Croesan clapped Naradin on the shoulder.
‘That is true, that is true. Now let us go and save your beloved wife from all the excitement.’
Rothe came to find Orisian in his chambers. During their stay at Anduran their routine of regular practice had all but lapsed, and the shieldman was insistent that it should now be resumed. Thus Orisian found himself out in the castle’s courtyard, parrying the big man’s weighty blows as they circled each other. They used wooden practice swords, but still the impacts sent stinging shivers through Orisian’s hand.
When he had been younger he had found such exercises embarrassing. They all too often attracted a small audience of onlookers. He had little instinct for swordplay, and it had been a long and sometimes painful learning process. He was at least good enough now that his work did not provoke outright mirth amongst any observers. Today, in any case, everyone was busy with preparations for Winterbirth and hardly a glance was spared for the two mismatched sparring partners. The one exception was Kylane, who paused to watch as he wandered past. His presence distracted Orisian, who at once received a cracking blow on the back of his knuckles. Kylane strolled off, chuckling under his breath and shaking his head; perhaps, thought Orisian, lamenting the ineptitude of his future charge.
At the end, as Orisian sat breathless on the cobblestones, flexing and massaging his sword hand, Rothe grunted in muted approval.
‘You’ll be a swordsman yet.’
‘If my arm doesn’t fall off first,’ replied Orisian.
Rothe offered him a broad hand. As Orisian took it and hauled himself upright, he could feel the hard ridges that scarred the warrior’s skin. Rothe had spent most of his life with a sword in his hand, fighting Kyrinin in Anlane or Black Road raiders in the Vale of Stones, and had been marked by the weapon. He had never married; Kylane said—always out of Rothe’s hearing—that his sword was too jealous of his company to allow anyone to come between them. Though it was not a life Orisian would choose he had never seen any sign of regret in Rothe.
‘What would you be if not a shieldman, Rothe?’ he asked on impulse.
A crude smile formed in Rothe’s beard and the great man shrugged in a small, almost vulnerable way.
‘There are other things of worth,’ he said, ‘but none I know any-thing of. How could I say what else I might be than what I am?’
Late in the afternoon of that day, Orisian looked down from a window in the keep upon a strange scene. The acrobats who were to perform at the feast were filing through the castle gates and into the courtyard. They were big men, their bulk accentuated by rough fur jackets and capes. They wore leather boots and trousers, and each carried a small pack over his shoulder. The last few to enter were laden with small chests, barrels and cloths and a pair of long, thick poles that looked freshly cut.
There were perhaps a dozen in the company. Orisian had never seen so many masterless folk together. All were long-haired, their locks tied back and dyed in exotic hues of rust and gold. They walked lightly despite their size. When Orisian looked more closely he realised that there were a few women amongst them, a trifle smaller than the men but dressed just the same and looking no less powerful.
He found Anyara loitering in the doorway at the foot of the keep, watching the new arrivals with frank fascination.
‘They’re very . . . big, aren’t they?’ she said.
‘I suppose. They all look the same.’
‘Well, perhaps they’re all related,’ smirked Anyara. ‘You know what they say about the breeding habits of masterless folk. Still, they look well enough put together to me.’
A few of the castle’s guardsmen were gathered outside their quarters. Muffled laughter every now and again suggested some coarse discussion of the female newcomers, yet not one of the acrobats so much as glanced across. They worked with practised efficiency, in silence, as they arranged their equipment on the cobblestones and checked over it.
‘It must be a good show, with so many of them,’ mused Orisian. ‘Where are they going to perform?’
‘Ilain said they were going to give a show inside the hall, then do some tricks out here in the yard later.’
‘Where do you suppose they’re from? It must be Koldihrve, or somewhere near there, for there to be so many. Don’t you think?’
Anyara shrugged. ‘Or somewhere on the Kilkry coast. There are still masterless villages there, aren’t there?’
As they watched, Bair the stablehand wandered across to peer at the collection of wares arrayed in the courtyard. He reached out to touch a coil of thick rope, but one of the acrobats flashed out a hand to seize his wrist. Surprise flung Bair’s eyes and mouth wide, and had he not been mute he would surely have cried out. The man shook his head a little before gesturing Bair away. The boy edged backwards, continuing to watch with wondering eyes from one of the stalls in the stable block.
Orisian glanced up at the sky. It had darkened in the last half hour as the sun sank away. The castle yard was falling into shadow. Torches would be brought out soon, for Winterbirth was a night when darkness must be held at bay.
‘We should be getting ready,’ he said to Anyara. ‘The feast will be starting before long.’
She nodded, turning to follow him into the keep with an almost wistful glance back over her shoulder towards the party of acrobats.
Inside, early arrivals for the night’s feasting had begun to assemble, gathering in small knots in the great hall. There were bundles here and there of the gifts they had brought for the Thane. Already the mood was jovial. Animated conversations filled the hall with sound. Etha was moving along the tables, checking the trays of bread and flasks of ale and wine that had been set out. She was oblivious of the crowds around her as she muttered under her breath, no doubt compiling a list of reprimands for those who had laid the tables.
‘It’ll be a long night,’ said Orisian, remembering Kylane’s words at Glasbridge with a slight smile.
‘Of course it will,’ said Anyara. ‘It always is.’
Inurian intercepted them as they made their way up to their rooms to change.
‘There you are, there you are,’ said the na’kyrim.
‘Here we are indeed,’ Anyara agreed with great gravity.
‘Your father asked to see you both,’ Inurian said. ‘He sent me to find you.’
‘He’s up, then?’ Orisian asked, feeling a little surge of hope. Perhaps the clouds had lifted at last.
‘Come and see,’ Inurian told him, beckoning them to follow as he set off up the stairs.
They found Kennet standing in the middle of his bedchamber, frowning in concentration as he examined the fur of the heavy cloak he wore. He looked up as the three of them entered, and even in that first glimpse Orisian could see that his father had come back at least some way to himself. His eyes had a focus and life that had not been there for a long time.
‘This cloak is not what it once was,’ the lord of Castle Kolglas said glumly.
Anyara ducked under his arms and hugged him around the chest. Kennet swayed fractionally and for a moment seemed unsure what to do; then he returned the embrace.
‘There are plenty of furs in the market,’ Anyara said as she stepped back. ‘We’ll buy you a new one.’
Kennet smiled at his daughter and cupped her face for a moment in his broad hand. ‘Very well, then. That’s what we’ll we do.’
As Orisian watched him, he could not help but think how old Kennet looked. He might have hauled himself out from under the shadows once again, but there was a price to be paid. However much brighter his eyes were, the skin beneath them was dark, the lids above them limp and heavy. When Kennet smiled, as he did now, turning to Orisian, the expression had to work its way up from some deep place where it had been left, forgotten and unused, for many weeks.