Cryl frowned and then straightened. ‘Sir, it is not.’
Jaen’s nod was sharp. ‘Just so. I knew your courage, Cryl Durav. Go, then.’
‘Very well, Lord. I would a word with your daughter-’
‘No. Leave her. We must move on.’
Cryl bit back a protest, and then felt something crumble inside. Jaen was right. Anything he might say would frighten her, or worse, he might be tempted to invite that fear into his own fate, into whatever awaited him back at the keep. He could not be that selfish, much as it might please him to leave a lingering prick of blood upon her conscience. As a child might do, all unknowing, all uncaring. Or worse, in pleasure of giving hurt.
Saying nothing more, they climbed the bank and returned to the others.
Cryl went to his horse and swung into the saddle. He looked across to the twelve Houseblades who had ridden with Lord Jaen. Their regard was gauging, almost cold. As if all friendship was now gone, and in its place was a new officer, abilities unknown, talents untested. The sudden pressure of their pending judgement was almost physical, descending heavily across his shoulders. Yet he met their eyes levelly, accepting their expectations. ‘Two to point and keep all weapons loose,’ he said. ‘Right flank eyes on the forest line.’
The troop sergeant, Agalas, a sour-faced woman with flat eyes, simply half turned in her saddle and two Houseblades swung their mounts round and set off up the road.
Cryl glanced over at Lord Jaen, but the man had drawn off his eight remaining Houseblades. Whatever he said was a source of obvious agitation among those men and women, some of whom responded with a look back at their comrades. Cryl understood. We may be headed into battle, but you have a young woman to protect, and a lord to serve. Duty is not always worn with ease.
He nodded to the sergeant and together they rode out from the train. As he passed the carriage he thought he heard echoing shouts from Enesdia, muted by wood and curtain, and he saw Ephalla flinch and then cast Cryl a panicked look. In response Cryl shook his head, and then he was past.
Galdan sat in the alley with his back to the tavern wall, his kingdom arrayed before him, his subjects the rats busy scuffling through the rubbish. All kings, he decided, should have but one arm, and thus but one grasping hand. The nightmares were gone, finally, but still the air felt thick as blood. He lifted into view his sole hand and studied its minute trembles. Perhaps he was seeing nothing but the shuddering of his own eyes. Chaos could make the world bright, but blindingly so, painfully so. He felt emptied out, his skin a shell protecting hollows and red-hued darkness. If he could roll back his eyes and look inward, he would see the cavern of his skull, and rats among the rubbish, and a throne on which sat the dried-up husk of his life so far.
Soldiers were in the village, wearing livery Galdan knew all too well. They had drunk all the wine and there was no more to be found, not anywhere. When Galdan had crept into the tavern to beg his share, they’d laughed and then he’d been beaten — but not with any vigour. Lying in the dirt, he had sweated out everything inside him. It had begun with foul, wretched oil, beading flushed flesh, and then bile, followed by blood and then rancid meat, rotting organs, fragments of bone and clumps of brain. Everything had come out until there was nothing left to come out. He could hear a moaning wind inside, tracking the tubular length of his arm, swirling in the flaccid sacks of his legs, sliding up through his neck and into his head.
Moaning, he decided, was the song of absence.
Legion soldiers occupied the village and everyone was afraid. Soldiers had no reason for being in Abara Delack and there were too many of them. So many that they had drunk all the wine.
Muttering filled his head; it sounded far in the depths of his skull, but it was trying to come closer, with urgency. He wanted to turn away; he wanted to run from that voice, but from where he sat he could see all the borders of his kingdom, and in his realm there was nowhere to hide.
She had been sent into the north and east. He knew that much. Sent to the Consort, or so went the rumour though none knew for certain, but the demesne of Lord Draconus was indeed in that direction.
The soldiers — what did they want?
He could hear the voice now, louder although still incoherent; and yet, for all its unintelligibility, its timbre of fear was undeniable. It was trying to warn him, crying out frustrated and helpless, and he needed to do something.
He watched his legs draw up under him, watched as they pushed at the ground, shifted for balance. The alley rocked when he stood and then leaned hard against the tavern wall. His subjects froze for a moment, tilting questing noses in his direction, and then went back to their feasting.
