you know. All sorts of cold out there for the likes of me.
Best place to be, I think.” He jerked his head at the closed door. “Not very welcoming, though, these days. Bit cold in here, too.”
Orisian rapped on the door.
“I am resting,” Yvane shouted from within.
“Not true,” whispered Hammarn. “She’s not been sleeping, not restful at all. I know. She told me.”
“Let us come and talk with you,” Orisian said through the thick door. “You’d be doing us a favour. We need a hiding place to avoid a tiresome feast.”
“Who’s we?” Yvane asked, each word thick with suspicion.
“Me and Anyara. And Hammarn. Surely you don’t mean to leave him sitting outside this door all night?”
There was an extended silence. Orisian shrugged at Anyara, noting the frown of irritation that had already settled on his sister’s brow. He hoped that she and Yvane could resist the urge to set about one another, but even if they didn’t it could hardly be more unpleasant than Aewult nan Haig’s company.
“No one else, then,” Yvane called by way of grudging permission.
Hammarn clapped Orisian roughly on the shoulder.
“Very persuasive,” he grinned. “Always thought you stood most high in the lady’s affections. Mind you .
. . not sure she has affections, in truth.”
Yvane was sitting in a broad bed, propped up against some voluminous pillows. She looked tired. Her eyes, almost as perfectly grey as a Kyrinin’s, were sluggish. Her reddish brown hair had lost some of its former sheen.
Hammarn went straight to the side of her bed and held out the piece of wood he had been carving.
Yvane had to reach clumsily across her body to take it: her nearer arm was still weak, having been skewered by a crossbow bolt during their escape from Koldihrve
“Made you a woodtwine, dear lady,” said Hammarn. “Of Kulkain’s first entry into Kolkyre as Thane, you’ll see. He has Alban of Ist Norr in chains there, if you look close. Bit crude, perhaps. Not my finest.”
“It’s a welcome gift in any case, Hammarn,” Yvane said. Orisian often thought she exhibited far more patience and gentleness in her dealings with Hammarn than with anyone else. It was almost as if she expended all her limited stores of those sentiments on the old na’kyrim , leaving none for anyone else.
“How are you feeling?” Orisian asked.
“How should I be feeling? I’m stuck at the top of a tower in Kolkyre – where they burned na’kyrim , by the way, before Grey Kulkain came to power. My right arm’s all but useless because some madman, or madwoman for all I know, took it into their head to shoot me with a crossbow. And my head feels like it’s full of woodpeckers, chipping away at the inside of my skull trying to get out.”
“No better, then?” Anyara asked. Yvane scowled at her.
Orisian noted a tray of food lying apparently forgotten on a table by the shuttered window. He held a hand over the bowl of soup. It had gone cold.
“Don’t tell me you’re refusing food as well?” he said.
“I’ve no appetite,” Yvane muttered.
“Nothing’s changed?” Orisian asked, seating himself on the end of the bed. “In the Shared, I mean?”
“No.” Yvane started to fold her arms, but winced and thought better of it. “No change.”
“That’s true, that’s true,” said Hammarn. “The taint can’t enter this quiet head, can’t stir the thoughts in this bucket.” He rapped his knuckles against his forehead. “But even Hammarn can smell its stink.”
“There you are, you see,” said Yvane as if Hammarn’s words explained everything. It took a long questioning look from Orisian to induce her to say anything more. “It’s like a never-ending echo. That first night we spent in this town, the . . . the howl that filled the Shared, that woke me; it’s the echo of that. Anger, pain, bitterness, all mixed up, all inside my head. And none of it mine.”
“Not good, not good,” murmured Hammarn. He was pacing up
Best place to be, I think.” He jerked his head at the closed door. “Not very welcoming, though, these days. Bit cold in here, too.”
Orisian rapped on the door.
“I am resting,” Yvane shouted from within.
“Not true,” whispered Hammarn. “She’s not been sleeping, not restful at all. I know. She told me.”
“Let us come and talk with you,” Orisian said through the thick door. “You’d be doing us a favour. We need a hiding place to avoid a tiresome feast.”
“Who’s we?” Yvane asked, each word thick with suspicion.
“Me and Anyara. And Hammarn. Surely you don’t mean to leave him sitting outside this door all night?”
There was an extended silence. Orisian shrugged at Anyara, noting the frown of irritation that had already settled on his sister’s brow. He hoped that she and Yvane could resist the urge to set about one another, but even if they didn’t it could hardly be more unpleasant than Aewult nan Haig’s company.
“No one else, then,” Yvane called by way of grudging permission.
Hammarn clapped Orisian roughly on the shoulder.
“Very persuasive,” he grinned. “Always thought you stood most high in the lady’s affections. Mind you .
. . not sure she has affections, in truth.”
Yvane was sitting in a broad bed, propped up against some voluminous pillows. She looked tired. Her eyes, almost as perfectly grey as a Kyrinin’s, were sluggish. Her reddish brown hair had lost some of its former sheen.
Hammarn went straight to the side of her bed and held out the piece of wood he had been carving.
Yvane had to reach clumsily across her body to take it: her nearer arm was still weak, having been skewered by a crossbow bolt during their escape from Koldihrve
“Made you a woodtwine, dear lady,” said Hammarn. “Of Kulkain’s first entry into Kolkyre as Thane, you’ll see. He has Alban of Ist Norr in chains there, if you look close. Bit crude, perhaps. Not my finest.”
“It’s a welcome gift in any case, Hammarn,” Yvane said. Orisian often thought she exhibited far more patience and gentleness in her dealings with Hammarn than with anyone else. It was almost as if she expended all her limited stores of those sentiments on the old na’kyrim , leaving none for anyone else.
“How are you feeling?” Orisian asked.
“How should I be feeling? I’m stuck at the top of a tower in Kolkyre – where they burned na’kyrim , by the way, before Grey Kulkain came to power. My right arm’s all but useless because some madman, or madwoman for all I know, took it into their head to shoot me with a crossbow. And my head feels like it’s full of woodpeckers, chipping away at the inside of my skull trying to get out.”
“No better, then?” Anyara asked. Yvane scowled at her.
Orisian noted a tray of food lying apparently forgotten on a table by the shuttered window. He held a hand over the bowl of soup. It had gone cold.
“Don’t tell me you’re refusing food as well?” he said.
“I’ve no appetite,” Yvane muttered.
“Nothing’s changed?” Orisian asked, seating himself on the end of the bed. “In the Shared, I mean?”
“No.” Yvane started to fold her arms, but winced and thought better of it. “No change.”
“That’s true, that’s true,” said Hammarn. “The taint can’t enter this quiet head, can’t stir the thoughts in this bucket.” He rapped his knuckles against his forehead. “But even Hammarn can smell its stink.”
“There you are, you see,” said Yvane as if Hammarn’s words explained everything. It took a long questioning look from Orisian to induce her to say anything more. “It’s like a never-ending echo. That first night we spent in this town, the . . . the howl that filled the Shared, that woke me; it’s the echo of that. Anger, pain, bitterness, all mixed up, all inside my head. And none of it mine.”
“Not good, not good,” murmured Hammarn. He was pacing up
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