bedroom - I still have my room in the Tower. I suspect the journey will have taken a toll, and as the physician’s at my father’s bedside anyway he might as well keep an eye on her too.’
‘Your father’s condition is unchanged?’
‘There’s been no change since his fever subsided, and that was weeks ago. The priests of Shotir cannot heal a wound from Eolis, and the priests of Larat have been of even less use. He’s in no actual danger at the moment. I’m almost tempted to blame his lack of improvement on stubbornness. Sour-faced bastard knows he’ll have to bow to me if he ever gets out of that bed.’
Lesarl tried to read Isak’s expression as he spoke, but the white-eye gave nothing away. It was a miracle that Horman was even alive, having been possessed by a daemon and made to attack his own son in the Temple of Death. A priest of Shotir had been found in the Devoted camp and he had accompanied them back to Tirah, nearly killing himself in the process as he kept Horman from Death’s Halls.
He settled for a brief bow and a knowing look. ‘Perhaps your father will have noted the hours you’ve spent at his bedside?’
‘Bloody doubt it,’ Isak snapped, ‘but either way, it’s not a problem you need to be involved in.’ He stomped on up the stairs and turned the corner, Lesarl catching a flash of one colourless eye in the light of a torch before Isak disappeared from view.
‘Of course, my Lord, as you wish,’ Lesarl muttered. He turned to another door which would take him to the western part of the main wing where his office nestled at the heart of several dozen others. Adjoining it were the small apartments he shared with his wife and son; his townhouse was currently rented to Suzerain Nelbove and his household.
‘Perhaps I’ll look in on them before going back to work,’ he said softly to the Land in general. ‘The boy might find tonight’s events more interesting than sleep. We’re as alike as Lord Isak and his father are. Best we don’t let ourselves end up that way.’
Isak acknowledged the salutes from the guardsmen sporting his dragon crest and eased open the reinforced oak door to the duke’s chambers. The main room was dark, the only light coming from the fire and a single candlestick on a side table. A maid sat at the table with her elbows on it, her chin supported by her hands and her head angled towards the open doorway. He sniffed slightly and she leapt up, her mouth already opening to apologise.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said quickly, ‘you’re not here to guard.’
She curtseyed and straightened, waiting for the question he was about to ask. Isak took a moment. He couldn’t remember her name; she was a friend of Tila’s, the daughter of some local marshal. He knew Tila had told him - but he’d been told a lot since returning to Tirah.
‘How is he?’ he asked eventually.
‘Still weak, my Lord.’ Her voice reminded him of Tila’s, less melodious, but with that same crisp intonation common to those of the landed gentry; it was traditional for the maids in the main wing to be drawn from the upper classes. ‘Your father’s injuries have not opened up again, and there’s still no sign of infection.’
‘But they’re still not healing right?’
‘No, my Lord.’ She lowered her eyes, her hands clasped tightly together over her stomach.
‘The priests of Shotir came again?’
‘Yes, my Lord. Only one of them was crying when he left today.’
Isak forced a smile. ‘So they’re toughening up at least.’ The smile faded. ‘I might be calling on that soon enough. He’s asleep?’
She nodded.
‘Good. Please light the lamps and have the kitchen send something hot up, enough for several people.’
While she went about the lamps Isak looked in on his father. Horman lay on his back, his head turned towards the door. His face was half-obscured by his ragged hair. He had always slept in an awkward sprawl of limbs, but now he was constrained by bandages and
‘Your father’s condition is unchanged?’
‘There’s been no change since his fever subsided, and that was weeks ago. The priests of Shotir cannot heal a wound from Eolis, and the priests of Larat have been of even less use. He’s in no actual danger at the moment. I’m almost tempted to blame his lack of improvement on stubbornness. Sour-faced bastard knows he’ll have to bow to me if he ever gets out of that bed.’
Lesarl tried to read Isak’s expression as he spoke, but the white-eye gave nothing away. It was a miracle that Horman was even alive, having been possessed by a daemon and made to attack his own son in the Temple of Death. A priest of Shotir had been found in the Devoted camp and he had accompanied them back to Tirah, nearly killing himself in the process as he kept Horman from Death’s Halls.
He settled for a brief bow and a knowing look. ‘Perhaps your father will have noted the hours you’ve spent at his bedside?’
‘Bloody doubt it,’ Isak snapped, ‘but either way, it’s not a problem you need to be involved in.’ He stomped on up the stairs and turned the corner, Lesarl catching a flash of one colourless eye in the light of a torch before Isak disappeared from view.
‘Of course, my Lord, as you wish,’ Lesarl muttered. He turned to another door which would take him to the western part of the main wing where his office nestled at the heart of several dozen others. Adjoining it were the small apartments he shared with his wife and son; his townhouse was currently rented to Suzerain Nelbove and his household.
‘Perhaps I’ll look in on them before going back to work,’ he said softly to the Land in general. ‘The boy might find tonight’s events more interesting than sleep. We’re as alike as Lord Isak and his father are. Best we don’t let ourselves end up that way.’
Isak acknowledged the salutes from the guardsmen sporting his dragon crest and eased open the reinforced oak door to the duke’s chambers. The main room was dark, the only light coming from the fire and a single candlestick on a side table. A maid sat at the table with her elbows on it, her chin supported by her hands and her head angled towards the open doorway. He sniffed slightly and she leapt up, her mouth already opening to apologise.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said quickly, ‘you’re not here to guard.’
She curtseyed and straightened, waiting for the question he was about to ask. Isak took a moment. He couldn’t remember her name; she was a friend of Tila’s, the daughter of some local marshal. He knew Tila had told him - but he’d been told a lot since returning to Tirah.
‘How is he?’ he asked eventually.
‘Still weak, my Lord.’ Her voice reminded him of Tila’s, less melodious, but with that same crisp intonation common to those of the landed gentry; it was traditional for the maids in the main wing to be drawn from the upper classes. ‘Your father’s injuries have not opened up again, and there’s still no sign of infection.’
‘But they’re still not healing right?’
‘No, my Lord.’ She lowered her eyes, her hands clasped tightly together over her stomach.
‘The priests of Shotir came again?’
‘Yes, my Lord. Only one of them was crying when he left today.’
Isak forced a smile. ‘So they’re toughening up at least.’ The smile faded. ‘I might be calling on that soon enough. He’s asleep?’
She nodded.
‘Good. Please light the lamps and have the kitchen send something hot up, enough for several people.’
While she went about the lamps Isak looked in on his father. Horman lay on his back, his head turned towards the door. His face was half-obscured by his ragged hair. He had always slept in an awkward sprawl of limbs, but now he was constrained by bandages and
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