Godsteed Book 2 Darkness Before Death

Chapter 43

The Secret of Death

The avalanche exploded, rushing down the cliff face in a deafening crash of packed ice. Areme leapt off his horse. Sliding, he fell to his knees at the cliff’s edge. ‘Orlanda!’ he screamed, unable to hear his own voice above the wind howl and barrage of ice. ‘Orlanda!’

No answer met his anguished cry.

‘No!’ he shouted. ‘Gods, no! I won’t lose you, too. I won’t!’ Frenzy edged every word. Hands clawed at rock and snow. He leaned over the precipice, searching for some way down.

‘Hold! Hold!’ cried a ragged voice behind him. Someone grabbed him by the shoulders.

Travall.

Areme shook him off.

‘Hold!’ This time Travall managed to haul Areme to his feet. Horror-filled eyes stared into Areme’s. ‘This is madness! Madness!’

Trying to push him away, Areme bellowed, ‘She’s down there!’

‘There’s nothing you can do!’ Travall’s voice filled with fierce savagery as he forced Areme back against the cliff face. ‘It’s a sheer drop. She’s gone.’

In less than a heartbeat, Areme’s dagger was at Travall’s throat. ‘Loose hold of me,’ he hissed.

Travall set his teeth, voice whistling between them, calm and cold. ‘My death won’t bring her back.’

‘You killed her. You. If we’d gone back to Mirador . . .’

Travall’s hands dropped away from Areme. ‘All right. Go. Kill yourself. Kill me. Either way, you’ll be doing me a favour.’

Rage coursed over Areme in waves of blood. He backed away from Travall, hands trembling. ‘No. No. I want you to live. I want you to live and remember what you’ve done.’ He stared beyond Travall, into the blinding snow, saw Orlanda, young, terrified, falling, falling, into nothingness. He had killed her, just as surely as he had killed Shasirre.

Travall’s voice struck hard against his ear, ‘Get back on your horses!’ The knight shoved Areme toward his grey. ‘Mount up!’

Heart torn, bleeding afresh after so many years of just being dead, Areme walked toward Aurion. The lad, Sihan, held the white stallion’s reins. Areme ripped them from Sihan’s shaking hands, and vaulted onto the stallion’s back, his grey following. While Travall and Maiet mounted their horses, the other men sat silent on their own mounts, grim-faced, pale, eyes blank with incomprehension at the princess’s death.

Areme stared at Sihan. The lad’s hands shook. A grimace cut across his face as he struggled to mount Spirit. The edge of the avalanche had caught him. Hate raged through Areme. Why could he not have died, instead of her? Why could it not be him lost and forgotten at the bottom of that great crevasse?

Aurion moved beneath him, sure-footed. Areme’s hands clenched into fists. The bastard horse. He had killed her. What fucking good was the horse without her?

Then he looked back at Sihan, the boy’s braced back.

Who? Who? Who? There was something about the lad. He had seen it one night back when the moon and stars had glittered about Sihan. Who was this lad filling his head with questions?

Again Orlanda’s bright blue eyes filled his vision, her laughter, her scent, her life. Snuffed out in a heartbeat.

He had told her not to worry. Not to be afraid. And now he had killed her. He had failed. By all the gods, he had failed.

The storm raged for two days before blowing itself out. With no sleep and no rest, the riders followed a narrow trail into the foothills of Pelan, shoulders slumped, heads drooped to chests. As they dropped below the snowline, Travall ordered a halt, and ran a gauntleted fist across his face to clear bleary eyes.

He turned to Areme. Haggard, the knight for once matched every bit the age of his counterparts – jaw masked with dark stubble, unkempt hair falling over his shoulders. Travall would not give him the opportunity to grieve, just like he had not given himself time to mourn Callinor. They did not have time for that, not with an all out war brewing and no monarch on the throne. He locked his eyes squarely to Areme’s. ‘Get to your men in Byerol and send word to Gerhas.’

Areme replied in a dead voice. ‘What are you going to do? Head for Belaron?’

It was the obvious plan. Belaron was the second ruling house in the kingdom. But the princess had put paid to that idea. Muscles tensing, Travall knew what was coming before he spoke. ‘We’re going to Omrah.’

‘Omrah!’ Areme roused from apathy. ‘What’s in Omrah?’

