‘Orisian,’ Kennet said, ‘come here and let me see you.’
He regarded his son with gently appraising eyes.
‘You look well,’ he said.
‘And you look better,’ Orisian replied. He felt a familiar relief settling into him, tension easing. It was what he always felt when his father recovered from one of his dark moods: the lifting of the fear that one day the paralysing grief would not retreat, but would settle forever into Kennet’s heart and bones.
‘I am,’ Kennet said. ‘Perhaps it was those honey cakes you bought for me that did it, eh?’
‘Or the promise of eating and drinking to wild excess tonight, perhaps?’ suggested Inurian.
‘Be still,’ Kennet chided the na’kyrim. ‘Just because you do not share our human failings is no reason to spoil our enjoyment of them, old friend.’
He cast an arm around Orisian’s shoulder, and reached out to draw Anyara close on the other side.
‘Will you forgive me my weakness this last little while?’ he asked them softly.
‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ murmured Orisian.
‘And it is not a weakness to be sad,’ Anyara added emphatically.
Their father squeezed them tighter for a moment and then released them.
‘Whether it’s a weakness or not, you should know I am sorry for it. I would spare you it if I could. I love you both dearly, and you deserve better . . .’ His voice faltered, and for the briefest of moments a kind of anguish was in his face. He shook his head sharply, almost angrily. ‘I must rest a little before the feast. Just a little. But listen, first let us make a plan. Once Winterbirth is done, we will make a journey. It’s been too long since we were out-side these walls together, the three of us.’
‘Where to?’ asked Anyara. ‘Anduran?’
‘No,’ said Kennet a fraction too quickly. ‘There will be time enough to see my brother later. Just the three of us.’
‘Let’s go to Kolkyre,’ Orisian said quietly. ‘To the markets, and the harbour.’ He had visited the seat of the Kilkry Thanes only a couple of times himself—he liked it for its vigour—but he knew his father loved it. Kennet had always said the winds there came clean from beyond the western horizon: the air you breathed there was new, without a past.
‘Yes,’ smiled Kennet. ‘Kolkyre. That’s a fine city.’
Far away in the north, beyond the Vale of Stones, a sprawling, gargantuan castle—a labyrinth of angular walls, towers and rough stone—lay across the bare rocky slopes of a mountain. Points of fiery light stood out where torches burned against the impending night, their flames tossed to and fro by the wind. Flecks of snow spun around the fortress. Here on the northern flanks of the vast Tan Dihrin, winter’s cold breath had begun to blow many days ago. But still, by ancient lore this was the night of Winterbirth, and only with the new moon could the season of ice truly be said to have arrived.
Deep in the castle’s guts, in a chamber draped with wolfskins and tapestries, stood a great bed. Posts as thick as a warrior’s thigh supported a pendulous canopy and beneath it lay a shrunken, frail old man who while he dreamed had gathered his sheets and blankets about him like a cocoon. At the foot of the bed, stretched out upon a bearskin rug, lay a dog: an ageing hunting hound with a dense coat of wiry, grizzled hair.
The door to the chamber eased open and a boy stepped in, bearing a lamp that he shaded with his hand. The dog raised its head but made no sound. The boy went soft-footed to the bed. The man lying there gave a groan and rolled. The boy took a startled step backwards and the light flickered at the shaking of his hand. There was a rattle in the sleeping man’s throat. He coughed and his rheumy eyes opened. His jaw worked as he moistened cracked lips.
‘Forgive me, my lord,’ murmured the boy. ‘You told me to wake you.’
The man brought a thin hand out from beneath the covers and laid it upon his face, tracing the sunken hollow of his cheek as if searching for the memory of who he was.
‘The healers forbade it, but they did not see me come,’ the boy said. ‘Nor did your lady.’
‘You did well,’ croaked the man, and let his hand fall away. ‘The healers are fools. They know as well as I that all their fretting won’t stay my death if my Road’s run its course.’ The dog stirred at the sound of its master’s voice and came to nuzzle at his dangling fingers.
‘It is Winterbirth, my lord. The night will shortly turn.’
‘Lift me up,’ the man told him, and the boy raised him into a sitting position and slid a pillow behind his back. The man was light, as if life had already begun to release him from beneath its weight.
‘Winterbirth,’ he breathed. ‘Tonight and tomorrow will tell all, then. Fate’s favour falls upon us or upon our enemies.’
Winding its way down the convoluted passages and stairwells, the sound of merriment came from some distant hall.
‘Fetch me something to drink, boy,’ said the old man. ‘Tonight I must toast the strength of my son and my daughter, who carry our dreams upon the Black Road . There will be no warmth for them this Winterbirth. Only battle and blood.’
The boy set his lamp down upon a table and hurried out. The man’s eyes closed and his head sank forwards a little upon his chest. The dog sat, quite still and patient, and watched him. The Thane Angain oc Horin-Gyre, dying in his vast, wind-scoured fortress of Hakkan, would be asleep once more by the time the boy returned, carrying an overflowing beaker.
The great hall of Castle Kolglas was livelier and noisier than it had been in a long time. Many torches burned high on the stone walls, throwing dancing shadows off the garlands of holly and ivy and pine strung between them. A fire blazed in the massive grate and braziers glowed in the corners of the hall. Tables lined with crowded benches ran down its length. Closest to the fire stood the high table where Kennet nan Lannis-Haig sat with Orisian, Anyara and Inurian. There were two chairs—those immediately to the right and the left of Kennet—that stood empty. Plates and cups filled with wine were set out before them as if they waited only for some tardy guests, but those for whom these seats were reserved would never come to claim them. At Winterbirth the dead were uneasy in their eternal sleep, and there was an old custom still kept in some houses of laying places for them at the feast. In Castle Kolglas, though, the table was arranged thus on every night of the year. Kennet sat as he always did, flanked by memory and loss.
The rest of the tables were packed with people from both castle and town. The great and the lowly of Kolglas came together on this night. The feast had begun at sunset, and would continue all through the night until the first dawn of winter. Already, with no more than an hour gone by, the free-flowing ale and wine had raised a hubbub of shouts and laughter. Servants rushed up and down bearing drinks and platters of bread and meats. Those of the guests who had most thoroughly slaked their thirst were thumping tankards on the tables to drive the servers to greater efforts. One of the youngest kitchen maids tumbled over a hunting dog that yelped and darted away. A cheer went up, and cries of dismay as the pitcher of ale she had been carrying shattered. The roar stirred Idrin the crow from his perch on one of the great roof beams and he flapped across to the next, croaking irritably.
Kennet laughed with the rest as the flustered girl struggled to her feet. He was buried in his great fur cloak like some hoary old trapper caught out by the snow. He had been complaining of the cold ever since entering the hall, but he seemed well enough.
‘You should speak, Kennet,’ said Inurian, ‘before the throng is too rowdy to listen.’
Kennet rose to his feet and pounded the table with a clenched fist. The revellers fell quiet, and every face was turned towards the lord of Castle Kolglas. He cleared his throat and took a mouthful of ale.
‘I shall keep you from your food only for a few moments,’ he called out, drawing a muffled chorus of approval, ‘but there are things that must be said on this night.’