After leaving Vredech and the others, Skynner had galloped to the Keeperage. Years as a Keeper had given him a cold and sceptical eye, and he had seen more than a few tricksters in his time effecting ‘miracles’ that, in the end, usually only effected a miraculous emptying of the pockets, or coffers on occasions, of anyone foolish enough to believe them.
What Cassraw had done at the summit must be yet another piece of trickery… surely? In common with most people, Skynner accepted without question such miracles as the turn of the seasons, the rising and setting of the sun, the growing of seed into tree and flower, even the arbitrary comings and goings of the wind and the rain. These were ‘natural’. But all else, he knew, was determined by an inexorable and conspicuous law of cause and effect. What cause Cassraw had evoked to create that particular effect was beyond him, but that was no doubt Cassraw’s intention and he, Serjeant Keeper, was not going to waste time being distracted by it. The artifice would come to light sooner or later and, in any event, was irrelevant. He had a duty to cut through to the heart of Cassraw’s intentions, or as nearly as he could, because even though he could not see what they were, he could see enough to know that they were not in the interests of the public safety and the peace. And whatever game he was playing at, Cassraw’s call for the levying of the militia was unequivocally illegal. Skynner would have been within his rights to arrest him there and then, but it needed no great sensitivity to the mood of the crowd to realize that that would have been a foolish, perhaps even potentially fatal thing to attempt. He would have to advise his superiors and let them choose the time for taking a step as serious as arresting a Chapter Brother.
The duty Serjeant looked up in surprise as Skynner strode noisily into the Keeperage, but reading Skynner’s expression, he bit back the jocular remark he was about to make, and simply pointed straight up with the comradely warning, ‘Careful, Chief’s in.’
‘Good,’ Skynner said grimly and headed for the stairs.
As he drew near to the Chief Keeper’s office, he reached the carpeted area of the building and the change in the sound of his footfalls set in motion long-imbued habits of discipline. He flattened his hair, straightened out his tunic, and began to marshal his words. Going straight to the Chief instead of through his Captain and High Captain was not something to be done lightly, but it was urgent, and as the Chief fortuitously happened to be there…
Two or three paces gave him a handful of excuses for his directness. Once he had made those he’d have no trouble holding the Chief’s attention. He gave his uniform a final twitch outside the door, then knocked briskly.
‘Come in.’
There was a middle-of-the-day wakefulness in the voice that made Skynner pause. As he reached for the door handle, he asked himself for the first time what had happened to bring the Chief in at this time of night.
He opened the door quickly and stepped into the office.
Someone else was there as well as the Chief Keeper. Someone sitting not across the desk from him, but in one of the comfortable chairs by the fireplace. The Chief Keeper was sitting opposite him and lying dolefully between them was a dull red and grey fire.
Skynner recognized the Chief’s companion immediately as Toom Drommel. So that’s why he’s here, he thought. Want the old beggar on a Keeper matter and he’s nowhere to be found. Let some politician snap his fingers and he abandons home and hearth in the middle of the night to make reassuring noises.
Well, this politician’s business could wait.
‘I’m sorry for disturbing you, sir,’ he said, ‘but an extremely serious matter’s come to light. I need to…’ he was about to say discuss but changed it quickly, ‘… report it immediately.’
The Chief pointed to a chair. ‘Bring that over here and sit down, Haron,’ he said.
Skynner’s every instinct leapt on to the defensive. The Chief using his given name like that was not a good sign. Something difficult was about to be brought up. Nevertheless, and trying not to look as tense as he felt, he did as he was told.
The Chief addressed Drommel as Skynner sat down stiffly between them. ‘This is Haron Skynner,’ he said. ‘Our most senior Serjeant.’ He became avuncular. ‘Should be a Captain by rights, but he insists he prefers footwork to paperwork and he’s not to be persuaded to higher ambitions.’ He nodded sagely. ‘I think perhaps he’s wiser than we know. I must confess, there’s been many a time when I’ve sat here and wished devoutly that I could be out there with my men, doing what we’re trained for, and best at.’