Travall kept his voice implacable. ‘The new king.’

Every kind of emotion blinked across Areme’s face, none of them benevolent. He rounded on Travall. ‘Are you a king-maker now? You know as well as I the laws of the realm – if the Gods-consecrated line is broken, a new king can only be declared by high council. Until then, Maraid holds the Regency.’

Travall waved the protest away. ‘The council vote is irrelevant. The laws of the realm allow the true monarch to name a successor. Orlanda named Farran.’

In complete disbelief, Areme said, ‘When?’

‘In Romondor, before Callinor’s death.’

Areme was in no mood to listen. ‘Then that’s void. She wasn’t queen. Her word wasn’t law.’

Travall determined to press on. Areme must be hurting if he could not even say Orlanda’s name. Good. Travall needed that pain to turn to rage. Only united hate would stop Valoren if he was anything like his father. And Travall had seen Areme when the blood-lust of hate was upon him. He was unstoppable. ‘You would void the will of the queen?’

‘The will of a princess is not the will of a queen.’

‘It is when she holds the signet ring of state.’

Areme’s face twisted into a scowl. ‘You lie.’

Determined to drive the knife deep, Travall pulled a pouch from his belt and upturned it onto his gloved hand. The ring of the heir-apparent glittered, fiery red against white. ‘If I lie, tell me how I came by this.’

Dark eyes, winter ice in their depths, regarded Travall. That had done it. Now to see how far he could push him. ‘Callinor’s ring is at the bottom of the Korin Pass, with her.’

There was death in Areme’s eyes now. Deeper, blacker than Travall had ever seen. He matched one hard expression for another. ‘I’ve given you an order.’ Then he sat back. And waited. Areme’s tight, straight lips told him naught of what the knight was thinking.

He counted each heartbeat until Areme answered in a bleak voice, ‘By her will.’ With an equally barren glare, Areme turned Aurion away.

Travall waylaid him. ‘That horse belongs to the king.’

Areme’s breath exploded. ‘Aurion was my gift to her. I’m taking him back.’

‘That horse belongs to the monarch’s estate. That estate belongs to the new king. Get off him.’ The killing words cut into Areme with their hard edges.

There was no reaction from Areme for a long while. He sat upon the white stallion, containing all emotion, refusing to show anything. Then, with a look devoid of feeling, he slid from Aurion and handed the stallion’s reins to Sihan. With quiet words, he said, ‘Nothing happens to that horse, boy. Understand?’

Sihan, shivering, lips pale in a pallid face, answered, ‘Yes, sir.’ The answer had hardly spilled from his lips when he sprawled forward on Spirit’s neck.

Areme pulled back Sihan’s head by the hair, revealing a blue-tinged face.

‘He was injured in the avalanche,’ said Camar.

‘Busted rib,’ muttered Balfere. ‘Must’ve taken some guts to ride for two days and nights like that.’

Maiet dismounted and helped Sihan to the ground and grabbed the pouch at Sihan’s belt, spilling the tuber of granine from it.

Areme’s face paled.

Travall stormed, ‘That’s forbidden by king’s edict!’

‘The king is dead!’ Areme’s words split the air like a crack of an axe against wood. He grabbed the granine from Maiet. Pulling off one glove, he dipped his index finger into the green paste of the tuber, the tangy citrus smell wafting about him. He opened Sihan’s mouth and forced his finger between the lad’s teeth. Sihan convulsed, back arching, arms thrashing, eyes rolling over white.

‘Here he goes again,’ said Gerein.

Areme looked at him intensely. ‘What do you mean?’

Gerein kept his voice low. ‘Jaien used granine on him after the speed trial. He talked all crazy. Babbled. Said mad things.’

A horrified look formed on Areme’s face. ‘Get away from him! All of you!’

Without another word, both Maiet and Gerein backed away.

Sihan’s brown eyes glowed silver.

Areme did not know what dismayed him more, what the boy might reveal – or that. Somewhere behind him, Travall shouted orders to make camp, easing Areme’s mind but a fraction. With any luck, no one would overhear the strange mumblings spilling from the lad’s mouth. Was he an adept? Areme would know soon enough. Adepts could see their past lives. Was Sihan such?

