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Monks and nuns, witches and warlocks, sisters and brothers. All titles for those who would believe. But I am not one with any such need. Not one to run from shrine to shrin
e, altar to altar, desperate for communion. Higher Grace, your mind is truly gone if you see anything in me.
Out in the compound, the winter’s chill was fierce as the day died. Seeing them appear, Caplo swung on to his horse. He was swathed in dark furs, as if to mock himself. He fixed his feral gaze upon Finarra, and then Resh. ‘You’ve not forbidden her?’ he asked. ‘This is our journey, warlock. The two of us, in the name of the Shake.’
Reaching his horse, Resh paused to study his old friend for a moment, and then he said, ‘Your words are a comfort, Caplo, if you still count yourself among us.’
Caplo Dreem frowned. ‘Of course. Why would I do otherwise?’
Resh mounted his horse and gathered up the reins. ‘She rides with us now. As you say, Caplo, in the name of the Shake.’
‘Warlock,’ Finarra warned.
But he simply shrugged. ‘Twilight is upon us, I see. All to the good.’ He kicked his horse into motion, swinging the beast round towards the gate.
Cursing under her breath, Finarra mounted up and followed Resh and Caplo. They would ride through the night. She looked with envy upon the dark furs riding Caplo’s back. Already she was cold.
* * *
In the wake of the snowstorm, the air had slowly surrendered its bitter chill. Riding winds from the southeast brought burgeoning warmth, softening the sculpted dunes of snow until the faces they showed to the sunlit sky seemed pocked with rot, and the old track upon which Kagamandra Tulas rode blackened with mud and pools of water.
That he trailed other travellers in this season was clear, and while some rode horses, most were on foot, leading burdened mules. Thus far, he had not yet come across any makeshift graves, and for that he was thankful. Since parting ways with Calat Hustain and his Wardens, Kagamandra had met no one. He had not expected to. Winter was mercurial, like a cat hiding its claws, and this spell of warmth meant little. The season would hold for months yet.
He had been gaining on the refugees – if that was what they were – but without haste or any sense of urgency. He had no reason to welcome company, or take upon himself the burdens or needs of anyone else. In any case, he was himself half starved, his horse little better. His father’s estate, now his own, was a cold inheritance. He could not even be certain it was still occupied. In his absence, his staff, most of whom had served his father, might well have yielded to the vicissitudes of neglect or, perhaps more likely, ennui. It was entirely possible that he rode to an abandoned ruin. No refugee would find succour there.
The way ahead haunted him with its familiarity. As a youth he had often ridden far from the estate, fleeing the shadow of sire and siblings, seeking solitude in denuded hills, dried lake beds and sweeps of withered prairie. These were the half-formed urges of youth, groping in ignorance, not yet comprehending that the solitude he sought already existed, buried deep in his own mind. Every jarring sense of being different, every fear of exclusion, every instant of estrangement from his laughing brothers and their companions, these were the things setting him apart, pushing him into a world solely his own.
If in his imagination he sought to visualize that empty world, which circled round him at a crawling pace, he saw what now surrounded him, as his horse plodded through slush and mud, with the sky overhead a soft white, and the wind smelling of sodden grass. In that respect, he was already home.
For that reason and others, he felt no urgency to end this journey. If he could twist this trail into a vast loop through the wilderness of the south, he would have no cause for complaint.
But necessities posed their own demand. His horse was dying under him, and the hollowness in his gut had given way to a deep lassitude that had spread through his entire body, broken only by the ache in his joints, flaring up like fire whenever he straightened in his saddle.
His father had been right, he now reflected, to have seen so little in him.
Sharenas Ankhadu, why do you appear again and again in my thoughts? What is it you speak, with such expressions of derision? I see your lips move, but no sound finds me. I conjure you before me, to give a proper guise to my messenger – who must attend to me in cruel honesty, in the name of worth – but I remain deaf to your words.
She would, he suspected, mock his self-pity. She would castigate his lethargy. She would, with brittle exasperation, demand his obeisance to his betrothed, and call upon his honour in the name of Faror Hend. Find her! she would say.
But there was no one to find. His betrothed was a promise, nothing more. Such things broke with a single careless word, a lone gesture hinting of dismissal. Standing before Faror Hend, Kagamandra would remain mute, his limbs frozen in place. He would think only of the hurts he could not help but deliver, in the absence of anything one might call love.
The track lifted towards a rise, and upon reaching the top, Kagamandra saw in the shallow valley beyond those he had been following. The party had moved to one side of the trail, clearing a space of snow in which to camp. A roped corral to one side also revealed yellowed grass, where three horses and four mules now cropped the dead stalks.
As Kagamandra drew nearer, he was surprised to see, among those now rising from dung fires to greet him, men and women wearing the uniform of the Wardens.
He continued on until he reached the camp and then reined in as two Wardens, a woman and a man, strode up.
The woman was the first to speak. ‘My name is Savarro. I was once a sergeant. If you track us at Hunn Raal’s bidding, tell him our war with him is done. Tell him,’ she added, ‘it never existed, but for the ambitions of Lord Ilgast Rend. Above all, tell him to leave us alone. The Wardens are no more.’
Kagamandra leaned on the horn of his saddle. ‘Where do you ride, Savarro?’
‘This concerns him? Away. What more does he need?’
‘Upon this track, Savarro, lies an estate. Perhaps it offers – in your mind – a company of Houseblades who might welcome you in its ranks.’
The man shifted at Savarro’s side and then said to her, ‘Does he speak true, sergeant? Do we journey to a highborn’s estate?’
Behind the two, the others were now gathering, intent on the exchange.
