‘What’s the matter?’ asked Orisian.
The na’kyrim blinked and smiled, plucked out of distraction by the question.
‘I feel a little . . . odd,’ he said. ‘I am not sure: something . . . out of place. Perhaps the granting of boons taxed me.’
‘Come on,’ said Orisian, taking his friend’s arm and feeling sharply in that moment the strength of his affection for the na’kyrim. ‘Let’s not miss the rest of the show.’
‘No,’ said Inurian, ‘let’s not.’ But there was still more concern than enthusiasm in his voice.
The crowd spilled out into the courtyard, their misting breath and excited voices filling the confined space.
Atop the southern corner of the castle’s walls, two warriors stood watch. The circular tower they looked out from was open to the elements, but they could shelter from the night breeze by ducking down behind the battlements and warming their hands at a small brazier. The flames did not help their night sight, but at Winterbirth it was more important to have light and heat than to worry overmuch about such things.
A while ago, a serving girl had brought them bread and thick, fatty slices of beef from the kitchen. The emptied tray lay on the stone floor. The men were content enough. They were well fed and it was not as cold as it might have been. From down below in the courtyard they heard the shouts and cheers of the crowd as the celebration moved out from the great hall. They did not pay much attention to it. Their watch was over the shores of the bay south of Kolglas, though there was little to see save the dark, looming outline of forested slopes.
The sound of the trapdoor creaking open snapped their eyes away from the coastline. A figure emerged from the darkened stairwell beneath. It was one of the performers: a woman dressed in leather boots and breeches and a dark hide jacket.
‘What are you doing here?’ demanded one of the watchmen, his hand going by reflex towards his polearm where it leaned against the battlements.
The newcomer smiled thinly.
‘I have brought the show to you,’ she said in a deep voice.
There were already glass spheres in her hands, appearing as if formed from the substance of the night air. In a second she was weaving the orbs in a sinuous pattern. They caught the yellow flamelight of the brazier and worked it into glinting arcs. The guards’ objections faded as their eyes followed the extraordinary dance of light.
The juggler took a step closer to them. ‘Watch with care,’ she said softly.
‘Very clever,’ one of the men said, ‘but still . . .’
She darted forwards, her arms flashing out. The tiny blades she had slipped from her jacket cuffs sliced across the throats of the two men. Her glass juggling balls fell to the ground and shattered. The watchmen slumped to the ground, their eyes wide, reaching to staunch the blood that erupted from their necks. She followed them down, kneeling and punching both knives home beneath the angle of their jawbones. The men died all but silently.
The juggler rose cautiously. She checked around the castle walls for any sign of alarm. There was no hint of movement: Kolglas kept only a skeleton guard on this night, and those unlucky enough to have drawn the duty had their eyes turned outwards and their ears filled with the cheers and applause from the courtyard. The woman moved to the brazier, stepping over the spreading slick of blood. She produced leather gloves from inside her jacket and pulled them on. Without hesitation, she reached into the heart of the brazier and lifted out a double handful of red-hot charcoal. She cast a final quick glance around. Satisfied that she remained unobserved, she leaned over the battlements and opened her hands. A scatter of yellow and orange motes fell away from the tower, tumbling and fading and vanishing into the water and rocks below.
The woman crossed to the trapdoor, slipped into the body of the turret and set off down the spiralling stairway that would bring her out once more into the courtyard.
South of Kolglas, the road followed the rocky shoreline. A few hundred yards beyond the town’s edge, scrub and trees pressed close, squeezing the track between them and the sea. The darkness was intense. The town itself was out of sight, hidden by a low knoll, its presence betrayed only by the glow of its bonfires tingeing the sky. The castle offshore was marked by the light spilling from its windows. There was no sound save the slapping of gentle waves upon the shore, the slight shifting of autumn’s last few leaves in the breeze and the low murmur of celebration that drifted across the water from the castle.
A great stag came out into the open and walked a short way down the track. It paused and lifted its heavy-antlered head, testing the night air for scents. Tension came at once into its frame, and it looked uneasily at the forest. It bounded down the track a distance before plunging back amongst the trees and disappearing.
There was no movement for long minutes. Then, out across the water, a shower of tiny lights fell from the near corner of the castle’s battlements like failing fireflies. They were there for no more than two heartbeats, faint, and then they were gone, leaving only a rapidly fading afterimage in the eyes of those who had been watching for them. The undergrowth shivered and they emerged on to the roadway. Darker shapes amidst the shadows of the night, they moved across the track in silence: warriors, men and women, with swords strapped across their backs. One by one they came to the shore, waded into the chill water for a few strides and then struck out with powerful, measured strokes. In a few moments thirty of them had crossed from forest to sea and were swimming out towards the castle’s looming form. They were virtually invisible in the darkness, but in any case the only guards upon the walls who might have seen their approach lay dead beside a brazier atop the corner tower.
They came out of the water crouching, moving across the jumble of rocks to sink into the deepest dark at the foot of the castle’s walls. In single file they began to make their way along the wall, pressing themselves against its cold stone, sure-footed on the wet, uneven surface. At the next corner they paused. A single man eased his way out on his belly over the shell-crusted rocks to look towards the castle’s closed gate. The tide was falling fast now, and here and there the rough surface of the causeway broke the water between castle and shore. The town was awash with torches and the light of bonfires. There was no one at the water’s edge. The scout slipped back to join his companions, free his sword from its bindings and wait in the shadow of the ancient castle.
In the courtyard of Castle Kolglas, all was fire and movement. The audience was crowded along the front of the keep and around to the stables, shouting and cheering to encourage the acrobats to ever greater feats. Kennet himself stood at the top of the short stairway leading up to the keep’s main entrance. Orisian stood before him, and felt his father’s hands resting upon his shoulders. There was pleasure in that sensation.
The throng of people was boisterous as they jostled good-heartedly for position. From the steps Orisian could see clear over their heads to the broad flame-lit space where the acrobats tumbled. They spun across the cobblestones, flinging burning brands from one to another. The two long poles he had seen them carrying into the castle were brought to the centre of the yard, and men held them upright while a woman scampered barefoot up each one. At the top of the poles, the women tensed themselves for a moment, then in the same instant sprang free, twisting as they passed each other in mid-leap. The poles swayed violently as they landed but they clung on with ease, and acknowledged the roar of approval that rose up from the crowd.
Orisian heard his father give a short cry of wonder.
‘A fine show, is it not?’ Kennet shouted in his ear, squeezing his shoulders.
Orisian nodded vigorously. Anyara, who was at his side, glanced at him and smiled, and he felt a lightening of his heart. This, at last, was a Winterbirth to savour.