Pressing his ear close to Sihan’s lips, Areme demanded, ‘What do you see?’

‘Light,’ Sihan said between heaving breaths. ‘Shafts of sunlight . . . A golden rider on a silver horse.’

A golden rider on a silver horse. Areme’s fingers tightened on Sihan’s arm. ‘What rider?’

‘So beautiful. So terrible. Orlanda. No! No!’ His words grew senseless and mad.

It was Orlanda he saw. Areme’s jaw clenched. Sihan was not seeing a past life.

The lad continued to mumble incoherence, sweat beading his brow.

Areme stroked wisps of brown hair away from Sihan’s face with the back of his hand, wanting to throttle him. If he was not an adept, he could not protect the horse till Areme returned to claim it. But there was something about him, and Myrrhye was protecting him. Who was he? ‘Wake up,’ Areme demanded.

‘I don’t want to.’

‘I don’t care what you want.’ Areme modulated his voice, invoking words of ages past, threw caution to the wind. ‘The time for sleep is over. Awaken.’

Sihan writhed beneath his hand. ‘No.’

‘You have no choice.’ Areme’s grip tightened on Sihan’s arm.

The lad flailed helplessly. ‘Don’t make me! Please!’

Insistent, Areme demanded, ‘See who you truly are.’

Sihan’s body stilled, and peace settled upon his pale face. ‘I see.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I am Senfaren.’

Areme’s fingers clutched involuntarily to his dagger. What the seven hells was going on? Those were not the words of an adept. His mind flew, linking the revelation to all he had already half suspected. Sihan’s skill with horses. That Aurion had not quite turned on him.

I am Senfaren.

Only a Horse Lord of Senfar could make such a claim. It could not be. He had asked the questions on a star-bright night, half-disbelieving, about Sihan’s mother, sensing . . . something. But here, now, with truth upon the lad’s lips, he could deny no longer. Gods, what had Myrrhye done?

He stared at Sihan. It was not possible. Areme ripped the glove from his ring hand and held the black falcon ring to Sihan’s face, needing to know it was a lie. ‘Whom do you serve?’

‘None, save Senfar.’

Areme started to shake. It was not possible. Could not be. He swept Sihan’s eyes closed, wishing the truth could be erased just as easily. ‘You’ll remember none of this when you wake.’ He prayed it would be so. It had to be.

Sihan’s head lolled to one side. Beneath Areme’s hand, he lay still and unconscious. Areme pulled his glove back on, covering the ring. Was this his brother? If there were only two of them, it would be one too many. And now there were three. What game was Myrrhye playing? The last thing he needed was another trouble-making brother.

Sihan jolted into unsought-for consciousness, pain splitting his head, breath tearing through his lungs in swift, unbearable bursts. Over the crackling of branches, boot-clad feet tramping rough ground, a voice, dark and heavy like molasses, clung to his ears.

‘Don’t move. Your breathing will settle in a while.’

Sihan was not planning on moving. He doubted he could even lever himself from the hard, unyielding earth.

Remember.

The whisper bled across the darkness of his mind, shivered across his soul. Sihan scarcely dared to breathe, mind frantically dodging and weaving like a hare trying to evade a fox. He remembered too much. A life snuffed out in a raging tumult of ice. Darkness so dark there might never have been light. But then came that other nightmare – Orlanda, living still, engulfed by a ring of flame. Beautiful, terrible. Her voice, a torment. Your world is ash and bones. Corpses lie beneath your feet. The sword you once refused is in your hands, insatiable for blood.

The vision blurred. Shadows swept away the horror.

‘Look at me.’

He did not want to do that either, but the strong, dark tone brooked no disobedience, refusing to be ignored. And it was kinder than the memories crowding his mind, snapping at his sanity like a rabid pack of hounds.

‘Look at me.’

Sihan opened his eyes. A face loomed over him, menacing eyes, bright points of light. But somewhere beyond, another face coalesced. A boy lurked over Areme’s shoulder, haloed by dark that drank brightness from the world. A spear stood straight in the boy’s hand. Sihan knew the spear like he knew the boy.

You think you can escape your fate? The boy’s voice whispered in his mind. You cannot. Take the spear. Become yourself. Kill the abomination. You cannot escape your destiny.