With commendable restraint Skynner remained silent, confining himself to a self-deprecating but knowing smile.
‘I’ve seen Serjeant Skynner many a time on duty at the PlasHein,’ Drommel said, endeavouring to ape the Chief’s informality but still having a little difficulty with his statesman’s voice. He nodded creakily towards Skynner then gave the Chief a significant look.
The Chief nodded. ‘Serjeant Skynner’s one of my best men, if not the best. There’s nothing I’d not trust him with, and he’s very sound in practical matters. A street Keeper to his boots.’
If only that didn’t sound like an insult, Skynner thought.
‘And what we have to deal with is nothing if not practical, is it?’
Skynner was watching the two men carefully, waiting for an opportunity to commence his account of Cassraw’s actions. Gradually, however, he became aware of an undertow of excitement between them.
The word ‘conspiracy’ came to him unbidden.
Drommel gave a sign of acquiescence. ‘I trust your judgement implicitly, Chief,’ he said. ‘I can see it will be important that the Serjeant and his colleagues be aware of what’s going to happen and why.’
The Chief nodded briskly and stood up. Skynner made to rise, but the Chief waved him airily back down on to his seat. He took up an authoritative stance with his back to the fire and his legs planted solid and wide. ‘Serjeant,’ he began, as though addressing a parade. ‘You know that, as Keepers, we avoid getting involved in politics. We’re executive officers of the state and it’s our job to do as the law-makers decree, not decide what should and should not be the law. We advise occasionally, of course, but purely to lay before them the benefits of our experience for their guidance.’ Skynner began to feel uneasy. The Chief rocked forward. ‘However, it needs no great political insight to realize that, for various reasons, the country’s currently facing serious difficulties. Difficulties that will need a strong head and a strong hand to see us through.’
Skynner nodded tentatively as the Chief seemed to be awaiting some response, though he was feeling increasingly uncomfortable.
‘The situation is this, Skynner. The Castellan Party is in complete disarray. They’ve no one else of the calibre of their present leader and he, frankly, is… unwell.’ He made a drinking gesture. ‘I have it on good authority that he’ll probably resign very shortly. That’ll leave us with the Ploughers in charge.’ He puffed out his cheeks in dismay. ‘They, unfortunately, are almost as disunited as the Castellans. And in any case, they’ve always been more theoretical in their thinking than practical, and under their present leader – a worthy soul as you know but hardly a driving force – they’re not remotely capable of standing firm in the face of what’s likely to happen after the routing of the Felden army. Frankly, I can’t see this present Heindral lasting the week. Then we’ll be facing an Acclamation. An Acclamation, Skynner. Two months leaderless with Tirfelden undoubtedly preparing to send another army against us.’ He shook his head. ‘Suicide, man. National suicide.’
Skynner was uncertain how to respond. He was about to tell the Chief that the situation was even worse than he envisaged, and that Cassraw was arbitrarily levying the militia, when the Chief forestalled him. ‘Fortunately, we have at least two strong men in positions of responsibility who can act to save us from this predicament. One is Heinder Drommel here, who has consistently tried to embolden the Heindral to take firm action against Tirfelden. The other is Brother Cassraw, who for months now has been decrying the moral decay in the country and who, with his Knights of Ishryth, has saved us from the first thrust of the Felden assault while our ostensible leaders dithered and appeased.’
Skynner had faced many difficult situations in his time and had considerable skill in separating his inner reactions from his outward responses. It was strained to the limit by this revelation of the Chief’s thinking, however. All that saved him from denouncing the remarks as ridiculous, was the realization that what had been said about the Heindral and the country’s position was correct. Further, he began to realize, if the Chief and Drommel and perhaps Cassraw were playing some political game together, then others would be involved. Others whose names, whose power and influence, he did not know. It behoved him, he reminded himself, to remember that he was only a Serjeant, and whatever he thought about what was happening, such power as he had to affect it could be removed from him with little more than a snap of the fingers by the man addressing him. Nevertheless, he could not stay silent.
