‘He speaks truly,’ Inurian was murmuring. ‘He is afraid, but only of the occasion and of the chance that you might deny him. There is no deceit in him, I think.’
There must have been many times down the ages when a benevolent lord had been tricked into granting an undeserved boon. None who came before Kennet nan Lannis-Haig would even make the attempt, not since Inurian had come to Kolglas. At every granting he stood at Kennet’s side, and every petitioner knew that their true intent could not be concealed from the na’kyrim.
‘Very well,’ Kennet said to Lomas. ‘Your tithe is remitted for one year. I suggest you spend the time reminding yourself of the rules of proper husbandry, since the hoof rot is easily avoided if you give the beasts the care and attention they might expect.’
Lomas, abashed and relieved in equal measure, retreated back down the hall, offering profuse thanks as he went. Good-natured catcalls accompanied him all the way. Someone shouted advice on the prevention of the hoof rot in cattle.
One by one the rest of the petitioners advanced, presented their red-bound cases to Kennet and made their requests. Each time, Inurian leaned forward to whisper into his lord’s ear. Orisian watched Inurian with avid attention, seeking without success for any outward sign of the powers the na’kyrim was employing. The mysterious gifts of those who carried both Huanin and Kyrinin blood in their veins might be a source of wonder, fear, curiosity or envy, depending upon the observer’s temperament. For Orisian, it was fascination that stirred. Even so there was, at the back of his mind, the knowledge that this divining of truth sprang from the same source—the Shared—as had the awful powers wielded in the years before and during the War of the Tainted. Na’kyrim of now unimaginable capacities had fought alongside both human and Kyrinin during that long bloodletting. In its final months, doomed Tarcene, the Aygll King, had been possessed and enslaved by one such: Orlane Kingbinder, the greatest of all the fell na’kyrim lords of those times. Tarcene’s own daughter, in despair, had cut his throat with a hunting knife.
The days when na’kyrim made and unmade kings were long gone now. There were few na’kyrim left in the world and none with the strength of the olden days. Yet mere centuries could not quench the memories of what had been, and there were, amongst the attentive faces in the hall of Castle Kolglas, more than a few that betrayed unease. For those inclined to see it, a touch of the dark past lingered in Inurian’s benign divinations.
The mood was too merry, however, and the wine too abundant, for many to dwell on such concerns for long. One of the petitioners—Amelia Tirane, who tearfully begged that the forests be scoured for her missing husband, who had failed to return from a hunting trip—drew a subdued chorus of sympathy; the others gave more cause for amusement than sorrow. In the fifth and final case Marien, a widow of notoriously short temper and sharp tongue, asked Kennet to intercede in a dispute with her neighbours. Ignoring the mounting hilarity in the hall, Kennet listened as she described the sleepless nights she had spent as a result of the noises coming from the adjoining cottage; noises, she declared with all the gravity of her years, that a man and wife were entitled to make, but not every night and not with such abandon that they kept others from rest.
Orisian did not hear whatever advice Inurian offered to Kennet. His father explained to Marien that however much he sympathised with her distress, he could not bring himself to interfere in the matter of a marriage bed. The widow returned to her seat exuding disgruntlement.
Only after the mirth had died down did Orisian, alone of all those in the hall, note the sad, weary expression that was on Inurian’s face, and wonder what the na’kyrim had seen in Marien’s heart to put it there.
The business of feasting resumed in earnest. Orisian drank deeply from his cup and it was refilled by one of the serving girls as soon as he set it down. He felt warm and happy. His father seemed at peace in a way he had not been for weeks, and for tonight at least the good humour of the moment was enough to keep memories of the past at arm’s length. Orisian slouched in his chair, allowing a sense of contentment to settle over him.
Kennet leaned towards him.
‘When we go to Kolkyre, we shall have a sword made for you, Orisian. They have the best weaponsmiths north of Vaymouth there, you know. My father had one made for me, in the year he became Thane.’
‘I’d be proud to have it,’ Orisian said, aware in a distant sort of way that the wine had rubbed the precision off his voice. ‘Mind you, you might want to ask Rothe if I deserve it. I don’t think I’m the best pupil he’s ever had.’
Kennet dismissed the suggestion with a wry smile. ‘If you think that man’d ever say a word against you, you’ve not got the measure of him yet. Anyway, he told me months ago that you’d be a fine swordsman one day. Once you stopped worrying about not being good enough.’
‘I . . .’ Orisian started to say. He was cut short by a flurry of activity at the far end of the hall. The acrobats had entered, and the cheers that greeted them made conversation impossible for the moment.
Like an exploding flock of great birds, they spread around the hall and immediately set balls and clubs flying in spectacular cascades. The guests whooped and clapped as the patterns the jugglers conjured into being grew ever more complex and intricate. The tempo rose inexorably. Two of them leapt up on to opposite tables and spun a flurry of clubs between them, across almost the whole breadth of the hall. Others lit brands from the fire. The flames whipped through the air.
Orisian was impressed. This was not what came to mind when he thought of masterless folk. The lone hunters and traders who drifted into Lannis lands tended to be ragged and wild-looking, fitting the common image of the masterless as lost, bereft of the bonds a Blood bestowed. Whenever he had seen such folk, they had struck him as fragments of the wilderness itself come loose, ill at ease with the order of town or village. These acrobats were altogether different: strong, focused upon their art, exuding confidence.
One came to the fore. He carried small glass orbs in his hands; when he began to juggle them they glinted and flashed and became a shimmering arc of reflected firelight. At first faintly and then louder, there was a rapid clinking as he adjusted the flight of the globes so that they clipped one another on their way through the air. There were appreciative gasps from the watchers. Orisian almost laughed in pleasure, and glanced around at those beside him. Anyara and Kennet were as entranced as he, their eyes fixed upon the dancing, flickering spheres. Only Inurian wore a different expression. He too was watching intently, but puzzlement had scored thin furrows across his brow.
Orisian turned back to the show in time to watch as one of the orbs plunged towards the flagstones, only to be delicately caught upon the top of the juggler’s soft hide boot even as the groans of disappointment started. He bowed amidst the acclamation that followed, then raised his arms for quiet. As the noise subsided he spoke in a soft, oddly accented voice that sounded somehow as if it did not fit in his mouth.
‘We need more space than this hall can offer. Please join us outside, for it is not so cold, the night is still young and the best tricks are yet to come.’
With this he spun about, and led the rest of the company trotting out through the hall’s main door. At once, people leapt to their feet to follow, upsetting more than a few tankards and platters in their haste.
Inurian rose more slowly. He was frowning, almost wincing, as if afflicted by a sharp headache.