stripped and climbed in, allowing them to pour the cold water over his head. He endured the cold water without comment. When they were done bathing and clean clothes had been fetched for Gorath, Owyn asked, ‘Why cold water?’
‘We bathe in mountain streams in a land that always sees ice upon the peaks,’ said Gorath. ‘This water was too warm for my taste.’
Locklear shrugged. ‘You learn something new every day.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Gorath. ‘You do.’
When they were dressed, they left the bathing chamber to discover a squad of palace guards waiting for them. ‘We’re to escort you to the Prince, squire.’
Locklear dryly said, ‘No need. I know the way.’
The sergeant, a tough old veteran, ignored the young noble’s marginal rank and said, ‘The Prince thought there was a need, sir.’
He signalled and two soldiers fell in on either side of Gorath and two fell in behind him. They moved along the hall until they were ushered into the dining hall, where Prince Arutha, Princess Anita and their guests were finishing their dinner.
Arutha, ruler of the Western Realm of the Kingdom of the Isles, sat at the centre of the head table. He was still a young man. Despite having ruled the realm for ten years, his face was only now starting to show the lines which age and responsibility bring. He kept his chin shaved, so that he still resembled the youth who had emerged a hero of the Riftwar. His hair was mostly black with a few stray grey hairs beginning to show, but otherwise he looked much as he had when Locklear had first come to Krondor, a page boy fresh from his father’s court at Land’s End. His brown eyes settled on Locklear with a gaze that had reduced lesser men to trembling children over the years; Locklear had endured that gaze many times in the ten years he had served in Arutha’s court.
Princess Anita favoured Locklear with a smile, her green eyes alight at one of her favourite courtiers returning after a long absence. Locklear, like the other younger men in the court, almost worshipped the Princess for her effortless grace and genuine charm.
At the table were others known to Locklear: Gardan, Knight-Marshal of the Principality; Duke Brendan, Lord of the Southern Marches; and others. But near the Princess’s seat was one who was unknown to Locklear; a man wearing the black robe of a Tsurani Great One. He had receding snow-white hair that fell to his shoulders. His eyes fastened upon Locklear, and Owyn could sense that this was a man who possessed powers rivalled by few in the world. Locklear knew it must be Makala, the Tsurani Great One come recently to this court.
‘Seigneur,’ began Arutha, formally, ‘you were ordered to attend to the needs of the Earl of Tyr-Sog for a year. By my calculations, you are many months short of that duty. Have you a persuasive reason for ignoring my orders?’
Locklear bowed and said, ‘Highness. Only the most grave tidings from the north would have me quit my post and hasten here. This is Gorath, Chieftain of the Ardanien, who has come to warn you.’
‘Warn me of what, moredhel?’ asked Arutha with a suspicious gaze. His previous experience with the moredhel was murder and deception.
Gorath stepped forward. ‘I warn you of war and bloodshed. The war drums beat at Sar-Sargoth once more and the clans gather.’
‘For what purpose?’ asked Arutha.
‘Delekhan, Chieftain of the Darkanien, gathers the clans. He sings songs of power and musters to return south.’
Arutha said, ‘Why? For what purpose?’
Gorath said, ‘He swears that Murmandamus lives, and that you hold him captive in the city of Sethanon. And he swears by the blood of our ancestors we must return to free our leader.’
Arutha sat stunned. He had killed Murmandamus, though few had witnessed the duel. He also knew that Murmandamus had been a fraud, perpetrated by the Pantathian Serpent Priests to gull the moredhel into serving their dark cause.
Arutha stood. ‘We will speak of this in my private council.’ He bowed to his wife, then motioned to Makala. ‘If you would join us?’
The Tsurani magician nodded and rose, and Locklear saw he was unusually tall for a Tsurani, perhaps five feet ten inches in height. Makala spoke briefly to a servant, who bowed low and hurried off to do his master’s bidding.
Locklear motioned for Owyn and Gorath to accompany him through large doors on the right of the dining hall, the entrance into the Royal Family’s private apartments. To Gorath he said, ‘I hope you have more to tell Arutha than that, or we’re both in deep trouble.’
‘More trouble than you know, human,’ said Gorath.
DRUMS THUNDERED ACROSS THE RIDGES.
Gorath stood rooted in confusion. Part of him knew this was a memory, yet the experience was as real as when he had lived it. He clutched his hands and looked at them. They were small, a child’s hands. He glanced down and saw bare feet, and he had not gone barefoot since he was a boy.
Atop the surrounding hills drummers pounded out their insistent rhythms as fires burned brightly in the night. Clans long at war with one another watched for signs of betrayal, but all had come to hear the Speaker. Gorath stumbled along, his feet leaden with mystic fatigue; no matter how hard he tried, he could not move quickly.
The peace had fractured; he knew this. He knew his father’s people had been betrayed. He was but twelve summers of age and it should be centuries before the mantle of leadership fell to him, but fate ruled otherwise. Without being told he knew his father was dead.
His mother came up behind him and said, ‘Move quickly. If you are to lead, you must first survive.’ Her voice echoed and was distant and when he turned to look back at her, she was gone.
Suddenly he stood dressed in armour and boots; too big for him yet they were his own. His father had fallen when the Speaker’s peace had dissolved in fury. Like others before him, the Speaker had sought to raise the banner of Murmandamus, the only leader ever to unite the numerous clans of the moredhel. Now Gorath, a boy barely able to hold his dead father’s sword, stood before the men of the Hawk Clan, as dispirited a lot as had ever gathered around the fire. Gorath’s mother tapped him on the shoulder and he turned. ‘You must say something,’ she whispered.
Looking at the men of his clan, Gorath could barely make a sound, yet these warriors, some alive more than a century, waited to hear a boy’s words. The words that were to lift them from the depths of their hopelessness. Looking from face to face, at last Gorath said, ‘We will endure.’
A wave of pain gripped Gorath and he fell to his knees, and suddenly he was a man, kneeling before Bardol, swearing alliance in exchange for protection. Bardol had no sons and needed a strong husband for his daughter. Gorath had proven himself a wily leader, taking his people high up into the great ice mountains, living in caves lined with lichen, hunting bear and reindeer. For twenty-five years his people had survived, healed, and when he returned home, he had hunted down his father’s betrayer. He had entered the camp of Jodwah and thrown down the head of his brother, Ashantuk, at his