‘Brother Cassraw is a remarkable man, beyond doubt, sir,’ he said carefully. ‘But he’s causing great controversy within the Church, which may see him losing the Haven Parish. And I’ll confess I’m uncomfortable about members of the Church becoming involved in lay matters. It confuses people. And I’m afraid that some of the young men he’s recruited for his Knights of Ishryth are not exactly desirable – a bunch of thugs and louts with whom we’re all too familiar. And his own behaviour is unusual, to say the least. He almost started a riot at the summit of the Ervrin Mallos with a trick he played there, and the consequences could have been serious. That’s one of the things I came to see you about.’
He was aware of the two men watching him very closely… judging him.
‘We know,’ the Chief said. ‘But no actual harm was done, was it? You see, Haron, Brother Cassraw has a true gift for handling people.’ He leaned forward and Skynner felt the scrutiny intensifying. ‘And I think there’s little doubt that he has indeed been chosen for some great mission.’
Still Skynner managed to give no outward sign of the shock he felt at this further revelation, but inwardly he was reeling. The Chief’s words resounded in his head like tolling funeral bells. They had had someone on the mountain! They knew what had happened! The ranting sermon, the trick with the rain, the call to levy the militia… and they were content to do nothing about it! Frighteningly, the conclusion formed that they might actually have been party to it.
And that the Chief should think Cassraw was some kind of chosen prophet…
He did not want to pursue that idea.
The Chief was continuing. Skynner dragged his scattering thoughts together. ‘Apart from the many other signs we’ve been shown, Serjeant, is it not strange that poor Brother Mueran should pass on so suddenly and unexpectedly, thereby elevating Brother Cassraw to the position of Covenant Member?’ He leaned back on his heels and pontificated. ‘It’s not for the likes of us to question the ways of Ishryth’s providence, but to see where our duty to Him and the people lies, and to act accordingly.’
Skynner made a final cautious attempt at resistance. ‘As you say, sir. Not my province at all. But I’m uncertain about the legality of Brother Cassraw levying the militia, sir. It should properly be done through the Heindral.’
The Chief nodded understandingly. ‘We have no Heindral, Serjeant, except in name,’ he said forcefully. ‘And it’s uncertainty and fretting about niceties that’s brought us to this.’ He became comradely again. ‘I could go out of here and consult a dozen different lawyers on our constitutional position and come up with two dozen different opinions – as you know yourself. The fact is, there’s never been a situation like this before. There are no precedents to guide us – nothing. So, humble servants of the state like you and me must put our faith in our duty to protect the people, and encourage them to protect themselves.’
‘I couldn’t argue with that, sir,’ Skynner said, determined now simply to watch events, and move as they dictated. A little humility wouldn’t go amiss, he decided. ‘But, as you said, sir, I’m just a simple street Keeper; I’m not quite sure what part I have to play in these affairs. I just do my job and follow orders.’
The Chief and Drommel exchanged a satisfied glance and the Chief, though still holding his position in front of the dying fire, relaxed noticeably. ‘Heinder Drommel has been in consultation with Brother Cassraw today, as have I, many times of late. I find him most… impressive. We both knew of his intention to call for a levying of the militia and we agreed with it, even though, technically, its legality is arguable. The exigencies of the times will acquit us, should it prove we’ve been over-zealous.’ His face became sombre. ‘Tomorrow, Heinder Drommel will put a motion before the Heindral calling for its dissolution and the institution of an emergency militia government pending the holding of an Acclamation.’
Skynner’s brow furrowed as his mind stumbled back through the years to his basic training and the cursory instruction he had received then in constitutional law. A rote-learned definition slowly emerged. ‘The vesting of all authority in the hands of a few appointed ministers and officials under a…’ He clicked his fingers.
