Inurian regarded his young companion with an arched eyebrow. ‘Do you really believe that is a distinction all your countrymen would make, Orisian? You know better than that, or you’ve not the wit I credit you with. Not everyone thinks of these things the way you do; very few, in fact. Fox and White Owl have been at each other’s throats since long before your Blood was even imagined, but to your fellow Huanin they are all woodwights and that is an end to it.’
Orisian could not deny it. The War of the Tainted had put a chasm between the two races. The three kingships of the Huanin race—Aygll, Alsire and Adravane—had stood together against the united strength of the Kyrinin clans. For all the savagery of the centuries since, nothing had matched the slaughter done in that vast conflict. The dead had thronged the fields until their stench choked even the carrion-eaters and it was said a man could walk for a day upon the backs of corpses. The Kyrinin city of Tane, the most wondrous city there had ever been, was destroyed. The war had ended only when the Anain, the most potent and secret of all the races, stirred from their unknowable rest to take possession of ruined Tane and raise the vast Deep Rove to engulf it and all its surrounds.
For the victorious kingships there had been no reward. Alsire declined in sad disarray until it was reborn as the lesser Kingship of Dornach, and Adravane began its long retreat into decadence, madness and isolation. Aygll tore itself apart from within and was extinguished in the bloodletting of the Storm Years, its lands inherited by the Bloods that rose from its ashes. All of that marred history was there beneath the surface of the moment in which Orisian gazed out towards the distant campfire of a people he could never know.
‘I didn’t tell you about Naradin’s boar, did I?’ Orisian asked. ‘It had a White Owl arrowhead in it, a fresh wound. And it was no distance from Anduran. No Kyrinin have been seen so close to the city for years, Rothe said.’
‘Now that is strange,’ Inurian said. A frown flickered across his gentle features.
‘Croesan thought it was just some young hunters, flaunting their bravery by coming so far into our lands.’
Inurian shook his head. ‘The Thane misreads it. This is not a time of year when hunting parties range far. No, that tastes wrong. Whatever the reason is, it’s not youths showing off. Croesan would do well to pay more heed to such signs.’
The na’kyrim’s frown deepened. He sank into thought, his eyes locked unseeingly on the rocks at his feet.
Orisian looked back towards the northern shore.
‘They should be going to their winter quarters, shouldn’t they?’ he asked, a trace of wistfulness in his voice.
‘Yes,’ Inurian said, rousing himself. ‘They’re on the move. All the a’ans scattered through the forests will be coming together at the vo’ans, the winter camps, to wait for spring. A small a’an, that one. Ten or twenty people.’
Orisian stared at the thin trail of smoke. However impossible it might be, his longing to see for himself what it signified would not go away. Somewhere out there was a world in which the past did not weigh so heavily, where there were no dark, grief-laden walls to loom over him and no reminders of what might have been. If that world did not reside on the pitching deck of a Tal Dyre ship, perhaps it lay in the wandering, forest-bound life of the Kyrinin. Even as he watched, the firesign faded away, until there was no hint that it had ever been. He looked at Inurian.
‘Inurian, do you ever wish—’
Inurian interrupted him. ‘It’s unwise to dance with wishes unless you’ve the mettle for it. Wishing for what is not is a fast way to poison your heart.’ The na’kyrim tousled Orisian’s hair with rough affection. ‘Your heart’s a lot less poisoned than most I’ve known, Orisian. I like it that way.’
Orisian held his tongue. A vague sense of longing stayed with him.
‘Once Winterbirth is out of the way, I must move my boat to a safer berth,’ said Inurian. ‘Would you perhaps help me with that?’
Orisian smiled.
The sun rose upon the last day of autumn. Its pale touch brushed the snowfields and peaks of the high Tan Dihrin, and then swept down towards the valley of the Glas. It fell first of all upon the fortified town of Tanwrye, nestled at the foot of the Vale of Stones, marking the northernmost border of Lannis-Haig. Behind the walls, weary men were leaving their watches and bowls of gruel and bread were being passed out from steaming pots.
The grey light flowed on, south and west, over the reeds and rushes of rough grazing land towards Targlas. Cattle roused themselves from sleep, and snipe and plovers stirred amongst the tussocks. Reaching Targlas, the sun picked out columns of smoke rising from a hundred hearths as the drovers, herders and trappers warmed their cold and drowsy bones. A flock of sheep was being driven out, their shepherd shouting at his dogs. The great River Glas wove its way past the town, and the sun followed until it found Anduran.
The city was already half-woken. Traders were setting up their stalls in the square and dogs chased one another down side streets. The great castle by the Glas opened its gates even as the first hint of dawn fell upon it. Torches upon its battlements were doused and a flock of crows clattered up into the lightening sky. Beyond Anduran, the dawn reached the flat pools and misty islands of the Glas Water, lifting the marshes from their slumber. The ruins of old Kan Avor came sluggishly and reluctantly out of the night. Herons fell away from those broken walls on outstretched wings, heading out over the water to hunt. The day’s first light found men already at work on Sirian’s Dyke, repairing sections of the great dam that might not hold through the coming season.
At last the sun came to Glasbridge, and to the sea. The docks were alive and bustling as fishing boats opened their holds and crowds gathered to haggle over the best of the catch. The Glas poured its waters into the sea, and the light rushed on over the widening bay, picking out the foamy wave crests. To the north it played across the rocky ridge of the Car Anagais and rippled over the treetops of the dark forests along the shore. To the south, it chased the darkness from the hamlets and farmsteads along the coast, until finally it fell upon Kolglas. Like a great granite hillock, the castle on its island was lit by the day, and the lamps burning in its windows were one by one extinguished.
When this new day had run its course and passed into night, winter would be born.
In that bright morning the Thane of the Lannis-Haig Blood rode out from his castle and into the heart of Anduran. Half his household came with him. Croesan’s Shield marched at the head of the procession, bearing pennants. The Thane himself rode just behind them, flanked by a dozen crossbowmen. His mount was a magnificent grey charger bedecked with silver armour and trailing ribbons from its halter and saddle. Behind Croesan came Naradin the Bloodheir and his wife Eilan, riding side by side and waving to those who lined the streets. In their wake followed a succession of retainers, officials and distinguished visitors from Glasbridge and Targlas. All were extravagantly dressed, as if they were some luxuriant pageant fresh come to town, and with the flags and banners snapping in a fresh wind it was a spectacle as fine as any Anduran had seen since the Bloodheir’s wedding two summers gone.
The street running down from the castle through the Crafts’ Quarter to the wide square in the middle of the town was packed with people, all cheering their Thane to the echo. The new Feast Hall was an imposing presence on the western side of the square: a great timber edifice that dwarfed the houses clustered on either side of it. Its heavy doors sat in a carved frame, surmounted by the Lannis crest. Before the building a wooden stage had been set up. Croesan drew to a halt and dismounted. As his Shield hurried to form ranks on the platform, he went alone with Naradin and Eilan into the great hall.