Valour (73 page)

Telassar had been warm, always, even in winter. Even in Drassil when it had snowed they had been protected from the bulk of it by the dense treetop canopy. Some flakes would make it through the
lattice of branches, but not enough.
Not like this.
He looked down and saw his horse’s hooves disappearing into the snow, past its fetlocks.

He rode beside Meical, his Jehar warriors riding in column behind.

They had travelled over a hundred leagues since Dun Carreg, had passed through Ardan and Narvon, then crossed rolling hills into Cambren. Here the going had been slower as Meical had taken them
along less-frequented paths, through uninhabited lands, avoiding towns, villages and holds, though always heading for Domhain.

Once they had ridden into a band of warriors, scouts of Queen Rhin, riding back to Narvon. Meical had stayed their sword hands, suggesting that talking was attempted as a first resort in an
effort to glean some information.

It had turned out to be simple enough. The warriors had taken one look at Tukul and his Jehar warriors and decided that they were part of a larger force that apparently rode with Rhin’s
warband, in service to Nathair, King of Tenebral. Meical and Tukul had managed to keep their surprise hidden, and the warriors had ridden on.

‘The Jehar ride with Nathair,’ Tukul had hissed to Meical, once they were alone. ‘How can that be?’

‘I should have watched Nathair,’ Meical said, shaking his head. ‘And he was right under my nose, all the time I was with Aquilus. It makes sense; Nathair spent time in
Tarbesh.’

‘It must be Sumur,’ Tukul said. ‘Sumur must be leading the Jehar. He was always in opposition to me. I should have killed him when I had the chance.’

‘What’s done is done,’ Meical said. ‘At least we have had warning.’

They had also discovered that Rhin’s warband was set to invade Domhain and was somewhere ahead. They had continued onwards and eventually they had come to a point where they could see the
giants’ road leading into the mountains: the pass through to Domhain. It was filled with warriors. The warriors choked the path through the mountains, a constant line of wains going along the
road, taking supplies towards Domhain. There was no way through.

They had discussed their options and decided to move northwards, to find a safe spot and then let Meical search for Corban.

‘I have spent two score years laying plans, finding people that I trust, preparing for these days,’ Meical said. ‘And yet now I feel like a chicken chopped for the
table.’ He gave Tukul a rueful smile.

‘Asroth has been making plans, too,’ Tukul said.

‘Aye, he has. I have been too cautious.’ He shook his head.

‘But we stand on the side of right, and the battle is far from done,’ Tukul said.
I will not consider defeat. I have not waited all my life just to lose at the end.

‘Aye. And we are close now, my friend. I have found the Seren Disglair’s shadow in the Otherworld and tracked him through it. He is close. I will sleep now and travel the dream road.
I will not lose him again.’

Tukul still found it strange how Meical could fall into a sleep so deep that he could not be woken, in which he almost appeared to be dead, and from which he would wake, looking as if he had
fought with death himself, and say that the Seren Disglair was in Domhain, or in Dun Taras, or to the east, or north-east.

He is not of this world. What do I expect?

This time Meical had said that the Seren Disglair was still in Domhain, but travelling north, on the far side of the mountains.

That had been a ten-night gone. They had travelled north, searching for a path to cross into Domhain. Meical said he knew of one, but that they would have to tread carefully.

‘We are close to Dun Vaner,’ Meical said to him, leaning in his saddle. Tukul just grunted, trusting Meical’s judgement. How Meical could tell where they were in this
whitewashed world he did not know, but briefly he caught a glimpse through the swirling snow of dark walls in the distance, high on a slope a cluster of towers and pinpricks of light. The day was
turning to grey, the obscured sun retreating behind the mountains. They found a place to make camp, taking some shelter beneath a stand of birch and hawthorn in a cup-shaped dell.

‘I will search for him again tonight,’ Meical said as they sat huddled close together around a small fire. Soon Meical lay down and Tukul saw the familiar signs of his breathing
slowing, becoming shallower.