‘High Commander,’ Drommel said, as Skynner struggled to remember the title.
Skynner nodded his thanks. ‘But it’s never actually been done, has it?’ he said. ‘Isn’t it a relic of the days of the Court of the Provers and earlier?’
‘That’s true,’ the Chief said. ‘But the provision is still there within our laws. And again, who can say what providence allowed it to remain there, for it’s precisely what we need to deal with the situation we now find ourselves facing.’
The look of concern on Skynner’s face was genuine, but he wilfully added confusion to it for the benefit of his watchers. ‘And my part in this?’ he asked, reverting to his previous question.
‘Under militia government, the responsibilities of the Keepers are greatly increased, as are their powers. This is necessary because, sadly, not everyone has our sense of duty. Many will view the prospect of defending their country with sufficient distaste to take active steps towards avoiding it. Such individuals must be dealt with swiftly and severely by way of example before their actions spread resentment and opposition. Further, the requirements of a fully levied militia will disrupt normal social and business life greatly, and in such circumstances there are more opportunities than ever for the criminals amongst us to ply their various trades. Men of your experience will be essential for the efficient running of the state until such time as normal government can be restored.’
Under an impassive demeanour, Skynner was still struggling to come to terms with all that he had heard during the last few minutes. Having only dealt directly with the Chief a few times in the past, he had no way of accurately assessing his mood and temperament. The man was known to have political ambitions, but these were always regarded as a joke amongst the men. And what he had said was both accurate and appropriate. Though it took him an effort to form the words, Skynner accepted that the country was indeed ‘at war’ with Tirfelden. Perhaps diplomacy might resolve it, but perhaps not. If not, the consequences would be truly awful and strong leadership was essential. Yet there was a stridency in the Chief’s tone which Skynner found deeply unsettling. He needed time to think.
But he posed a question instead. ‘I accept what you say, sir, but with respect, what if the Heindral doesn’t pass Heinder Drommel’s motion, and chooses to bumble on as before?’
The Chief smiled knowingly. ‘As I told you, Heinder, a solid practical man,’ he said to Drommel before answering Skynner’s question. ‘Don’t concern yourself about that, Serjeant,’ he said, reaching forward and patting Skynner’s shoulder, fatherly now. ‘That’s politicians’ work. And you can rest assured that a great deal more has been happening behind the scenes than I’m at liberty to discuss, even with a fellow Keeper.’ Skynner managed to smile appreciatively. ‘What Heinder Drommel and I need to know now, Serjeant, is are you with us in this?’
Drommel twitched slightly at this clumsy conclusion to the Chief’s peroration, and Skynner noted the movement with some satisfaction. It seemed to make the Chief a familiar figure again. But that was only a temporary verbal stumble in the presence of an individual who really did not matter all that much. The realities of what had been said would be unaffected by it. Skynner resorted to his own discreetly ambiguous rhetoric. ‘I’m a Keeper, sir. Keeping the peace and protecting ordinary folk from those who’d harm them is what I’m good at. I’ll do whatever I have to do. You can rely on me for that, sir.’
A little later, alone in a narrow alley at the back of the Keeperage, where he had come to clear his head with cold night air, Skynner had a vision of Canol Madreth at war and under the heel of Cassraw and Drommel and the likes of his Chief. He was violently sick.
The Whistler frowned. ‘You’re a grim sight to mar such a day, night eyes,’ he said, raising his flute and squinting along it. A sudden breeze gusted around the two men, sending leaves pirouetting about their feet. The Whistler’s eyes widened in delight and he held out the flute, moving it, twisting it, turning it, until a faint sound came from it. His long, bony finger danced along the holes and the sound became a brief, jigging tune. The Whistler smiled as it faded away and then looked at his hand strangely. ‘Thus blows the forest, thus walk my fingers. It seems they’re content to see you.’ He wiggled his fingers. ‘I wonder why they didn’t play you a dirge? That would’ve been my reaction on seeing you again.’ He threw his head back and sniffed. ‘You’ve got Him about you, stronger than ever. Damn you to hell.’
