'Why today?' He looked at his Steward.
'I have no idea. A test for you?'
This elicited only a grunt, but Lesarl hadn't expected much more. He poured a glass of wine from the jug on the table and held it out to his lord until Bahl sighed and took it. With Lord Bahl in this mood he was capable of anything. Getting a jug of wine down his throat might actually help matters.
'I was wondering whether you would return tonight. You've never spent so long in the forest before today.'
'I always return.'
'Is it worse?'
Always worse.'
Lesarl warmed his hands in front of the fire and looked up at the only painting in the room. What was most remarkable about the Painting was not the artistic detail, nor the undeniable beauty of the woman who lay beside a stream, but the contented smile on her lips, for these were the lips of a white-eye. Lesarl had never – he thanked the Gods – actually met a female white-eye, but they were known to be as selfish and aggressive as their male counterparts. All white-eyes were born with violence in their blood, and no matter how lovely, how serene she looked in this picture, this woman would have been a real danger when roused.
'Lesarl, stop staring. Your place is not to remind me of the past,' Bahl growled, his hand reaching for the ring hanging from a delicate chain around his neck. Inch, the girl in the painting, was pictured wearing that very ring. The painting and the ring were the only things Bahl had kept.
Tm sorry, my Lord,' the Chief Steward said, turning back to face Bahl. 'Her face always distracts me. I swear those eyes follow me down every corridor like a nursemaid.'
'A nursemaid? She should have been mother to her own children.' For a moment Bahl forgot the boy and the God's gifts below and was drawn into a happier time, but the call of the present – or maybe the future – brought his attention back to Lesarl. 'So, are you going to tell me what you took down there with Lord Hit? I can feel something unusual, nothing I am familiar with. There is…" His words tailed off.
'Are you sure?' began Lesarl.
'Yes damn you,' roared Bahl, 'I think I know my own weaknesses well enough! Your place is not to lecture me.'
Lesarl shrugged, hands held out in a conciliatory gesture. He could not argue with that: it was Lord Bahl's ability to turn those very weaknesses into strengths that had rebuilt the Parian nation. 'It's a suit of armour and a blade.'
'And?' demanded the white-eye. 'I can tell there's something more – I feel it grating at my bones.'
'My knowledge is limited, my Lord, but I don't believe there can be any mistaking them. Siulents and Eolis, the weapons of Aryn Bwr, are back.'
Bahl inadvertently spat out his mouthful of wine and crushed the glass to powdered crystal. Aryn Bwr: the last king. His crimes had caused his true name to be expunged from history. Aryn Bwr, first among mortals, had united the entire elven people after centuries of conflict, and the Gods had showered him with gifts – but peace was not the elven king's true motive. Aryn Bwr had forged weapons
powerful beyond imagination, powerful enough to slay even Gods of the Upper Circle, and he had led his people against their makers. The Great War lasted only seven years, but the taint of the horrors committed by both sides lingered, millennia on.
'Gods, no wonder Hit didn't come to me…' His voice tailed off.
'I couldn't believe it, holding Eolis in my hands…' Lesarl's voice
was shaking too.
'Is our new Krann fortunate or cursed?' Bahl wondered.
'Who knows? The most perfect armour ever made, a blade that killed Gods -1 don't think I would want them at any price. But blessed or cursed, what does it mean?'
They will make him the focus of every power broker and madman in the entire Land. That is something I would curse few with.' Bahl frowned, brushing fragments of glass into the fire.
'How many prophecies mention them?'
'Neglecting your studies, Lesarl?'
He laughed. 'I cannot deny it – but in my defence I have been running the nation, so the omission is hopefully forgivable. The whole subject is beyond me, in any case. I can work with the stupidity of people, but prophecies, no, my Lord.'
'It is the most complicated of sciences; it can take a lifetime to understand the rambling mess they come out with.'
'So what are we to believe?'
'Nothing.' Bahl laughed humourlessly. 'Live your life according to prophecy? That's only for the ignorant and the desperate. All you need to know is what others believe: the cult of Shalstik, the prophecy of the Devoted, of the Flower in the Waste, of the Saviour, of the Forsaken… Know your enemy and anticipate his attack. With the unexpected arrival of this new Krann, the eyes of the whole Land will be upon us. The longer we can keep his gifts a secret, the better.'
'Will that be possible?' Lesarl looked dubious. 'When the Krann is seen without gifts, half the wizards in the city will become curious. I don’t know what their daemon guides will be able to tell them, but power attracts attention. Someone will work it out, surely. The Siblis ~ they could sense them from who knows how far away?'
‘The Siblis used magic so powerful it was killing them, I doubt anyone else will be making so great an effort. But yes, you're right: at some point someone will work it out, but any delay helps us. If the mages get there first, at least they will probably come to you for confirmation. Flatter their intelligence and wisdom, then make it clear that people will die if it becomes common knowledge that Siulents and Eolis are back in play. We'll decide how to deal with anything the priests might say some other time. For now, let's go and see whether the boy is worth all the trouble he brings.'
Isak dozed at the table, his head resting on his arms, despite the constant rumble of conversation that filled the room. The bitter scent of fat drifted over from the fire and in his soporific state he licked his lips, tasting again the venison stew with which he'd filled his belly. Meat was a rare pleasure in Isak's life, for hunting rights were exclusive to those folk who paid for permission. Nomads, travellers, the poor – they could only supplement their usually meagre diet with birds shot on the wing, and that was difficult enough without the clatter of a wagon-train to scare them away. It was one of the few times that Isak's natural skill and keen eye served his people welclass="underline" bringing down a goose or wild duck for the communal cooking pot was one of the rare times his father ever came close to praising him.
Slowly, through his reverie, he became aware of a change in the hall. The voices had stopped. The hairs on his neck rose and a tingle of anticipation ran down his spine. He looked up to see every man in the room standing. One ranger at the next table glared at him and after a moment of panic, Isak jumped up – and found himself face to face with a thin man several inches shorter than he was, and behind him, a giant, close to a foot taller than Isak, wearing a blank blue mask.
'So, you're the new arrival,' said the smaller of the two. The man's smile widened as he looked Isak up and down. Isak, feeling like a cow in a cattle market, fought to keep his calm.
'Welcome to Tirah Palace. Does my Lord have a name?'
'Ah, my name is Isak. Sir.' Isak's eyes darted from one face to the other. The masked giant hadn't moved even a fraction. It was as if he were a statue, thought Isak. A memory stirred in the depths of his mind, a shape just below the surface. Oh Gods, this is Lord Bahl. Still the man didn't move or speak, but his eyes stared deep into Isak's own, and Isak felt as if the man gazed on his soul itself, inspecting and assessing with cold dispassion.
Isak could feel all eyes on the old white-eye; Lord Bahl possessed an aura of command that demanded the attention of everyone. It was