Midnight Tides

Hannan Mosag grimaced. ‘There is Wyval blood upon the man’s shirt. Is he infected?’



‘Possibly,’ Uruth conceded. ‘Much of that which passes for a soul in a Letherii is concealed from my arts, High King.’



‘A failing that plagues us all, Uruth,’ the Warlock King said, granting her great honour by using her true name. ‘This one must be observed at all times,’ he continued, eyes on Udinaas. ‘If there is Wyval blood within him, the truth shall be revealed eventually. To whom does he belong?’



Tomad Sengar cleared his throat. ‘He is mine, Warlock King.’



Hannan Mosag frowned, and Trull knew he was thinking of his dream, and of his decision to weave into its tale the Sengar family. There were few coincidences in the world. The Warlock King spoke in a harder voice. ‘This Feather Witch, she is Mayen’s, yes? Tell me, Uruth, could you sense her power when you healed her?’



Trull’s mother shook her head. ‘Unimpressive. Or…’



‘Or what?’



Uruth shrugged. ‘Or she hid it well, despite her wounds. And if that is the case, then her power surpasses mine.’



Impossible. She is Letherii. A slave and still a virgin.



Hannan Mosag’s grunt conveyed similar sentiments. ‘She was assailed by a Wyval, clearly a creature that proved far beyond her ability to control. No, the child stumbles. Poorly instructed, ignorant of the vastness of all with which she would play. See, she only now regains awareness.’



Feather Witch’s eyes fluttered open, revealing little comprehension, and that quickly overwhelmed by animal terror.



Hannan Mosag sighed. ‘She will be of no use to us for a time. Leave them in the care of Uruth and the other wives.’ He faced Tomad Sengar. ‘When Binadas returns…’



Tomad nodded.



Trull glanced over at Fear. Behind him knelt the slaves that had attended the casting, heads pressed to the earth and motionless, as they had been since Uruth’s arrival. It seemed Fear’s hard eyes were fixed upon something no-one else could see.



When Binadas returns… the sons of Tomad will set forth. Into the ice wastes.



A sickly groan from Udinaas.



The Warlock King ignored it as he strode from the barn, his K’risnan flanking him, his shadow sentinel trailing a step behind. At the threshold, that monstrous wraith paused of its own accord, for a single glance back – though there was no way to tell upon whom it fixed its shapeless eyes.



Udinaas groaned a second time, and Trull saw the slave’s limbs trembling.



At the threshold, the wraith was gone.



CHAPTER TWO



Mistress to these footprints, Lover to the wake of where He has just passed, for the path he wanders is between us all. The sweet taste of loss feeds every mountain stream, Failing ice down to seas warm as blood threading thin our dreams. For where he leads her has lost its bones, And the trail he walks is flesh without life and the sea remembers nothing.



Lay of the Ancient Holds Fisher kel Tath

A GLANCE BACK. IN THE MISTY HAZE FAR BELOW AND TO THE WEST glimmered the innermost extent of Reach Inlet, the sky’s pallid reflection thorough in disguising that black, depthless water. On all other sides, apart from the stony trail directly behind Seren Pedac, reared jagged mountains, the snow-clad peaks gilt by a sun she could not see from where she stood at the south end of the saddle pass.



The wind rushing past her stank of ice, the winter’s lingering breath of cold decay. She drew her furs tighter and swung round to gauge the progress of the train on the trail below.



Three solid-wheeled wagons, pitching and clanking. The swarming, bare-backed figures of the Nerek tribesmen as they flowed in groups around each wagon, the ones at the head straining on ropes, the ones at the rear advancing the stop-blocks to keep the awkward conveyances from rolling backward.



In those wagons, among other trade goods, were ninety ingots of iron, thirty to each wagon. Not the famed Letherii steel, of course, since sale of that beyond the borders was forbidden, but of the next highest quality grade, carbon-tempered and virtually free of impurities. Each ingot was as long as Seren’s arm, and twice as thick.



The air was bitter cold and thin. Yet those Nerek worked half naked, the sweat steaming from their slick skins. If a stop-block failed, the nearest tribesman would throw his own body beneath the wheel. And for this, Buruk the Pale paid them two docks a day. Seren Pedac was Buruk’s Acquitor, granted passage into Edur lands, one of seven so sanctioned by the last treaty. No merchant could enter Edur territory unless guided by an Acquitor. The bidding for Seren Pedac and the six others had been high. And, for Seren, Buruk’s had been highest of all, and now he owned her. Or, rather, he owned her services as guide and finder – a distinction of which he seemed increasingly unmindful.