He stood up and took three jerking steps towards Vredech, keeping the same foot forward. ‘What do you want, Allyn Vredech, priest of Ishrythan?’ he said, hopping from one foot to the other, his manner incongruously at odds with the darkness in his voice. ‘Why do you disturb my dream again? I’d thought to have been rid of you a hundred years ago.’ His eyes moved to the left. ‘Or was it yesterday?’ They moved to the right. ‘Or perhaps tomorrow.’ Then straight forward, into Vredech’s. ‘I can’t remember. Are you a memory of the future, Priest? A shadow cast by the light of a time to come?’
Vredech lifted a hand, appealing for silence. Whether the Whistler was his own creation, or something else, he had no time for him now. He had to get away from here, return to the Meeting House.
‘Where are we?’ he heard himself asking.
The Whistler danced away, his manner now impatient. ‘We’re here, Allyn Vredech. Where else could we be?’ Then he blew a piercing whistle and Vredech found himself assailed by a roaring din, and unfamiliar but not unpleasant odours. He blinked, not so much to bring the scene before him into focus as to make it recognizable. He was by a huge lake. So huge in fact that he could not see the far side, although he could make out two or three islands in the distance – if islands they were, for they seemed to be moving. A trick of the light, he presumed, for the edge of the lake was alive with motion. Waves, bigger than any he had ever seen, spuming white in the sunlight, were swelling and over-topping themselves, then washing up the sandy shore towards him, spreading themselves thinner and thinner before retreating to oppose the next advancing rank.
This was no lake, he realized slowly.
‘It’s the sea,’ he said, his voice full of wonder. He had never seen the sea.
‘And we are here,’ the Whistler said. ‘Just as we are here.’
There was another whistle, sharp and jagged this time.
In the distance, over rolling fields, Vredech saw a great castle set between two mountains and glinting like a precious stone. Its ramping towers and turrets glowed golden in the dawn light. For a moment, as he took in the scene and breathed in the still morning air, all his concerns fell away from him. ‘This is a beautiful place,’ he said softly. ‘Such peace.’ He turned to the Whistler, half-expecting some barbed comment, but the lanky figure was frowning. A fluttering sound nearby made him turn again. A large black bird, sitting on the branch of a tree, was flapping its wings and looking at them, its head tilted to one side. One of its legs looked strange, Vredech noted. Before he could say anything, however, he felt the Whistler’s hand on his shoulder.
Urgently, he tried to pull away.
He did not want to leave this place!
But even as the thought came to him, the Whistler’s tune had borne them both away again. Borne them to a place which could hardly have been a greater contrast, for though a bright summer sun beat down on them, the air was filled with such a din that Vredech’s hands went immediately to his ears. There were the screams of men and animals, mingling with the thudding of hooves, and clashing of arms. Some distance away across the green, undulating turf but close enough to terrify, row upon row of men were locked in savage combat. Vredech backed away, seizing the Whistler’s arm like a fearful child. The battle spread as far as he could see, a dark mass of striving men, wavering pennants, galloping horsemen. As he watched, a black cloud leapt high into the air and fell back again. Only when the sound reached him did he identify it. Arrows! Hundreds of them. And again. And again. He shuddered as the sounds of their landing reached him also.
A movement away from the battle caught his eye. He turned and saw an old man running. He was looking about him, bewildered and fearful as though he was being pursued. But again, before he could speak, Vredech saw the Whistler lifting his hand to his mouth.
As the sound he made folded around the scene and bore them away, Vredech thought that he heard wolves howling.
Yet there was nothing but the rustling of the trees in the forest.
‘Whistler! Enough!’ Vredech shouted angrily. ‘Let me go. Let me get back to my own time and place, to my reality where…’ He stopped.
