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Three paces later he turned round and went back. He picked it up and slipped it into the pouch at his belt.
Once back on the road, he mounted the warhorse, and — Neth trailing — they took the hillside at a canter.
Ahead on the track, just past the village, a flag was being raised at the Tithe Gate at the bottom of the hill, announcing Osserc’s return. Seeing the banner climb skyward and then stream out in the wind pleased Osserc as he rode past the trader carts and the figures edged to one side of the road, standing with heads bowed. The flag’s field was sky blue studded with gold stars, and so marked one of Vatha blood. A second pole alongside the familial one remained bare, as it had done ever since Urusander ordered his Legion to stand down.
Houseblades — veterans of the Legion one and all — were pushing people from the gateway as Osserc approached. He rode through without slowing, nodding at the salutes from the old soldiers. The way ahead was steep and Kyril was blowing hard by the time they reached the keep’s High Gate.
He rode into the courtyard, hoping to see his father upon the steps — he would have been informed of his son’s return — but only retainers stood there. There had been a temptation, briefly entertained, to rein in at the Tithe Gate and order the Legion flag hoisted; but he had feared a refusal from the Houseblades. He imagined closed expressions looking up at him, and the sergeant telling him that only the Legion commander could order such a thing. Osserc’s authority was fragile enough, a thin shell left untouched out of respect for Urusander. So he had dismissed the idea. But now he wished he had insisted; that second flag would surely have brought his father out to meet him.
It seemed that he ever chose to do the wrong thing, and that each time boldness offered itself up he turned away from it; and to ride past the veterans with stern regard and silent resolve now struck him as diffident, if not pathetic. Self-possession, when nothing more than a pose, bared a prickly hide over a host of failures and all confidence could sink away leaving no trace: to hide weakness behind bluster was to hide nothing at all. He carried himself as if all eyes were upon him, and they gauged with critical judgement that hovered on the edge of mockery; Osserc imagined words muttered behind his back, laughs stifled when faces were turned away. He had earned nothing in his young life, and the airs he held to, he grasped with desperation.
Reining in at the steps, scowling as the grooms rushed in, he dismounted. He saw Castellan Haradegar — a man only a year or two older than Osserc — standing near the doors. Quickly ascending the steps, Osserc met the man’s eyes. ‘Where is my father?’
‘In his study, milord.’
Osserc had not yet eaten this day, but he knew his father forbade any food or drink anywhere near his precious scrolls. He hesitated. If he ate at once, then the import of his words would lose all vigour, but already a headache was building behind his eyes — he did not do well when hungry. Perhaps a quick bite first and then ‘He awaits you, milord,’ Haradegar said.
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Three paces later he turned round and went back. He picked it up and slipped it into the pouch at his belt.
Once back on the road, he mounted the warhorse, and — Neth trailing — they took the hillside at a canter.
Ahead on the track, just past the village, a flag was being raised at the Tithe Gate at the bottom of the hill, announcing Osserc’s return. Seeing the banner climb skyward and then stream out in the wind pleased Osserc as he rode past the trader carts and the figures edged to one side of the road, standing with heads bowed. The flag’s field was sky blue studded with gold stars, and so marked one of Vatha blood. A second pole alongside the familial one remained bare, as it had done ever since Urusander ordered his Legion to stand down.
Houseblades — veterans of the Legion one and all — were pushing people from the gateway as Osserc approached. He rode through without slowing, nodding at the salutes from the old soldiers. The way ahead was steep and Kyril was blowing hard by the time they reached the keep’s High Gate.
He rode into the courtyard, hoping to see his father upon the steps — he would have been informed of his son’s return — but only retainers stood there. There had been a temptation, briefly entertained, to rein in at the Tithe Gate and order the Legion flag hoisted; but he had feared a refusal from the Houseblades. He imagined closed expressions looking up at him, and the sergeant telling him that only the Legion commander could order such a thing. Osserc’s authority was fragile enough, a thin shell left untouched out of respect for Urusander. So he had dismissed the idea. But now he wished he had insisted; that second flag would surely have brought his father out to meet him.
It seemed that he ever chose to do the wrong thing, and that each time boldness offered itself up he turned away from it; and to ride past the veterans with stern regard and silent resolve now struck him as diffident, if not pathetic. Self-possession, when nothing more than a pose, bared a prickly hide over a host of failures and all confidence could sink away leaving no trace: to hide weakness behind bluster was to hide nothing at all. He carried himself as if all eyes were upon him, and they gauged with critical judgement that hovered on the edge of mockery; Osserc imagined words muttered behind his back, laughs stifled when faces were turned away. He had earned nothing in his young life, and the airs he held to, he grasped with desperation.
Reining in at the steps, scowling as the grooms rushed in, he dismounted. He saw Castellan Haradegar — a man only a year or two older than Osserc — standing near the doors. Quickly ascending the steps, Osserc met the man’s eyes. ‘Where is my father?’
‘In his study, milord.’
Osserc had not yet eaten this day, but he knew his father forbade any food or drink anywhere near his precious scrolls. He hesitated. If he ate at once, then the import of his words would lose all vigour, but already a headache was building behind his eyes — he did not do well when hungry. Perhaps a quick bite first and then ‘He awaits you, milord,’ Haradegar said.
‘Yes. Inform the kitchens I will eat following my meeting with my father.’
‘Of course, milord.’
Osserc strode inside. The lower floor was crowded with workers — masons and carpenters and their flit-eyed apprentices — and the air was filled with dust, the stone paving underfoot coated in sawdust and the crumbled plaster that was all that remained of the old friezes that had once adorned every wall. He was forced to step round men and women, their tools and the blocks of marble and beams of rare wood, and these obstacles only darkened his mood. When he reached the study, he thumped heavily on the door and entered without awaiting invitation.
His father was standing over his map table, but this scene lost its martial pretensions in the details, since he leaned over an array of fired clay tablets, and the clothing he wore was ink-stained and spotted with dried droplets of amber wax. Urusander was unshaven and his long hair, streaked with grey, hung down in greasy strands.
Osserc strode forward until he stood opposite his father, the broad table between them.
‘You are in need of a bath,’ Urusander said without looking up.
‘I bring word from Hunn Raal, and Commander Calat Hustain.’
Urusander glanced up. ‘Calat Hustain? You were in the Outer Reach? Why did Hunn Raal take you there?’
‘We were visiting, Father. In the company of Kagamandra Tulas and Ilgast Rend, as well as Sharenas Ankhadu.’
Urusander was studying him. ‘Then where is Raal? I think I need a word with him.’
‘He rides in haste to Kharkanas, Father. There is dire news, which sent him to the Citadel, to audience with Mother Dark, and this same news sent me here, to you.’
