Roger Taylor - Caddoran

Hyrald’s scrutiny of the shoreman intensified. ‘Why are you helping us?’

Endryk smiled broadly. ‘I saved your lives, I’m responsible for you now.’

‘Or, some would say, we belong to you.’

‘Whichever – I want neither burden.’ Endryk gave a clipped, military bow. ‘You’re all free to go.’

‘You’re avoiding my question.’

Endryk’s expression became serious. ‘If I’d needed a reason for helping you I’d have left you on the shore. But I’m entitled to look at what I’ve dragged ashore, aren’t I? Three law-keepers of sorts, a city dweller and a…’ He looked at Thyrn. ‘And him. All of you lost, floundering.’ Rhavvan scowled at the expression, ‘of sorts,’ but did not speak. The dog moved to Endryk’s side. ‘There’s harshness in you three, for sure, if needs be, but I can see no deep malice in any of you. I told you, I use my instinct. There’s a stench of injustice about you – perhaps something worse after what I’ve just heard.’

‘Your instinct could be wrong.’

Endryk laughed softly. ‘Indeed it could. But I use my head as well.’

Hyrald’s brow furrowed.

‘If you’d been fugitives from justice you’d have killed Oudrence on the beach and me as soon as you were safe ashore.’

Hyrald started slightly, disturbed as much by Endryk’s simple, matter-of-fact tone as by what he said. He did not know what to say next.

Not so Thyrn. ‘You’re not Arvens, are you?’ he announced abruptly. ‘Where are you from?’

Endryk looked at him enigmatically. ‘Far, far away,’ he said quietly.

Thyrn pointed at him. ‘You’re from up there, aren’t you? From the north,’ he said triumphantly, looking round at the others.

Though it made no sound, the dog slowly curled its upper lip to reveal a row of powerful teeth, bright in the sunlight.

Vellain’s slender nose followed the line of her forehead, giving her a stern profile. She had a rather small mouth with lips that were so clearly defined they might have been shaped by a master carver. They were more voluptuous than they tended to seem at first glance. Her dark brown hair was short, immaculately groomed and unmoving. It never changed. She was not particularly tall for a woman, but the way she carried herself made others think of her so. Yet it was not just a straightness of posture or a carriage of the head; she had some other quality that sustained this illusion, perhaps aided by her brown, searching eyes. But whatever it was it remained with her even when she was in the presence of her husband, despite the fact that he was conspicuously taller than she was.

As she came into the room, her glance dismissed a hovering servant. Neither she nor he made any concession to the deep silence pervading the room and the purposeful sound of their intersecting footsteps on the polished wooden floor echoed unashamedly through it as the servant left and she moved straight to a chair at the side of the wide fireplace. Though upholstered and comfortable, the chair nevertheless had a spartan, utilitarian look about it, as did almost everything in Vashnar’s house.

On his appointment to the position of Senior Commander of the Arvenshelm Wardens – the highest position in the Service, Vashnar had declined the official residence that went with the post. As was his way, he had given no explanation, though Hyrald, who had been his aide on the day he had taken possession of the building, had noted a slight movement of his mouth which said everything.

‘Didn’t like it one bit,’ he told his colleagues authoritatively when he returned to his own district. ‘I didn’t think he would. All that luxury the old man used to go for. Plush chairs, carpets you have to part with your hands to get through, paintings, statues, tapestries, fancy furniture littering the place. Not for Vashnar at all. Mind you…’ He allowed himself a significant pause and a knowing expectation lit up his audience. ‘He seemed more interested in the mirrors in the master bedroom than I’d have thought.’ Applause and loud laughter greeted this revelation. Then, ‘“I shall remain in my present house. This place isn’t suited to my needs. It’ll serve for official functions, guest accommodation and the like.”’ Amongst his near equals and well away from his Commander, Hyrald could safely imitate Vashnar’s voice and the characteristically curt gesture that accompanied his pronouncement.

Vashnar did not move as Vellain sat down and silence returned. He was sitting directly opposite the wide, empty grate, staring at the stark, heat-marred ironwork, unhidden by any decorative summer screen. He had been there since he returned home.

Vellain did not speak. She was waiting for a sign which would tell her the reason for his unusual silence. Instinct told her that it was probably something to do with Thyrn and the Death Cry, though what it might be she could not hazard. There were many questions that she needed to have answered about that business, but it was no longer a major topic of the moment and she had already made her own resolution to wait patiently for an opportunity to ask them.

Not that she was too concerned about this present silence. She had complete faith in her husband. Not blind faith by any means, for Vellain was not a woman to follow anyone. More correctly, her faith was in her husband and herself. She had assessed the rising young Warden from their first meeting as being one who could go far, with the right kind of guidance. At the same time she had determined that she was the only one who would provide that guidance. And she had. Moulding his stiff, ambitious character, discreetly sustaining him on the rare occasions when he had looked like faltering, and generally making good in her own image such faults as manifested themselves as they grew together.

And too, she loved him. That part of her was blind. The sight of him at that same first meeting had been like a physical blow. One which had redirected her life and from which, for all her clear eye and calculating nature, she had never fully recovered.

Nevertheless, the past weeks had been more difficult than any other time she could remember. The proclaiming of the Death Cry had surprised and shocked many people, but it had disturbed Vellain badly. There was an arbitrariness about the act which was quite unlike her husband, but worse by far was the explanation she had eventually forced out of him on the night of the deed.

‘He was in my mind, Vellain. Inside it. And more. He seemed to take possession of me. I could feel thoughts being drawn out of me. Thoughts I didn’t even know I had. He must know everything. Everything!’

As the words had stumbled out she had felt the foundations of her life shudder. This pillar of a man, her creation, the centre of her life, had gone insane. Kneeling beside him, she gripped the arm of his chair as though that might somehow hold back her rising panic. Condemnation of her husband’s unbelievable folly rose up inside her like vomit. Then, on the verge of voicing her disbelief and fury, a saving image formed amid the turmoil and stopped her. An image of Thyrn.

The young Caddoran had routinely brought her personal messages from Vashnar and whenever she had listened to him, she had always had the feeling that it was her husband addressing her directly. That was the art and skill of the Caddoran, of course, a matter for applause and appreciation, though with Thyrn the sense of her husband’s presence was far more intense than anything she had ever experienced before. With most Caddoran there was always some element of studied mimicry; subtle inaccuracies in gesture, posture, facial expression that distanced the sender from his messenger, albeit only slightly. But not with Thyrn. She had always felt uneasy about the way he brought the totality of her husband to her. His youth served only to compound this disturbing impression.