Sihan knew not how, but from somewhere he drew strength enough to half-rise and scream, ‘Leave me be! Leave me be!’ His voice shook with helpless rage.

‘Sihan!’ Areme’s voice cut through the storm of voices, the waking dream. ‘What do you see?’

Agony tore through Sihan as his will failed and he sagged back. ‘Nothing.’ His voice reduced to the frailest whisper. ‘Nothing.’

Areme leaned over him. ‘Why were you screaming?’

He did not want to talk, to remember. Cold enveloped him like the chill breath of the demon who stalked him. Everything within him felt hollow. Fighting off a trembling weakness invading every inch of his body, Sihan stared up at Areme’s face – a face locked in the throes of mourning, stricken and pale. He could still hear the knight’s voice over the roar of the avalanche, screaming Orlanda’s name.

Orlanda.

He did not know if he wanted her dead or to be alive and the dream to be real.

‘Why were you screaming?’ Areme repeated.

‘No reason.’

Areme looked at him closely, as though reading the lie. His face shifted to the inexpressive visage of a corpse. Then he smiled, a chilling curve of lip. ‘How’s your breathing?’

Sihan knew the knight was measuring him, like he had the night when the stars were falling. He fixed his gaze straight ahead, masking everything, even the sudden surprise that his breathing had eased somewhat, no longer what it had been since the avalanche – a rattling rasp. He struggled to rise, scraping at cold, wet earth with nails chipped and encrusted with dirt. ‘It hurts.’

‘Like fire?’

Sihan stared at the knight, his mud-streaked leggings, cloak torn and sagging and wet with rain. ‘No. A dull ache.’

Glittering eyes kept watching him. Sihan clamped his lips on silence.

Areme’s smile soured, but he said, ‘You’ll recover, not that there was ever much doubt.’

‘What do you mean?’

Areme’s cold smile and empty eyes told nothing. Instead, the knight stood and walked to his horse. After he mounted, he turned back to Sihan. He delivered his next words in an expressionless voice. ‘Nothing happens to that horse, boy. Nothing.’ In the knight’s eyes burned cold, fierce rage, a fury promising death. For the longest while he regarded Sihan with that hard, ungiving glare, then he spurred his grey and galloped into the darkness.

Sihan looked around him, met the stares of men with hollows circling their eyes – Maiet, Gerein. Camar with his bandaged face. The stench of despair clung to every one. Sihan shivered, night chill seeping straight into his bones. They had lost their king and their princess. What did one horse matter?

Chapter 44

Reunited

Pastel streaks of dawn flared along jagged pinnacles of mountains. The soldiers in Travall’s party rode their horses at a walk for the most part, letting them graze and regain their strength on thick swards of snowgrass along a trail through a candlewood forest.

Sihan led Aurion from Spirit, the white stallion’s reins firm in his hands. It had been days since the princess’s death and the stallion had resorted to unruly behaviour, plunging and rearing, refusing to move, as if determined to return to the site of the avalanche where Orlanda had died. Sihan wanted to scream, ‘She’s dead! Dead!’ But what would a horse know of words? Or anything?

He smiled weakly at Maiet, who had been watching him with concern since he had collapsed, no doubt waiting for him to keel over again. Maiet had offered to lead Aurion, but Areme had entrusted the stallion to Sihan’s charge, and besides, Aurion would likely attack Maiet. Sihan would not allow that. Of one thing he was certain. A soldier who could fight was far more valuable than a stable lad. If he was even that. Truth be told, he was not exactly sure what all this turn of events meant for his future. He had lost his position. Was he now free? He did not feel free. He felt more bound than ever. Strange irony that all he had done to avoid becoming embroiled in war had only propelled him into its very core.

Wild screeching drew the riders’ attention, a wedge-tailed eagle soaring high overhead. It dropped lower till it settled above them, dipping its wings.

‘It’s marking us,’ said Gerein, pulling his bow from his gorytos.

Travall motioned his men to get under deeper cover. The soldiers, nervous, twisted in their saddles, heads jerking from side to side at the least flutter of birdwing brushing leaf. A startled call of a currawong cawed in trees to their left. Riders swung round, drawing swords. Gerein aimed at the trees, trying to find a target, eyes straining to see through thick undergrowth.

