‘Keep your distance,’ Raskan said in a low rasp, ‘lest I harm you.’
‘Sergeant, my father has met my eyes. I am his son. I am not here to ask you. I am here to command you. I will lead you to the camp. It is my father’s wish.’
Raskan looked up, eyes hooded in the gloom, his cheeks streaked and his beard glittering. ‘Your father,’ he hissed, making the words a curse. ‘This was Ivis’s task, not mine! Maybe he could have weathered it, but I cannot!’
‘What did she take from you?’
His laugh was harsh and bitter, but he straightened from the wall. ‘I am not the fool he thinks I am. She knows him from long ago. I begin to see.’
‘What do you mean? What do you see? Sergeant Raskan, tell me — what do you see?’
‘Azathanai blood is what I see. It needs chaining and that’s what he’s done. Chained it down. By his will alone you are held back, made normal to our eyes. You fool — not once did she look at you!’
Arathan stared at the man, trying to comprehend. And then he backed away a step. ‘Why should she? Raskan! Why should she look at me at all?’
But the man levered himself from the wall and staggered in the direction of the hill beyond the village. After a moment, Arathan stumbled after him. He heard the sergeant muttering under his breath.
‘How can it be a secret when even I did not know it? No, I have dreamed no sordid dreams, longed for nothing immoral. There is no cause for disgust. I could kneel above the water — I could look down on my face. And see nothing evil. She lied. I deserve no shame!’
The man was speaking nonsense. Arathan wondered if his mind had been broken by the witch’s magic. His own thoughts felt unhinged. My father knew her long ago. I don’t know what that means — it means nothing. It seems all of the Azathanai know my father. Grizzin Farl. Old Man. And now this witch. Each one we meet knows him. They call him the Suzerain of Night. They fear him.
I am his son. Bastard no longer.
Why did he wait? Why did he bring me out here to say that?
They clambered over the last of the settlement’s walls. Ahead the track resumed, climbing to a crossroads flanked on one side by a humped, rounded hill on which stood half a dozen trees, forming a half-ring. In the cup they formed stood Rint and Feren. Neither Draconus nor Olar Ethil could be seen — he wondered where they had gone. Were they still at the pool?
The horses were tied to the trees and stood with heads lowered beneath gnarled boughs that seemed tangled with black lichen.
Raskan ascended the hillside as if it were the face of a hated enemy, tearing at the grasses, pulling aside rocks and leaving them to tumble and roll so that Arathan had to jump from their path. The manic fury of the man was frightening.
Halfway up Raskan halted and wheeled to glare down at him. ‘Some truths should never be revealed! Look at me!’
‘There is nothing to see, sergeant,’ Arathan replied. ‘Nothing but anger.’
The man stared as if in shock.
‘You are the gate sergeant of House Dracons, Raskan. You wear my father’s old moccasins and you have ridden at his side. He sent you to me, remember? And you said what needed to be said.’
Each statement seemed to strike the man like a blow, and he sat down on the slope.
‘Stand up!’ Arathan snapped. ‘You taught me how to ride Hellar. You fed Sagander blood-broth and saved his life.’
Raskan drew a deep, shuddering breath, squeezed shut his eyes for a moment, and then regained his feet. ‘As you say.’
‘They’re getting a meal ready. We should join them.’
But Raskan hesitated, and then he said, ‘I am sorry, Arathan. I misspoke.’
‘You made no sense.’
‘That is true enough. No sense, none at all. Forgive me.’
Arathan shrugged.
Raskan resumed the climb, but slowly this time, without vehemence. After watching for a moment, Arathan tried to follow, but his legs would not move. She was up there, and she carried his child. A girl had been made, by him and her. In the heat and wet, in the hunger and need, a child had been made. The thought terrified him.
He managed a step, and then another, although it seemed, all at once, that this was the hardest climb of his life. Feelings swarmed him in chaotic confusion, until they all blended into a solid roar; he felt that sound then rush away, leaving only a numbed silence, too weary for hope, too exhausted for expectation. All that remained was the taste of the terror he had experienced earlier, dull now, metallic.
They had made a child, but Feren needed nothing more from Arathan. She already had all she had wanted from him. In giving her one thing, he had thought it only right to give her everything, all of him. The foolish were ever too generous — he had heard Sagander say that often enough when stuffing scrolls and manuscripts into a chest that he then locked. His private writings, the culmination of his life as a scholar. Kept, for none to see. Arathan understood that now. What is given away for free comes back wounded. Value is not always shared and some hands are rougher than others.
