and down now, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” Yvane said.
“Not yours,” Anyara said. “His, then? Aeglyss?”
“I’ve told you: I can’t be certain.”
“But you think it’s him, don’t you?” Anyara persisted. “Anger, pain, bitterness. That’s how Inurian talked about what he saw inside Aeglyss.”
Yvane sighed and looked down at Hammarn’s woodtwine where it lay in her lap.
“I don’t know,” she said wearily. “I only glimpsed the edges of whatever it was that Inurian saw. But yes, it might be him. If it is . . . well, if he’s still in league with the Black Road I think they might be in for a nasty surprise. It’s frightening to think what it must be like inside his head now, if his is the sickness that’s afflicting the Shared.”
Hammarn had paused by the window, and pulled back one of the shutters.
“Look,” he murmured. “Little fires.”
Orisian joined him and looked down onto the dark gardens beneath them. A few torches were burning there, their bearers arrayed in a circle. In their orange light, two men, naked to the waist, were wrestling on the grass. Orisian could hear shouts of encouragement from the onlookers, made soft and faint by distance and the breeze.
It was probably Aewult’s men, absenting themselves from the feast, hot with drink and the prospect of battle. They had an angry, arrogant hunger for revelry, the thousands of warriors the Bloodheir had brought north with him. They were barred from leaving their great camps outside the city except in small groups, but Orisian had already heard, from Rothe, rumours of thievery and drunkenness within Kolkyre.
They took their mood from Aewult, perhaps, and there seemed to be nothing gentle in him.
“Lovely friends we have,” Anyara said, looking over Orisian’s shoulder.
“We can only hope our enemies justify our allies,” Orisian murmured. He turned thoughtfully back towards Yvane.
“You can find out whether it’s Aeglyss, can’t you?” he asked her.
The na’kyrim winced. He could see that she knew what he meant, and that her reluctance was instinctive. Her hand rose defensively, unconsciously towards her injured shoulder.
“You’ve said that whatever’s happening in the Shared is . . . dangerous,” he persisted. “You’ve said it might be Aeglyss. Don’t we need to know? He hounded Inurian to his death. He helped the Inkallim take Kolglas. He’s our enemy. One of them, at least.”
“You wouldn’t ask that if you understood,” Yvane said. “No reason why you should, of course. Last time I reached out through the Shared to Aeglyss, he drove me off. It . . . hurt.”
“I know. But . . .” Orisian reached for words, finding nothing to quite express what he felt. “Something’s changed. You’ve said it yourself. We – no – you might be the only person here who can say what it is.”
“It’s like an ocean, the Shared,” Yvane said. She was unusually passive. Distant. “What’s in it now is . .
. poison. You’re asking me to swim out into a poisoned sea; breathe its waters.”
“Only to arm ourselves against our enemies. To know what we face. Aewult and his thousands of warriors: they think they’re the answer to every question. They think nothing else matters. Maybe they’re wrong.”
“If I do it,” muttered Yvane, recovering a touch of her customary bristle, “it’ll be for me. It’ll be because Inurian was a wise man who probably didn’t deserve to die, and because he saw threat in Aeglyss. Not for Thanes or Bloodheirs or armies; not to help you Huanin kill each other in ever greater numbers.”
“You will do it, then?” Anyara said, with a soft smile.
The three of them watched in silence while Yvane willed herself into slumber: Hammarn sitting nervously on the end of the bed, Orisian and Anyara leaning against the frame of the window. There was nothing obviously amiss with the sleep into which Yvane fell. Her face
“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” Yvane said.
“Not yours,” Anyara said. “His, then? Aeglyss?”
“I’ve told you: I can’t be certain.”
“But you think it’s him, don’t you?” Anyara persisted. “Anger, pain, bitterness. That’s how Inurian talked about what he saw inside Aeglyss.”
Yvane sighed and looked down at Hammarn’s woodtwine where it lay in her lap.
“I don’t know,” she said wearily. “I only glimpsed the edges of whatever it was that Inurian saw. But yes, it might be him. If it is . . . well, if he’s still in league with the Black Road I think they might be in for a nasty surprise. It’s frightening to think what it must be like inside his head now, if his is the sickness that’s afflicting the Shared.”
Hammarn had paused by the window, and pulled back one of the shutters.
“Look,” he murmured. “Little fires.”
Orisian joined him and looked down onto the dark gardens beneath them. A few torches were burning there, their bearers arrayed in a circle. In their orange light, two men, naked to the waist, were wrestling on the grass. Orisian could hear shouts of encouragement from the onlookers, made soft and faint by distance and the breeze.
It was probably Aewult’s men, absenting themselves from the feast, hot with drink and the prospect of battle. They had an angry, arrogant hunger for revelry, the thousands of warriors the Bloodheir had brought north with him. They were barred from leaving their great camps outside the city except in small groups, but Orisian had already heard, from Rothe, rumours of thievery and drunkenness within Kolkyre.
They took their mood from Aewult, perhaps, and there seemed to be nothing gentle in him.
“Lovely friends we have,” Anyara said, looking over Orisian’s shoulder.
“We can only hope our enemies justify our allies,” Orisian murmured. He turned thoughtfully back towards Yvane.
“You can find out whether it’s Aeglyss, can’t you?” he asked her.
The na’kyrim winced. He could see that she knew what he meant, and that her reluctance was instinctive. Her hand rose defensively, unconsciously towards her injured shoulder.
“You’ve said that whatever’s happening in the Shared is . . . dangerous,” he persisted. “You’ve said it might be Aeglyss. Don’t we need to know? He hounded Inurian to his death. He helped the Inkallim take Kolglas. He’s our enemy. One of them, at least.”
“You wouldn’t ask that if you understood,” Yvane said. “No reason why you should, of course. Last time I reached out through the Shared to Aeglyss, he drove me off. It . . . hurt.”
“I know. But . . .” Orisian reached for words, finding nothing to quite express what he felt. “Something’s changed. You’ve said it yourself. We – no – you might be the only person here who can say what it is.”
“It’s like an ocean, the Shared,” Yvane said. She was unusually passive. Distant. “What’s in it now is . .
. poison. You’re asking me to swim out into a poisoned sea; breathe its waters.”
“Only to arm ourselves against our enemies. To know what we face. Aewult and his thousands of warriors: they think they’re the answer to every question. They think nothing else matters. Maybe they’re wrong.”
“If I do it,” muttered Yvane, recovering a touch of her customary bristle, “it’ll be for me. It’ll be because Inurian was a wise man who probably didn’t deserve to die, and because he saw threat in Aeglyss. Not for Thanes or Bloodheirs or armies; not to help you Huanin kill each other in ever greater numbers.”
“You will do it, then?” Anyara said, with a soft smile.
The three of them watched in silence while Yvane willed herself into slumber: Hammarn sitting nervously on the end of the bed, Orisian and Anyara leaning against the frame of the window. There was nothing obviously amiss with the sleep into which Yvane fell. Her face
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