Context (65 page)

Long
tables were set out in rows and tiers. Round copper shields hung vertically in
mid-air; rosy glowclusters drifted among them, sliding warm reflections across
the burnished disks.

On the dais, a central chair,
surmounted throne-like by a carved blackstone canopy, stood conspicuously
empty: it belonged to the clan chief who was currently away from home, with a
fighting company of carls.

But the woman who sat to the
vacant throne’s right bore herself with a warrior’s grace, limber and strong
despite the grey which streaked her copper-bound hair. From time to time, her
gaze would travel to the back of the Great Hall, where Kraiv ate nothing,
waiting for the meal to end.

Plentiful food, hot and fragrant,
accompanied by humorous boasting, by tall tales and word-puzzles, rounding off
the day’s hard work. But there were too many vacant seats, and every now and
then the merriment would fade to silence; then someone would call out a warrior’s
name, and they would toast a brave housecarl fallen in battle in some far
demesne.

When the last course was removed,
the woman upon the dais rose, and beckoned Kraiv.

He
stood up, muscular and impressive as a statue.

Then he walked among housecarls
suddenly grown silent, along the central aisle. Before the dais he stopped,
went slowly down on one knee, and bowed his head.

‘Kraiv Guelfsson yclept am I, of
the Clan Vachleen. And I caused’—looking up, he held the woman’s gaze—‘your son’s
death, which I regret.’

Beside Tom, Draquelle jumped,
gave a tiny sound, then forced herself to stillness.

Chaos, my friend...

‘Reparation, your Highness, is
yours to command.’

The ruler’s skin was paler than
Horush’s had been, but Tom could see the resemblance now: his mother, indeed.
Would she call on Kraiv to fall upon his own morphospear? Or would the
punishment be long, drawn out?

For an age, she regarded Kraiv.

Then her gaze lifted, and she
pointed around the Great Hall, at the clusters of empty places. In a carrying
voice, she said:

‘We are short of honourable
warriors, proud carl. An you pledge yourself to Manse Hetreece, we know brave
Horush’s spirit would be satisfied.’

No-one breathed.

What’s wrong?

Kraiv’s own clan would already
have accepted his loss. Surely that was not the—

Draquelle’s fingers were digging
into Tom’s forearm like claws, gripping hard. For she had already realized: the
danger arose not from the mass of armed and deadly warriors, nor even from the
iron will of the proud, bereaved woman who was strong enough to rule them.

It was Kraiv’s own sense of
honour which placed him in peril.

‘Do you accept’—the woman’s voice
was soft—‘brave warrior?’

Kraiv frowned, hesitating, while
inside Tom every nerve screamed.

Give your allegiance!

But that was not the carl’s way.

Do it, my friend.

Breathing fast, Kraiv squeezed
his eyes shut, examining his soul for signs of cowardice. Honour-bound, he
could pledge allegiance—but not fear-driven.

He scrutinized his feelings with
ruthless self-honesty, ready to pay the price of weakness with his own blood.
Beside Tom, Draquelle bit her lip, to prevent herself crying out.

Kraiv’s eyes snapped open.

‘By Axe and by Flame—’

Fate save him.

‘—I bind myself to thee, wise
Lima, to the safety and welfare of thy Manse. I fight beside my broth—’

Suddenly every carl in the Hall
was upon his or her feet, cheering loudly as they stamped feet and smashed
metal goblets upon stone tables, roaring their approval, drowning the final
words of Kraiv’s blood oath in wave upon wave of glorious sound.

On the seat beside Tom, Draquelle
hid her face and wept.

Two
days later, on the far side of that blazing bridge of light, Tom looked back,
eyes squinted almost shut against the brilliance. He raised his hand in
farewell, though he could not see if they still stood beneath the Bifrost Gate.

Be well, my friends.

Then he turned his attention to
the causeway, and carried on alone.

He
travelled light and fast.

For three days, he ran like a
monk performing ultra-endurance devotions: at an unstoppable, distance-eating
speed. There was no logical reason to hurry; it had taken two Standard Years to
get from his entering the Aurineate Grand’aume to here. But it felt as though
time was running out.

At the border of Realm Boltrivar,
they scrutinized Tom’s travel-tag very carefully, and for a moment he wondered
what that bastard Trevalkin might have encrypted in the tag, but then the
membrane dissolved and he was through.

For an hour he walked among
corridors and tunnels which knew nothing of distant strife. Eventually, Tom
found himself in a market chamber filled with spice and fabric vendors, so
perfect that he might have stepped back into childhood in Saks Core, with
Father and old Trade, the other stallholders, the throng of market-goers ...

Except that one of them was
pointing at him.

And another, as growing whispers
circled the chamber.

‘It’s him..
.’

An old woman, head covered with a
plain dark shawl, confided in her neighbour: ‘I’d know him anywhere.’

Repeated, the whispering grew
louder, becoming a refrain.

‘Lord One-Arm!’

By
the time Tom reached the chamber’s centre, beneath the broad silver disk inset
upon the ceiling, there were soldiers hurrying towards him from every entrance.
The nearest group was led by a running officer in a brocade-edged half-cape,
hand upon his sword hilt.

Tom’s travel-tag sparked ruby.

Overhead, the silver disk slowly
turned.

No escape.

Troops on every side.

Overhead, slats descending ...

But then the young officer,
breathing hard, knelt down on the flagstones, held his ceremonial sabre so it
would not rattle, and made obeisance.

‘My Lord, we have great need—’

A
snick
as the stairway
slotted into place.

‘—of your abilities.’

Tom smiled at the officer’s
perfectly clean, pressed uniform, in contrast to his own rough-cut,
dust-stained clothes. ‘Thank you’—checking the man’s insignia—’Lieutenant.’

‘General d’Ovraison—’

‘Is expecting me. Quite.’

Then he set foot upon the first
rung, paused for a moment, half-seeing expectant faces among the crowd, and
began his ascent.

~ * ~

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