The Whistler was uncharacteristically still, though his jaw was working slightly as if he were actually chewing his thoughts. He was looking at Vredech strangely. ‘Everything goes amiss when you appear, Preacher,’ he said. ‘I’m carried to places I’ve never known. The song becomes infinitely subtle.’ He held out his hand, his thumb and forefinger pressing together tightly. ‘The least change here…’ he whistled two notes, then his eyes opened wide and he flicked his hands open, spinning the flute around one of them. ‘… and such changes there. Such changes – very strange. Never known the like. Who are you, Preacher?’
‘Enough, Whistler!’ Vredech shouted. Then with a cry of frustration he began driving his fingernails into his forearm in the vague hope that perhaps the pain might rouse him or in some way restore him to the Meeting House. Nothing happened. The Whistler watched him narrowly.
‘You haven’t killed Him then?’ he said, his voice matter-of-fact.
Vredech abandoned his attempt to rouse himself and glared at the Whistler.
‘You’re a dark sight, Priest,’ the Whistler said, suddenly angry. ‘Standing there with your doomsday-black robe and your eyes like pits into who knows what purgatory, fouling the forest with the stink of Him!’ Then the anger seemed suddenly to drain out of him and he gave a resigned shrug. ‘Tell me what’s happened then,’ he said.
‘Go to hell!’ Vredech snapped.
‘I probably will if I follow you and your like,’ the Whistler retorted viciously. ‘Now tell me what’s happened.’
For a moment, Vredech felt a rage such as he had never known. He found himself about to rush forward and attack his tormentor, but even as his body stiffened, the Whistler moved slightly and bringing the flute to his mouth played the familiar three notes, long and plaintive. The movement made Vredech falter, and the sound scattered his intention.
‘Tell me, Allyn,’ the Whistler said.
Vredech felt his knees buckling, as if unable to sustain his confusion, and he sat down before he fell. ‘Let me go back,’ he pleaded. ‘I’ve nightmares enough in the real world – or whatever it is – without this. I need to be there. There’s no other true place for me.’
The Whistler approached cautiously and crouched down in front of him. ‘Tell me,’ he said again, very softly.
Vredech slumped, and without looking up told all that had happened since they had last met. It did not take long. Throughout, the Whistler blew gently across the mouth-hole of his flute, with a sound like the wind blowing over a bleak and distant plain.
There was a long silence after Vredech had finished.
‘You frighten me, Allyn Vredech, with your monstrous Cassraw,’ the Whistler said eventually. ‘But it’s Him that brings the changes, not you. I’m sorry. He distorts the fabric of everything with His lust!’ His final word drifted away into the soft sigh of the wind.
When Vredech looked up, he was staring at Nertha sitting on the edge of the couch by her patient, her head bowed slightly and her profile lit by the firelight. How strange that he’d never before noticed how beautiful she was, nor realized how precious she was to him. The strange serenity he had felt as he had stared at the distant castle in the dawn light but moments before returned to him, calming him.
‘Are you awake, Allyn?’ Nertha asked quietly.
He nodded. ‘Yes. How long was I asleep?’
Nertha smiled. ‘Not long. Yan-Elter’s not back yet.’
Vredech stretched luxuriously. ‘How’s Iryn?’ he asked.
‘He’s sleeping normally now, but he’s still disturbed.’
The words brought back the memory of the dream he had entered before he had been drawn again to the Whistler. It had been so powerful, so vivid. And he had never before remained in one dream for so long. It must have been Iryn’s, he realized. Perhaps because they were so close physically, perhaps because Iryn’s dream was so compellingly awful or, it occurred to him, perhaps he was still changing – in some way becoming more controlled, more sensitive. Like the Whistler’s tunes.
‘I know why,’ he said.
Nertha looked at him.