A voice called to their right. ‘Hail.’ A bearded rider wearing a black tabard with a golden hawk rode from the bushes. ‘What’s your will hereabouts,’ he challenged.

‘Hail, rider of Pelan,’ Travall responded with warmth, but approached the man with prudence, keeping both hands clear of his sword hilt.

For his own part, the bearded knight kept a vigilant eye on Gerein, who was marking him with his bow. ‘Call off your archer. At this moment I have forty men itching to turn you all into porcupines.’

Without turning his head, Travall said, ‘Stand down your weapons.’

Gerein and Camar lowered their bows, while the others returned their swords to their scabbards. Moments later, men dropped from tree branches around them, mottled grey-green tunics blending with the forest. They gathered on either side of the riders, putting hands to bridles and stirrups.

Fingers locked upon Sihan’s wrist. He jerked round, gaze locking with gold-green eyes. His pulse leapt.

Jaien stared up at him, disbelief written over his face. ‘What are you doing here?’

Words stuck in Sihan’s throat as if a shard of ice lodged there. What answer could convey all that had passed since Jaien had ridden for Pelan?

They stared at one another, and the silence between them became a thing of blood, of horror. Jaien’s hand gripped tighter, but cold numbed Sihan to all feeling except the memory of ice and a girl’s torn-off scream as she fell into an abyss.

Questions writhed like a nest of serpents in the depths of Jaien’s eyes.

Knight Commander Atiarin took away the chance to ask even one, striding from the trees and saluting Travall, smiling narrowly, asking, ‘What brings you here, Trav?’

Travall replied in a voice of almost disinterested neutrality, ‘We’re riding for Omrah. And you?’

‘Ambush for Hyerlin bandits.’

Travall raised an eyebrow. ‘They’re this deep in Pelan now?’

‘They’re appearing everywhere. The duke is ready to march on Hyerlin if it keeps up.’

Grimacing, Travall said, ‘He may be marching sooner than he thinks, but not on Hyerlin.’

Atiarin looked at him sharply. ‘How so?’

Balfere edged his horse forward. ‘Callinor is dead. So is Orlanda. By Romondor’s hand.’

Atiarin’s face grew white. He cast a sharp glance at Travall as though the knight’s face could bestow credence upon the spoken words. Making no effort to mask the shock in his voice, he demanded, ‘Is this true?’

‘Yes,’ Travall said, expression hard and intent. ‘Farran is now king. How soon can you get this news to your duke?’

Taking no time to consider, Atiarin said, ‘Ten days.’

‘Tell him we’re making for Omrah. Farran will send orders through after we break the news of his ascension.’

Jaien’s fingers tightened upon Sihan’s wrist. The questions were coiling upon themselves, the knight unable to stop his gaze from slipping sidewise to Sihan, only just checking all he wanted to ask behind set lips. Again air caught in Sihan’s throat. He breathed hard, holding the knight’s stare as long as he dared.

Atiarin’s gaze travelled over the escort. ‘Do you want more men with you to Omrah?’

‘How many can you spare?’

‘Twenty mounted.’

‘I’ll take them.’

Atiarin turned to Jaien. ‘Choose another nineteen men and horses and go with Knight Commander Travall.’

Jaien loosed his hold on Sihan, leaving him cold and empty. Gods, more than that. Sihan reached out, touched Jaien’s shoulder with the briefest brush of fingers. Their eyes locked, unvoiced questions weighing down the air between them before Jaien strode away to select his men.

Atiarin called forth another four knights. ‘Ride for Hyoth. Tell Knight Commander Imari the king and the new queen are fallen. Tell him the Duke of Omrah is declared king and to await further orders.’

Barely registering their shock, the four men raced into the forest. Atiarin turned back to Travall and said, ‘I’ll take the news to the duke myself.’ He put a hand to the bridle of Travall’s stallion. ‘Be warned. Hyerlin are scouring this region. I’ve got companies scattered all over the place trying to drive them back.’

‘Right,’ said Travall, wheeling his horse away.

Jaien returned, mounted on Falcon, nineteen men at his back. They settled into a group behind the escort, but Jaien maneuvered his chestnut between Sihan and Gerein, with Camar flanking his fellow archer. ‘So,’ he began, ‘Want to tell me what’s happened since I left Mirador?’