Find him
, Tukul thought.
Find the Seren Disglair, and with him my son.

Corban was hauled by two warriors through high-vaulted corridors, mostly empty, though in some alcoves fire-pits burned and warriors stood close to the flames to warm
themselves. There was a feeling of emptiness here, and decay. Footsteps echoed behind him, following him. Braith.

Eventually he was dragged into a small chamber with weak light filtering in through slits in shuttered windows. One torch burned in a sconce, sending shadows dancing. Corban was slammed against
a wall and his hands shackled to an iron ring above him, his ankles below.

Braith sat at a table, poured himself a cup of something dark and drank thirstily.

He leaned back, studying Corban. ‘What does Rhin want with you?’ he said at last.

‘Huh,’ Corban muttered. He still felt sick, and Braith’s words seemed as if they were reaching him through water, or the snowstorm that had raged outside. Distant and
muted.

Braith repeated his question.

I don’t know
, thought Corban. He looked up to the shuttered window opposite, thinking of his mam and friends out on the hillside. Were they still fighting? Had they escaped? Stray
flakes of snow drifted through the gap in the shutters and floated lazily down.

Someone came in, a woman, carrying a platter full of food – bread, fruits, cheese, cold meats. Corban heard his stomach growl as he watched Braith tear into it.

‘Here,’ Braith said, walking over and holding out a chunk of bread. ‘I should let you starve, after what your wolven and friends did to my men back there, but I think
Rhin’s going to want to talk with you; so passing out is to be avoided.’

Corban chewed a mouthful. The bread was still warm. It tasted delicious. Braith gave him a sip of his drink – watered ale.

‘My thanks,’ Corban said when he had swallowed and was sure that the food and drink was not going to come straight back up.

Braith sat down and finished his food.

‘Did they get away?’ Corban asked, his voice a croak.

‘I don’t know,’ Braith said. ‘Only two of my men still live, and one of those was the man I sent ahead to tell Rhin we were close. The riders wouldn’t have followed
your friends if they ran, not into those trees and possible ambush.’ He rubbed his eyes.

A silence fell on the room.

A muffled sound came from the far wall. Corban saw the outline of a door appear, and what he thought was undressed stone swung open. Two figures emerged from the darkness. Corban recognized both
of them.

Rhin, Queen of Cambren.
Of Narvon and Ardan, too, now.
She was old, appeared much older than the last time he had seen her, in Badun at the Midwinter gathering, when Tull had fought her
champion, Morcant.

Morcant was no longer her champion, though; he knew that and he saw Conall walk into the room behind her.

The warrior didn’t say anything, but their eyes locked for a long moment. Conall was the first to look away. Corban wasn’t sure what he saw there: pride, definitely, but there was
more, a flicker in his glance, an unwillingness to hold Corban’s gaze. Was that shame? Corban remembered when Conall had first come to Dun Carreg, riding up the giantsway with Halion. He had
seemed happy then by comparison, carefree.

‘Well done, Braith,’ Rhin said. The woodsman dropped to one knee before her and kissed her hand.

‘You’ve done well,’ she said, motioning for him to stand. ‘Even if half my riders are now lying dead on the slopes of Vaner.’

‘Are they caught?’ Braith asked. ‘His companions?’

‘No. I have riders out searching, but I don’t have enough men here to do the job properly. Most of them are busy conquering Domhain.’

‘I can take a party out. I know the land well hereabouts.’

‘Perhaps.’ Rhin nodded. ‘If Edana is out there it would be a shame to let her get away.’

She thinks I travelled with Edana.

‘So, you are Corban,’ Rhin said, turning to him. It was not a question. ‘I do remember you from Badun. At least, I remember seeing the boy who had tamed a wolven.’

She’s not tame
, Corban thought.

‘I should have given you more attention then but I was preoccupied. I hear she’s grown, your wolven, and is happily tearing people apart in my woodlands.’

