Tom Lloyd - The Twilight herald

Isak stood, motioning the others back down as they rose with him.

Hooking two fingers around the neck of the half-empty decanter, he excused himself to Suzerain Saroc and his countess. He knew he was being rude, but he didn't want to be drawn further on the subject tonight; his sour temper and too much wine might lead him to say something he didn't intend. Now he wanted a chance to hear what his advisors had to say before discussing the matter further.

Making his way out of the hall, Isak followed the corridor to the terrace that overlooked the suzerain's formal garden, apparently in the Tor Milist style. Mihn was on his heel, as normal. He crossed the terrace and felt the lush dew-kissed grass underneath his shoes and breathed in the smell of evening blooms.

The suzerain was proud of his gardens, and though the concept remained alien to Isak, who knew nothing of such things, in the warm gloom of twilight and lit by scattered paper lanterns, he had to agree that the sight before him was beautiful. Low yew hedges sectioned off the long garden, each enclosing a different style. Thin swirls of flowerbeds cut paths through the grass, blazing with the colours of summer, but it was the stillness that Isak savoured the most.

A dwarf apple tree the height of Isak's chest stood at the centre of a piece of lawn, flanked by slender stone birdbaths. Resting the decanter on the nearest, Isak fumbled in his pocket for Carel's tobacco pouch; the countess had forbidden it to the veteran. Soon, the thick smell of pipe-smoke was drifting through the slender branches of the apple tree and fading to nothing in the darkening sky. Isak inspected the snow-white skin of his hand. It hadn't changed at all since the battle in Narkang, where lightning had burned the colour from it. Not even weeks of riding with it exposed to the sun had tanned it.

'Had you planned that?' asked Mihn quietly, having checked for anyone who might overhear their conversation.

'Of course.'

'Then why did Lady Tila and the count look quite so surprised?'

Isak sighed. 'Because I'd not planned to announce it quite like that. Did it just sound like the ranting of a drunk?'

Mihn shook his head. 'No, it was a little more eloquent. There will be serious opposition, though, even from your supporters.'

'Good, that's the point.' Isak jabbed the pipe towards the high roof of the hall. 'Most of the Farlan legions are led by fat, contented old men. If they object to a trip to Tirah, they'll be of no use on campaign. They need waking up, Mihn, our blades have become dulled.'

'What threat is it you want them to be ready for?' Mihn sounded unconcerned, but Isak could tell the man was worried by the fact they were conversing at all. He would go several days on end without speaking a word to Isak – when Mihn deemed conversation necessary, Isak knew that he'd damned well better pay attention.

'Take your pick. I don't think there's any way to tell yet, but Lord Bahl wasn't killed by accident. If Morghien and King Emin are to be believed, this is all some artifice of Azaer's – or it might be Lord Styrax, building himself an empire. And we must not give the White Circle time to regroup – they all add up to one thing: we must be prepared for war.'

'You intend to punish the White Circle?'

Isak shrugged. 'They brought the fight to us; what can I do except strike back?'

'There are ways to strike back that don't involve razing Scree and Helrect to the ground.'

'Is that what you're worried about? My lack of proportion?' Isak took a sip of wine and screwed up his face. The wine didn't go with the bitter soldier's tobacco Carel preferred. He turned to look Mihn in the eye: the northerner's usual passivity was gone completely and he matched Isak's gaze without blinking or turning away as he normally would.

'Spreading chaos on our borders may not serve you well, not if chaos is what your enemies want. If there is another way to deal with the Circle, will you promise to consider it?'

Isak blinked. 'That's the first time you've asked me for anything.'

'All I ask is that you do not start the war, that you do not let yourself be goaded into fighting on the wrong front.'

After a moment's pause, Isak held out his arm for Mihn to take. All you're asking is for me to promise to act sensibly; it's a more than fair request.' The smaller man bobbed his head in acknowledgement, returning to his customary reserve.

Isak stopped, hand still gripped about Mihn's forearm, and looked Mihn straight in the eye. Curiosity flickered over Mihn's face, but he had patience enough to outlast a glacier. Isak looked away briefly, then rubbed his hand over his face, as if to sober up a little more.

'You might not like what else I've decided quite so much.' He could almost feel the quiet of the night, and found himself peering around at the shadows, unwilling to continue until he was sure they were not being spied on. He couldn't feel anything; it was only his muzzy brain and his innate sense of caution.

'I want you and Morghien to fetch Xeliath for me, to bring her back to Tirah. It won't be long until someone works out her part in what happened, and when that happens, she'll not live long. She knows Morghien, and you, I assume, can speak Yeetatchen. I have no one else I could ask such a thing of.'

Mihn was quiet for a moment, then he bowed his head. 'If she is that important to you, I will do it.'

'I don't know how important she is to me,' Isak said honestly. 'I've only spoken to her a handful of times. All I know is that she'll be another casualty of my existence – of my twisted destiny – if I leave her to her own fate. The blood of another innocent on my hands.'

He took a draw on the pipe, only to find it was out. He jabbed his thumb into the pipe bowl and hissed as he discovered the embers were hotter than he'd expected. He wiped his thumb on his tunic, leaving a smear of ash on the white fabric. 'Speaking of blood on my hands, it's time to check on Carel.'

'Xomejx? That's a long way to go for a girl you hardly know,' Morghien said. 'I know she's a pretty young thing-'

'She's in danger and I can hardly go myself,' Isak said, raising a hand to cut Morghien off. 'I need you to go because she knows you, and she can reach your mind.'

'But I don't speak Yeetatchen – never been there in all my years of travelling.'

'Well here's a chance to correct that oversight. As for the language problems, Mihn is going with you and I'm sure he'll manage to pick up a few words.'

Isak squinted up at the old wanderer and grinned. He was stretched out on the grass in the suzerain's private garden, dressed in only a thin shirt and cropped trousers that looked more suitable for a dock worker than a duke. An eight-foot stone wall surrounded the garden, so he'd donned the shirt only when Morghien arrived – he hated displaying the scar on his chest, even to those close to him. Morghien knew the truth about his snow-white left arm, so Isak didn't worry about trying to keep that from sight.

He had declined the invitation to go hawking with the suzerain and his fellow guests, determined to spend at least one day out of the saddle. Instead, he had spent the morning lying on the grass, a cushion under his head, and a cup of apple juice to hand, enjoying the birds and butterflies swarming over the countess' flowers. A book lay unopened at his side and a grey-muzzled hunting hound, the suzerain's favourite, stretched out untidily at his feet. The dog might be too old to go hunting with its master, but it was more than willing to spend a lazy day being pampered by Isak.

Unable to summon the effort to get up properly, Isak indicated Morghien should sit. He was dressed in fresh leathers and a new shirt,

a gift from the countess, whose delicate sensibilities were offended by his own filthy, tattered clothes. It was a scrubbed, shaved and nearly presentable Morghien who sat now before Isak, though the overall ef¬fect was still one of slightly dishevelled elegance. Morghien reminded the white-eye of his Chief Steward, whose fine clothes always looked untidy and rumpled, simply because he was the one wearing them. And that's not the only similarity, Isak thought. Perhaps I should keep Morghien with me just to keep Lesarl off-balance when I return to Tirah.