‘He’s dreaming about Bredill,’ Vredech said, prising himself out of the chair and moving to the couch. ‘I’ve been inside his dream.’ So much had happened that day that, despite her training and experience, Nertha could not keep the distress from her face at this remark. Vredech knew the cause and pressed on to the cure without pause. Gently he motioned her away from the sleeping Iryn, then very quickly, almost whispering, he told her about the dream. ‘It was no glorious battle,’ he concluded. ‘It was a treacherous and bloody ambush. A slaughter of sleeping men.’
Nertha took his arm. ‘But…’
‘Wake him and ask him,’ Vredech instructed.
Nertha hesitated.
‘Wake him!’
Then he stepped past her, smoothing down his hair, ruffled from his brief sleep, and fastening his clerical robe. He sat on the edge of the couch by Iryn and gently shook him. Gradually the young man awoke, blinking and rubbing his eyes in the soft lantern-light. Vredech gave him no opportunity to speak.
‘You’re safe now, Iryn,’ he said quietly but with a preacher’s ring to his voice. Nertha watched him carefully. ‘I’m Brother Vredech and this is my sis… Nertha, a physician. Your brother rescued you and brought you here, after your friends had deserted you. He’ll be back soon. He’s gone to tell your mother that you’re well. She’s been desperately worried about you since you went off to Bredill.’
At the mention of Bredill, Iryn’s face began to contort. Vredech laid a restraining hand on him. ‘I can feel your pain, my son,’ he said. ‘And I can help you with it.’ Iryn put his hands over his face and uttered a muffled, ‘No.’
Vredech pulled the hands away. ‘Yes,’ he insisted. ‘I know you’re no service-attender, but that’s of no great consequence. The true heart of the church doesn’t lie in buildings and rites and practices, it lies inpeople’s hearts. Ishryth might be a stern god, but He always sustains those who turn to Him. He will not burden you with more than you can bear, but you must speak of that burden if you wish it to be lightened.’ He leaned forward. ‘Speak it now. Speak out what it was that you and the others did at Bredill which is giving you such pain that it’s almost crushing you. Speak out so that you can start on the path towards reparation and forgiveness.’
Iryn screwed his eyes tight shut and, gritting his teeth, shook his head violently from side to side.
Vredech’s preaching tone was relentless in its authority. ‘There is no other way,’ he declared. ‘Speak it and let us help you, or be burdened with it for ever.’ He leaned still further forward, ‘For ever, Iryn. For the rest of your life – and beyond.’ Though both his look and his voice were full of compassion, his tone was a cruelly judged goad.
Nertha caught his arm, but he shook her off.
All of a sudden Iryn began to utter a high-pitched squeal. He clamped his hands over his face again, driving his fingernails into his forehead. Vredech took hold of them, but made no effort to move them other than to prevent Iryn from injuring himself.
The squealing rose to a climax and then began to break up into sobs. Eventually, gasping and disjointed, and punctuated by inarticulate bursts of remorse, the tale of the glorious Battle of Bredill emerged. Vredech nodded and encouraged the confession, but his eyes kept moving to Nertha, who was now sitting by the patient’s head. Towards the end, Yan-Elter returned. Vredech motioned him urgently to silence as he came into the room.
When it was finished, Nertha had heard the account that Vredech had given her repeated in every particular, save that there was more, for Iryn’s account told also of Cassraw and Yanos’s murderous driven march across the countryside to bring their force to Bredill and then to return it to Troidmallos. Encouragement had taken many forms, but predominantly it had consisted of vicious abuse, and later blows and kicks. There were hints in the telling that others than he had simply been abandoned, both going and returning, but Vredech did not press for details. Nor did he press for an account of other things that Cassraw apparently did to keep his warriors moving, as the existence of these seemed to lie in sudden silences, and they obviously inspired a fear in Iryn that was far deeper than any remorse.
‘Bravely told, Iryn,’ Vredech said when all was apparently finished. ‘These were awful deeds, but your feet are on a truer path now. I want you to stay here and rest, and we’ll talk again in the morning. There are things to be done which will help undo some of this harm.’
‘It’s not going to bring anyone back to life, is it?’ Iryn said, his hands moving towards his face again, but stopping.
