She saw Corban gazing at Nathair’s host, a dark line winding its way towards the mountains. They were standing beneath a handful of wind-blasted trees, gnarled and twisted branches grasping at the sky. Everyone had taken the opportunity to dismount and stretch their legs, drink some water, chew on some meat, tend their horses.
‘Nathair,’ she heard Corban whisper.
‘He’s there,’ Meical said, standing close beside them.
‘He killed my da. Put a sword in his chest; right here.’ Corban tapped a finger against his leather jerkin.
Meical gave him a searching look. ‘This is about rescue, not revenge,’ he said. ‘Or is it?’
She saw Corban close his eyes, screwing them shut. After a while he blew out a long breath.
‘Cywen is what matters here,’ he said.
‘Good. There are too many of them for us to take on. Another time. Of course, if there is an opportunity to take Nathair’s head from his shoulders. .’
‘And Sumur’s,’ added Tukul.
Storm was standing nearby, sniffing the air. Suddenly she lifted her head and howled. Dath jumped. Coralen froze, half expecting to see the line of Nathair’s warband stop and look at them.
‘Is she trying to tell everyone within a day’s travel where we are?’ Tukul said.
‘I don’t know why she did that.’ Corban frowned.
‘If we ride hard we’ll catch them by nightfall,’ Tukul said.
‘And then what?’ Dath this time.
‘We find Cywen and get her out of there.’ Gwenith’s lips twitched into a half-smile as she said Cywen’s name.
Coralen looked back to Nathair’s warband crawling like ants towards the mountains. Sheer cliffs rose into the sky before them, peaks wreathed in cloud.
I don’t like this. Murias’ walls are thick, its gates strong. How are they planning on getting in there?
Craf started squawking, hopping about on Brina’s saddle. The bird was looking up at the sky. A black dot was circling above them, spiralling downwards. They all watched the dot grow into a bird, big and black.
‘It’s Fech,’ Brina said.
The raven seemed to study them, eyes scanning the crowd of seventy or so people, then it saw Corban and sailed down to him, alighting on a branch close by.
‘Corban,’ it said, then began preening its feathers.
‘Fech, is that you?’ Brina said. Craf cawed.
‘Fech, yes,’ the bird said. ‘Message from Edana, for Corban.’
What is it?’ Corban asked.
‘Eremon is dead. Domhain fallen. Edana sails for Dun Crin.’
The blood in Coralen’s veins turned to ice. ‘What?’ she hissed. She felt dizzy, unsteady on her feet.
‘Edana and the others, are they all alive?’ Corban asked.
‘When I left them,’ Fech croaked.
‘You are sure about Eremon?’ Coralen said.
‘Yes. Saw him die. Girl killed him. Maeve.’
Maeve. My half-sister, murderer of my da. It was all coming too quickly, the bird’s words taking on a dreamlike quality, like some herald from the Otherworld.
‘Is there anything else? Any more you can tell us?’ Meical asked.
‘Rhin there. Made Conall ruler of Domhain.’
With a groan Coralen turned and walked deeper into the stand of trees.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN
MAQUIN
Maquin sat in a chamber, staring at his hands. He had been waiting all day; they all had, the last of his comrades, Herak’s elite, their final contest upon them. In the distance he heard the roar of the crowd, knew that blood was being spilt in the arena.
Whose blood, though?
He hoped that Javed survived, for what it was worth. He had avoided making friends amongst these pit-fighters, knew when he made his decision in the pit on Nerin to live and fight that there was no room for friendship in his life any longer. There was only Jael. That was the focus, the goal, the justification for all that he had done. For all that he would do.
But Javed was hard not to like, with his easy smile and open nature. Perhaps he would survive, earn Lykos’ chest of gold and his freedom. He hoped so.
He continued to stare at his hands.
A killer’s hands. A murderer’s hands. I have become all that I hated, and if that takes me to Jael and his death, then I shall be content.
He raised a hand to scratch an itch in his ear, only to touch a stub of flesh, all that remained of his ear since Deinon cut a slice out of it. Strange how something that isn’t there can itch.
A key rattled in the door of his chamber — rooms that lined the courtyard of Jerolin. The guard Emad walked in, two other Vin Thalun with him.
‘You’re up, old wolf,’ Emad said.
Maquin stood and walked to the door, stepping out into the sunlight.
Petals littered the courtyard as he walked through it and out of the gates, drifting about his feet. Crowds had been celebrating earlier, lining the streets as Lykos and Fidele had passed through on their way to the arena. Tonight they would be handbound, the culmination of a day of celebrations.
How has Lykos managed that? He did not know Fidele, had only seen her on a few occasions, most of them back in the life-before, as he thought of it, when he had been here for Aquilus’ council. But even then she had not seemed even remotely suited to the likes of Lykos.
The sound of the crowds grew louder as he approached the arena. Vin Thalun were everywhere, spread about the meadow, ringing the outside of the arena, lining all the entrances.
He ignored them as he was led into a tunnel, more guards closing about him, shouldering a way through the crowds.
Then he was there, stepping out into the ring, the ground a churned quagmire of mud. Off to his left a patch of blood and gore marked the end-place of the last contest.
He was the first to arrive, no one else in here yet. He moved forwards and saw a sack in the middle of the ring. Two knives were in it, curved and thick bladed, tapering to wicked points. He took them out, twirled them in his hands, did a slow turn of the arena.
All around the crowd were shouting, cheering. He had built a reputation now. Close to the ringside in a boxed tier sat Lykos and Fidele. Lykos looked relaxed, enjoying himself, a cup of something in one hand. The other was inside his cloak, and something about his posture told Maquin he was gripping something, as he had before.
What is it?
Fidele was sitting beside him, a fixed expression on her face, part smile, part grimace. She looked as if her countenance had been frozen in place.
A sound drew his attention, snapping his head around. The gateway to the far tunnel had opened. His eyes focused on the dark entrance: a handful of figures stepping out into the daylight; Vin Thalun guards and the man he would fight.
His eyes narrowed as he saw his final opponent. It was Orgull.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT
CORBAN
Corban found Coralen alone amidst the trees, strapping on her wolven claws with sharp, jerking movements. Tears stained her cheeks.
She heard his footsteps and looked up.
‘What do you want?’
‘I am sorry,’ he said.
‘You? You’ve nothing to be sorry for,’ Coralen said. ‘What have you done?’
‘I mean, I wish I could help, and I’m sorry that I can’t. I’m sorry that I can’t make you feel better, that I can’t take your pain away.’
‘No one can,’ she snapped. ‘Don’t concern yourself.’
‘But he was your da.’
‘Yes, he was my da,’ she murmured, sorrow coating each word. ‘Not that he ever acted like it.’ Her eyes were unfocused now, seeing something other than Corban and the trees about them. With a shiver she came back. ‘You should go now.’