The door to Inurian’s chambers, which lay on the top floor of the keep, was closed as always. Orisian listened for a moment. There was no sound from within. He knocked.
‘Come in, Orisian.’
As he entered he at once caught the unique scent that always greeted him here: a tantalising, rich mixture of parchment, leather and herbs. The room was small and crowded. Book-lined shelves filled one wall; racks of jars and pots packed with herbs, powders, spices, even soils, another. An ancient, scored table held a scattering of papers, maps and a neatly arranged collection of dried and wizened mushrooms. To one side, a curtain concealed the tiny bed-chamber in which Inurian slept. In the narrow window Idrin the crow was bobbing up and down on his perch.
A handful of carved wooden figurines and a small pile of manuscripts cluttered the desk. Inurian himself was sitting behind it, leaning back with his arms folded across his chest. He was a small man of middle years, with a mop of pale brown hair interspersed here and there with grey strands like threads of silver. The one thing that anyone meeting him for the first time would notice, however, was that he was a na’kyrim: a child of two races. In him, Huanin and Kyrinin were blended. His Kyrinin father had given him penetrating eyes of a pure flinty grey and the fine features and thin, almost colourless, lips of his inhuman kind. When he came from behind the desk and reached out to greet Orisian, his lean, long fingers and clouded nails also betrayed his mixed parentage.
There were other, invisible, marks too. Inurian would never have children; no na’kyrim could. And there was the Shared, that mysterious, intangible realm lying beneath the surface of existence. It was beyond the reach, and the understanding, of pure-bred Huanin and Kyrinin, yet the intermixing of their blood sometimes gave a na’kyrim child access to its secrets and powers. Those in whom that contact with the Shared flowered were named the waking. Inurian was one such.
Orisian could not remember a time when Inurian had not been here, in his little rooms at the summit of the castle. He had come to Kolglas before Orisian was born, finding in Kennet nan Lannis-Haig a rare thing in these days: a human who would offer friendship to a na’kyrim. It was not a sentiment all in the castle could share. The War of the Tainted had ended forever the days when Huanin and Kyrinin walked side by side; there was little goodwill for the offspring of any union that defied the weight of that history, and even less for those woken into the Shared. Still, Inurian had stood loyally at the side of the lord of Kolglas for years. And since the deaths of Lairis and Fariel, and Kennet’s decline into misery, he had become steadily more important to Orisian as well.
‘How was your journey?’ Inurian asked, his voice smooth and warm.
‘Cold. A little damp.’
Idrin croaked in the window, and Inurian chuckled.
‘Well, we are both pleased to see you in any case. Is Croesan well? And Naradin’s child safely born?’
Orisian bent over the table, peering at the mushrooms arrayed there and prodding one. ‘Yes, to both. Croesan has a very healthy grandson. What are these for, Inurian?’
The na’kyrim waved a dismissive hand. ‘Curiosity. One eases the birthing of calves, another soothes aching joints and so on. Nothing of great consequence.’
‘You’ve been into the forests again, then.’
‘Indeed. The slopes of the Car Anagais hold many secrets for those who know where to look.’
‘When can I come with you?’ asked Orisian.
Inurian shrugged. ‘We’ll see,’ he said. ‘Soon, perhaps.’ It was what he always said.
Orisian went to stroke Idrin’s glossy breast. The crow blinked and ducked his head in the hope that Orisian would pet the nape of his neck.
‘I cling to the slender hope that if I search long and hard enough I may yet find a cure for disobedience in crows,’ muttered Inurian.
‘But an obedient Idrin would not be Idrin,’ said Orisian.
‘True.’
Orisian sat on the corner of the desk.
‘My father?’ he asked quietly.
Inurian returned to his seat with a sigh. ‘For him I have no cures, I’m afraid. Not that I could administer them even if I did, as he will see no one save your sister. She has tended him ever since you left for Anduran. His grief must run its course, Orisian. He will remember himself soon.’
‘He’ll come to the feast?’
‘I’m sure. You know these moods pass.’
‘I do. It seems they take longer each time, though. I am afraid that some day one will come that does not leave him.’
Inurian regarded the youth for a moment, sadness tweaking at the corners of his mouth.
‘Shall we go hunting on the first day of winter?’ he asked.
Orisian brightened a little at the suggestion.
‘We could. I’ve missed the hawks while I was at Anduran. Uncle Croesan prefers crashing through the forest with packs of hounds. I had to go along with him, but it’s not really my idea of hunting.’
‘A fact of life: Thanes must make more noise about their business than ordinary folk, whatever that business is.’
‘What is planned for Winterbirth, then?’ asked Orisian.
‘Oh, I would be the wrong person to ask,’ said Inurian. ‘You know half of what goes on here is a mystery to me.’
‘Hardly.’
‘Well, in any case, I have not been paying much attention. There will be all the usual gluttony, of course. I heard something about entertainers as well. There’s a troupe of acrobats or something similar coming to town. Masterless men.’
Orisian raised his eyebrows in surprise. Masterless men, those who owed no allegiance to any Blood, were not an unknown sight in these parts, but most of them were solitary traders or hunters from the hills and mountains to the north. They entered Lannis-Haig lands only to ply their wares in Glasbridge or Anduran. He could not remember ever having heard of more than two or three travelling together.
‘I imagine I will be called upon as well,’ continued Inurian, ‘since there will probably be the usual granting of boons.’
‘No doubt,’ said Orisian. He understood little of the strange, unpredictable gifts some na’kyrim possessed—the Shared was something Inurian did not talk about—but he did know that Inurian disliked ostentatious displays of his talents. They would be to the fore in any granting of boons.
‘Your father likes it,’ Inurian said. ‘At least he has in the past. It may... cheer him a little.’
Orisian nodded. ‘I suppose I should go to see him.’
‘You should,’ agreed Inurian. ‘He will be glad of it. Never forget that he loves you, Orisian. Sometimes he may forget himself, but the real Kennet loves you dearly. You know that I, of all people, could not be wrong about that.’
That much, Orisian recognised as the truth. There were no secrets from a na’kyrim with the gift of seeing what was within. Inurian always knew what lay in the heart.
‘I know you’re right,’ said Orisian. ‘But it is hard to remember, sometimes.’
‘Come to me when you need reminding,’ smiled Inurian gently.
‘I always do, don’t I?’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Inurian asked him.
Orisian was tempted only for a moment. He shook his head resolutely. Whatever burdens there were, they were for him and his father to bear. He could not expect others to shoulder them on his behalf; not even Inurian, who he knew would willingly try.
He paused outside his father’s room. This door, unlike that guarding Inurian’s secrets, was old and grand, with patterns of flowing ivy carved into its panels. The torches that lined the spiral stairway had stained its timbers over the years so that to Orisian it had always seemed to project a glowering presence. He laid his hand flat upon the door, feeling its grain under his fingertips. The wood was cold.