Vredech shook his head. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘But we can try to stop others from being killed. A great many others.’
‘What’s happened?’ Yan-Elter demanded as Vredech finally stood up.
‘Your mother’s all right?’ Vredech said, authoritative again.
‘Yes, but…’
‘I’ll tell you what’s happened later. Nertha and I have a lot to talk about now. What I want you to do is sit by your brother. Just be there where he can see you. Let him sleep, let him talk, whatever he wants. But no questions, do you understand? No questions. Everything will keep until the morning.’
Nertha was looking at him strangely as they sat down again by the fire and she pulled their chairs closer so that they could talk privately.
‘I don’t know whether I’m more or less frightened after hearing that,’ she confessed. ‘You really did go into his dream, didn’t you?’
‘I’ll answer your question for you,’ Vredech said. ‘You’re less frightened, because now you don’t have to be quite so fearful for my sanity. You’re also more frightened, because you’ve never known or heard the like before, and you don’t know what’s happening or how.’
‘All I need is your Whistler to come through the door,’ Nertha said, self-mocking.
Vredech smiled and shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘You’d be wondering then whether you, too, had gone insane.’
Nertha reflected his smile then gently admonished him. ‘Enough,’ she whispered. ‘We shouldn’t be talking like this after what we’ve just heard.’
Vredech turned towards Iryn and Yan-Elter. Just as he and Nertha were engaged in a subdued conversation, so were the two brothers.
‘An idle street lout,’ he said. ‘The family misfit. Slipped through caring hands – or jumped, perhaps. Destined for some twilight life at the fringes of our society, and probably prison in the end. But now a murderer under Cassraw’s tutelage. As clear a measure of Cassraw’s corruption as my telling of his dream was of my own strange… ability.’ He looked back to Nertha. ‘You prefer things to be hard-edged, don’t you?’ he said.
Nertha met his gaze. ‘I’d prefer some things never to be,’ she said. ‘But yes, given that they are, the more signs point the way, the happier I feel about the direction I’m travelling.’
Vredech took up the analogy. ‘Have you thought about what direction Canol Madreth’s travelling in?’ he asked.
‘Towards war and horror,’ Nertha replied simply. ‘It’ll take the Felden some time to gather their army together, but when they do they’ll come for revenge, I’m sure. And if Cassraw can fire the militia as he fired these Knights of his, then whatever the outcome, there’ll be blood spilt and hatred ignited that’ll go down through the ages even when the original cause has been long forgotten. Children unborn are already dying of it.’
Vredech shivered at this cruel analysis.
‘And where does that leave us?’ he asked. ‘You and me? The people who know.’
Nertha looked at him for a long time. ‘Other than being desperately afraid of what’s going to happen and the speed of what’s actually happening, I don’t know.’ She did not carry helplessness well.
‘Yes,’ Vredech whispered very softly. Then he stood up and walked over to a sideboard. He opened a drawer and after a clumsy search in the comparative darkness, found what he was looking for. He returned to Nertha and gave it to her.
‘I’ve a small medical problem I’d like your help with,’ he said.
‘It’s Father’s militia knife,’ she said, smiling as she recognized it. She took the knife from its sheath and tested the edge. ‘Good as ever. He’d shave with this sometimes just to show off and give us all a fright, do you remember?’ Her smile faded and she looked at Vredech anxiously. ‘What do you mean, a small medical problem? And what have you got this out for?’
Vredech glanced at Yan-Elter and Iryn, then took the knife from Nertha’s unresisting hand. He spoke softly but very deliberately. ‘I’m as responsible for those deaths at Bredill as that lad over there. I’m going to take some advice I was given a little time ago but which in my priestly wisdom I chose to ignore. I’ll listen to yours, however, and follow it carefully.’
He looked down at the knife, its blade glinting in the firelight. ‘I need to know, Physician, the quickest and most effective way of using this to kill Cassraw.’