Taim sighed. The standing of the Kilkry and Lannis Bloods seemed to sink lower with each passing day. Poor Roaric understood that as well as anyone, yet his only response to the anger and pain that knowledge engendered was to grow ever more bitter and confrontational. It did not bode well for the future.
‘Roaric,’ Taim said quietly, laying a hand on the younger man’s arm.
Roaric whirled about and almost unleashed a further torrent of abuse. As soon as he recognised Taim he mastered himself and let out a long, deep breath.
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I thought you were another one of Gryvan’s lackeys.’
‘Walk with me,’ said Taim. ‘I have wine and good salted beef waiting for me. You’re welcome to share it.’
With a last vitriolic stare over his shoulder, Roaric allowed himself to be steered gently away. The heat in his cheeks slowly subsided.
‘I know it does no good,’ he said, as if anticipating a reprimand from Taim. ‘But they treat us with such contempt. That man has cut the food supplies I need for my wounded. He says everyone is treated the same, but I’ve seen no sign of Haig men going hungry.’
‘I can spare some supplies,’ said Taim quietly. ‘We’ve been hoarding them against the journey home.’
‘I was not asking for that,’ replied Roaric.
‘I know, but the offer is an honest one. Lannis and Kilkry stand together, remember?’
‘Thank you.’
They walked on a way in silence. A small audience had gathered around two men who were rolling on the grass, throwing ineffective punches at one another. As the combatants slithered sideways Roaric and Taim had to step around them. The crowd of onlookers cheered and called for greater effort, perhaps a little blood.
‘At least it’s all done,’ Taim muttered. ‘There’ll be no more battles, now Igryn is taken.’
‘No,’ agreed Roaric. He glanced almost nervously at Taim. ‘I have lost more than a thousand of my father’s men.’
‘You did not lose them so much as they were taken from you.’
‘Still, I am ashamed. I should have done more. My father will be horrified to see how few of us return. Perhaps if he had sent Gerain in my place . . .’
‘Lheanor chose you to lead, not your brother,’ Taim interrupted him. ‘He will not blame you for what has happened, and you should not blame yourself. If the Bloodheir had been here instead of you the outcome would have been just the same. Gryvan would have made sure of it.’
‘Oh, I know. In my heart, I know that. But what a pitiful state to find ourselves in! My family were High Thanes, and now here we are beholden to the whim of Gryvan oc Haig. We bow and scrape and run back and forth at his command. For a hundred and fifty years we led the True Bloods. It was Kilkry Thanes who stood against the Black Road when it appeared; it was us who had to keep the Bloods together when Gyre threatened to break everything apart. It’s Lannis that’s held our borders against them for a century or more, Taim. And what does Gryvan care for all of that? Nothing. Haig rules now, and that’s all that matters to him.’
‘Roaric...’ Taim began to say soothingly.
‘You know it’s true. Ayth and Taral are so tightly bound up with Haig they hardly deserve to be called Bloods any more. Now Dargannan’s broken and Gryvan’s got his eye on us. He’ll call himself king one day, or if not him his son. You’ll see.’
‘I don’t know what will happen in the future. What I care about today, what you should care about, is getting the men I have left back to their homes. Let Croesan and Lheanor decide what happens beyond that. Winter is here, Roaric. Get your men back to their warm fires and warm beds and loving wives. Time enough to be angry then.’
Roaric did not look wholly convinced but he lapsed into an acquiescent silence. Taim was half-tempted to put an arm around his shoulder. He might be a Thane’s son, but there was something of the child in Roaric’s raw anger and injured pride.
With the fall of night, the valley began to freeze. The air was crystal sharp. Despite the bitter chill, there was celebration through much of the camp. Gathered around glaring fires, small bands of men forgot the weariness in their limbs and sang, shouted and drank their fill. Here and there amongst the warriors danced women who had followed in the army’s wake all the way from Vaymouth. Dogs bounded from fire to fire and group to group, barking and chasing one another through forests of legs. Already, though it was yet early, there were slumped forms on the ground, where men had staggered away from the circle around a fire and succumbed to wine-induced slumber. The frosted night might yet claim a few lives spared by the battles of the last weeks.
Taim Narran made his way through this chaotic scene. He shrugged off efforts to draw him into each noisy crowd, and waved away the wineskins that he was offered. Such revels were familiar to him. As a young man, shaken and thrilled by his first taste of battle, he had been in Tanwrye for the days of excess that had followed the victory over the Horin-Gyre Blood in the Vale of Stones. It had not been the greatest of battles: a few thousand invaders, lacking the support of the other Gyre Bloods. Still, it had been intoxicating. The Lannis Blood had stood against their old enemies, traded blows with them and emerged triumphant.
Tonight, however, there was no joy or excitement in him. There was little of anything save a vague relief at still having his life and the distorted reflection of that relief: guilt at living on when so many of the men he had brought here did not. He was tired, in his heart as much as his bones.
He came to the tent of Gryvan oc Haig, and waited while one of the guards sought permission to admit him. As he stood there, stepping from one foot to another in an effort to distract himself from the deepening cold, he sensed eyes upon him. Kale was standing a short distance away, half in and half out of the shadows at the side of the tent, watching him impassively. For a moment their gazes met. It was Taim who looked away.
‘Come to beg scraps from the high table?’ asked Kale softly.
Taim tensed. The man’s words, and their cargo of contempt, ignited anger in his breast. He had thought himself the master of his feelings, but now found them suddenly leaking through the bars of their cage.
‘Have a care, Narran,’ he heard Kale say, as if the man could read his mind. ‘They say you are the best sword in the Glas valley, but you play in a larger game now.’
Another surge of hatred ran through Taim, and he found himself irrationally laying his fingers upon the pommel of his sword. But when he looked up, uncertain of what would happen next or of what he wanted to happen, Kale had gone.
By the time he was brought at last before the High Thane, Taim was surprised to find a great emptiness inside him. He had expected to have to struggle to master his anger, to bite back the words he longed to say to this man. Yet he was only weary, as if the brief confrontation with Kale had drained away his last meagre reserves of passion. In a way, he was thankful for it. He had advised Roaric nan Kilkry-Haig to hide his fury, and knew he had to live up to that advice himself.
Gryvan oc Haig was slouched across a spill of great cushions that had been laid out before his throne. He was gnawing idly at a leg of mutton, a golden goblet clutched in his other hand, as he watched a semi-clad dancing girl who bobbed and writhed in the centre of the tent. Behind the Thane of Thanes, flanking the empty throne, musicians were playing a sinuous tune upon lyre and pipes. They wore airy shirts of white damask in the style of the entertainers who attended the merchant princes of Tal Dyre. There were ten or fifteen people scattered around the edge of the carpet upon which the girl danced: captains of the Haig Blood’s armies, officials of Gryvan’s court, and warriors of Taral-Haig and Ayth-Haig. Each had before him a silver platter of meat, bread and fruit. There was no sign of Roaric. Neither the Kilkry nor the Lannis Blood had been invited to this gathering.