences. The face was fuller and the extra flesh meant that the features were not so well defined. Ferris was obviously a man who enjoyed the comforts of his table. And his body showed signs of it as well. Whereas Halt was lean and tough as whipcord, his twin was slightly overweight and looked soft.
Then there were the differences of style. As Halt had said, Ferris wore his beard in a goatee and the moustache above it was trimmed neatly. His hair was pulled back tightly from his forehead and held in place by a worked leather band that went round his temples. And Ferris's hair and beard were jet black, making him look at least ten years younger than his grizzled, grey-bearded twin. Horace looked more closely. The hair colour was artificial, he decided. It was too glossy and too even. He came to the conclusion that Ferris dyed his hair.
The eyes were different as well. Where Halt's were steady and unwavering, Ferris seemed to find it difficult to hold eye contact for a long period. His eyes slid away from those who faced him, searching the back of the room, as if ever fearful of trouble.
They heard the door click softly shut behind them as Carrick left the room. They were alone with King Ferris, although Horace was willing to bet there were a dozen men within easy reach of the throne room, all peering through spyholes to make sure no threat was offered to the King.
Ferris spoke now, indicating the cloaked, cowled figure beside Horace.
`Sir Horace,' he said. Horace started slightly. The voice was almost identical to Halt's. He doubted that he'd be able to tell the difference between the two if his eyes were closed. Although Ferris's Hibernian accent was more marked, he realised. 'Does your man have no manners? It's not fitting that he keeps his head covered before the King.'
Horace glanced uncertainly at Halt. But the Ranger was already reaching up to push the cowl back from his face. As he did so, Horace glanced at the King once more. He was frowning. Something was familiar about the roughly dressed figure before him but he couldn't quite…
`Hello, brother,' Halt said quietly.
Chapter 31
Tennyson, prophet of Alseiass the Golden God, leader of the Outsiders, was in a black fury. He glared at the man who grovelled before him, head bowed, unwilling to meet the leader's gaze.
`What do you mean, they were defeated?' He spat the last word out as if it were poison.
The huddled figure before him crouched lower, wishing he hadn't obeyed the instinct to report the defeat at Craikennis. He had been one of Padraig's men and he had a vague idea that Tennyson might reward him for the information. Now he realised, too late, that bearers of good news were rewarded. Bearers of bad news were reviled.
`Your honour,' he said, his voice shaking, 'they were waiting for us. They knew we were coming.'
`How?' demanded Tennyson. He stalked back and forth across the inner room of the white pavilion, site of the altar of Alseiass. A low footstool was in his way and he kicked at it in fury, sending it spinning towards thecowering messenger. 'How could they know? Who could have possibly told them? Who betrayed me?'