All Sihan could offer was a tight smile and one word. ‘Everything.’

Sun dipped low as Travall threaded his horse in cover of candlewoods beside a broad meadow shimmering with a light dusting of snow daisies. One of a tangle of bloodhorse pastures, if his memory served him right. They would reach Omrah by nightfall. Behind him, the line of riders, wrapped in grey cloaks against the chill wind, wound their way at a walk. All rode single file through silent trees on the edge of the meadow, the only noise the soft beat of hooves on thick grass.

Suddenly a piercing scream shattered early dusk.

Travall checked his stallion. In the forest, on the other side of the field, a dark shadow flashed between cream trunks. Then a horse burst into the open. Weighed down low with two riders, lather and foam from shoulder to flank, the mount laboured, breath enlarged to heavy snorts. Bent low over the horse’s neck, riding astride in brown tunic and leggings, long black hair whipping on the wind behind her, the front rider kicked and kicked. The woman’s desperate shouts carried across the field, exhorting the horse to greater effort, but the mount had nothing left, unable to lengthen its heaving canter. Another girl bounced on the horse’s rump, arms tight round the first.

A group of riders, swathed in sheepskin coats and brandishing bows and swords, streaked out of the woods in pursuit, shouting in a strange tongue. Suddenly the first horse stumbled. Hold jarred loose, the rearward girl fell like a stricken bird into the carpet of daisies, disappearing from view in dense foliage. The first rider threw herself from the horse, letting it continue in headlong flight up the meadow. Pulling up their horses, the three score or so men in pursuit started to quarter the meadow.

Jostling his horse alongside Travall, Jaien said, ‘Hyerlin bandits.’

Travall grimaced. He had seen reports from Pelan about Hyerlin stealing women to sell into slavery. Reaching for his helm, he was ready to set spur to his horse when movement up the valley caught his eye. A black stain flowed down the field like unblotted ink. ‘What all the hells is that?’

Jaien narrowed his eyes. ‘Hyerlin, several hundred. More massed Hyerlin than I’ve ever seen before.’

The women were in trouble, but if Travall helped them, he would put his own party at risk, and his duty outweighed the lives of two women. In no way could his men fight against such odds. ‘Hold!’ he ordered.

His men, swords and bows already drawn, swung shocked faces in his direction.

Jaien did not even try to hide his disgust. ‘You hold!’ he ground out between his teeth. Without hesitation, he raised his sword and spurred his horse into the sunlight, crying, ‘To me! To me!’ All nineteen of Atiarin’s men charged their horses in pursuit, Gerein and Camar with them as if Jaien was still their commander.

Travall swore. As usual, Jaien had more honour than sense. Pulling down his helm, he shouted at his own men, ‘Grab the women, then run for your lives!’

Releasing Aurion, Sihan plunged Spirit into the field, ignoring Balfere’s shout to desist. He was having none of that. He had come too far, seen too much to hold back in the face of danger. His injuries had lessened with the granine. Though he had no weapon but a dagger, he did not need one to be of use. He had seen where the women had fallen. He was as close to being Senfari as he ever would be without holding the title. This was no different to the wolf test. He went after the first girl to fall.

The Hyerlin, who had been scouring the undergrowth for the women, swung their horses toward the new threat of riders bearing down on them. Jaien and his men hurtled into them at full charge, knocking several Hyerlin half-breeds to their knees, slicing bandits’ heads from shoulders. Travall’s men were only strides behind.

The mess of fighting masked the girl, but Sihan held true to his course. In a wild skirmish of Senfari, the only rule was to never lose sight of the goal, wolf’s pelt and cairn, naught else mattered. He knew where she was.

Spirit cut and dodged both friend and foe. In the melee of horsemen and soldiers, Sihan only just evaded a sword thrust at his chest. Before him, a shadow hunkered low in the grass. Sihan leaned low over Spirit’s wither, reached out. This was like Yseth all over again, the wolf pelt prize for the taking.

She cowered low, a cornered beast, on palm and knee, ready to scramble into flight. Beneath thick wads of hair tumbling over her face, eyes met his, bright, frightened ovals of green light. ‘Take my hand!’ he shouted, hanging half out the saddle, hoping she understood his northern dialect. There was only one chance at this. Once the Hyerlin saw her, they would all be on top of