‘If Light blesses,’ Infayen said, ‘it does so indiscriminately. It will touch every scene, from sweet bliss to sweet horror. The scouts make no report of your husband’s imminent return. Are you concerned?’
‘Indeed I am. Incompetence will win us no favours.’
‘And if you had set out to hunt down Sharenas Ankhadu?’
Tathe Lorat bared her teeth. ‘Her head would ride my company’s standard, and on this morning its rotted visage would be mere tatters of flesh on bone.’
Infayen frowned. ‘Hallyd has some capacity for command, Tathe Lorat. You denigrate him for reasons well hidden behind the flag you’re now waving. Contempt blinds both ways.’
Tathe Lorat glanced towards her daughter, who stood a short distance away, lithe and relaxed with her back resting against a wall.
Seeing this, Infayen’s frown deepened. Would that Sharenas had found your tent first that night, Tathe Lorat. But no matter. You’ll not take your daughter under wing again.
Infayen was eager for the battle ahead. The first spilling of highborn blood had been by her hand, after all, a detail none could take away from her. Though my soldiers lost their discipline. The Enes clan fought too well. Blood ran high, especially when Cryl Durav appeared. The rape was a crime too far. Well, even in war there can be regrets.
But we’ll be laying in rows plenty of highborn corpses before this is done, to give the Enes clan company. Sometimes, privilege needs a serious fucking over, to send the message home. And now, it must be said, outrage serves as a banner for both sides. The fighting will be fierce.
I only pray that I can cross blades with Andarist, if not Silchas Ruin. Perhaps even Anomander. Few could agree on which of the three was best with the sword. But by nature, Anomander still seemed the most formidable. If I find him wounded on the field, or exhausted. If I catch him unawares. If he stumbles, slips in bloody mud.
The details would be lost, in time. The truth would be made simple. The day the Houseblades of the highborn fell, Infayen Menand slew Lord Anomander Purake on the field of battle, and thus died the First Son of Darkness.
It was hardly surprising that the surviving brothers then murdered her. Besides, the Menand bloodline was ever fated …
‘Your smile is cold, Infayen Menand.’
She glanced across at Tathe Lorat. ‘Where will it take place, do you think?’
‘What?’
‘The battle, what else?’
‘Tarns.’
Infayen nodded. ‘Yes. Tarns. Urusander will see to it.’
‘They’ll not risk damaging Kharkanas itself. The city is, after all, the prize.’
That city means nothing to me. I’d be just as happy to see it burn. ‘Where Urusander will be made king.’
‘Father Light.’
Infayen shrugged. The only title of interest to me shall be mine. Infayen Menand, Slayer of the First Son of Darkness. A chance shifting of her gaze caught Sheltatha Lore’s eyes fixed upon her. After a long moment, Tathe’s daughter smiled.
Infayen’s unease was momentary, and quickly forgotten with the arrival of Lord Urusander.
Their commander was not one for speeches, but Infayen felt the sudden rise of excitement and anticipation. It was finally coming to pass. We march to Kharkanas, and there will be justice.
* * *
They had managed only a hundred and fifty wicker shields, so Captain Hallyd Bahann paired up his three hundred soldiers, one to bear the shield and the other to wield weapons. The forest line ahead was patchy, broken up by the vagaries of fire and stumps left by past cutting. The snow on the ground looked dirty, crusted and hard and not yet softened by the morning light.
The morning light. Such as it is. What goddess is she that invites gloom? That dims her realm, as if we were all on the edge of losing consciousness?
He was still flush with his triumph at the monastery, though the victory had proved bloodier than anticipated. Sending the children out on to the south track to walk to Yedan panged him somewhat. The winter was reluctant to yield its bitter harvest of cold and snow. But they had been warmly clad, dragging sleds on which provisions had been stored. If they didn’t lose the trail, they would already be at the monastery, warm and safe.
Necessities in war are often cruel. I could hardly take them with us, not with a true battle looming.
These cowardly Deniers, with their bows and ambushes – we will have them.