She’s not dead, then.
Corban felt a flutter of relief in his belly. He opened his mouth and asked the question that had been hovering there.

‘Where’s Cywen?’

‘Cywen?’ Rhin said.

Corban felt his spirits sink. Rhin didn’t know who he meant.

Conall whispered something in her ear.

‘Oh, your sister. She’s well on her way to Murias. You’ll not find her here,’ Rhin said. ‘Is that what you thought? Were you coming here to get her, when Braith
found you wandering around my mountains? How terribly noble of you.’ She stepped closer to him, ran a pointed fingernail along his jaw line, down his neck, across his chest. He pulled away,
tried to kick out but the iron collars about his ankles held him.

Murias.

‘Admirable qualities,’ she murmured, close enough that he could smell her breath, a hint of honey on it.
Mead?

‘What do you want with me?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Rhin said. ‘Yet. There are certain parties that are extremely interested in you, though, and that has piqued my interest. Tell me of yourself, Corban of
Dun Carreg. Of your kin, your friends. I would know
everything
about you.’

Corban woke to a throbbing pain in his wrists.

Where am I?

His eyes fluttered open and he saw a pot sitting over a small fire, could hear water bubbling within it.

Rhin.

Pains started registering, first his wrists, where the shackles had borne his slumped weight, then his ribs and kidneys, where Conall had beaten him.

‘You should have told her what you know,’ Braith advised. ‘She’ll get what she wants out of you anyway, so you might as well save yourself some pain.’

‘Where is she?’ Corban asked. He took his weight on his legs, removing the pressure from his wrists. He felt blood trickling down his forearms.

‘Don’t worry, she’ll be back soon enough.’

A noise seeped into his consciousness, a creaking, tapping sound. He looked up at the shuttered window, high on the opposite wall. Light still streamed through, the occasional snowflake. Then a
shadow crossed the gap between the shutters, something beyond blocking the light. He heard the tapping again, followed by a squawk.

Craf?

Just then the secret door opened and Rhin walked back in, shadowed by Conall. She marched to the pot and threw something in. A herbal smell wafted out, and an acrid steam rose.

‘Hold the pot close to him,’ she ordered Conall and Braith. They carried it by an iron spit and held it close. He tried to kick at it but his shackles stopped him. The steam floated
about his face, curling into his mouth, his nose, stinging his eyes. He clamped his mouth shut and held his breath.

‘He’s stubborn,’ Rhin said, a smile twitching her lips.

Corban’s lungs started to burn, the beating of his heart growing louder in his head. Eventually he took a breath, throwing his head around, trying to disperse the steam. It didn’t
work. He had a bitter taste at the back of his throat, closely followed by a sense of warmth radiating from his chest, seeping through his body. He felt more relaxed than he could remember.

‘There we are,’ Rhin said. ‘Take the pot away. Corban, look at me.’

He felt his head swing up and stared at her.

‘Good boy,’ Rhin said. ‘Now, tell me. Where is Edana?’

He clamped his mouth shut, resolving to tell her nothing. He had taken Conall’s beating before, concentrating as Gar had taught him in the sword dance, clearing his mind. He would take it
again, and tell Rhin nothing.

‘In Domhain, with Rath’s warband,’ he heard a voice say. His own. Rhin chuckled.

She asked him question after question, and each time he heard his own voice respond, like a betrayer wrapped within his own body. She went through his family, asked about his friends. He heard
himself speak of Gar, tell of his curved sword, his skill in combat, of Dath and Farrell, finally of Coralen.

Rhin paused from her questioning, just studied him long moments. ‘All very nice, but what makes you so interesting to Nathair. Why are you considered so special?’ she mused.

‘Gar says I’m the Seren Disglair,’ he heard himself say.

Rhin grabbed his chin, her grip surprisingly strong, and looked into his eyes, studying him. ‘Repeat that,’ she ordered.