There was a soft whomph of emerald flame that swiftly turned orange, and their fire was burning merrily. Noon no longer seemed to experience any discomfort over using her ability, and her face as she fed the fire sticks was calm and unconcerned. Tor found it vaguely alarming.
‘Where are we now?’ she asked.
Tor made a point of looking around, his hands on his hips. ‘Judging by the constellations just starting to glint into life, the scent of the wind and the texture of the earth . . . I would say we’re precisely in the middle of nowhere.’
She gave him a cool look. ‘I am so glad you are in charge of navigation, oh great traveller.’
Tor went and crouched by the fire. In truth, he did vaguely recognise this place. The foothills of the Tarah-Hut Mountains had been the first place he had properly explored when finally he had left Ebora. Back then its twisting scrublands had seemed wild and gritty, just the place to start an adventure. Now it looked like a place where you couldn’t expect to find a decent drink.
‘If we were travelling by foot, we’d be about ten days away yet. With those creatures,’ he nodded to the black bat, who chose that moment to launch itself up into the darkening sky, ‘I’m really not sure.’
Noon shrugged, and began unpacking food from their bags. They had taken as much as they could carry from Esiah Godwort’s mansion, along with blankets, water, wine and as many spare clothes as they could stuff into bags. Stopping each night was an exercise in unloading the bats so that they could go and hunt – fresh meat was very welcome – but in the last two weeks they had got it down to a fine art. The orbs were wrapped in thick furs, and kept as close as they dared to the fire. Tor unstrapped his sword from his back and set the kettle against the fire before retrieving the tin of tea leaves from his own pack.
After a moment he realised that Noon was staring at his sword. Her eyes had taken on an odd, almost silvery shine; he had seen it a few times since the incident in the compound. It seemed to go alongside her odd, quietly calm mood.
‘Why is your sword called the Ninth Rain?’
Tor grimaced faintly. ‘I’m sure I’ve already told you. Or Vintage must have told you.’ He sighed, shaking tea leaves into a small clay pot. The scent made him think of Mushenska, which, in turn, made him think of Sareena. How long had it been since she had been in his thoughts at all? Feeling an unwanted stab of guilt, he wedged the pot in the dirt to wait for the hot water. ‘When the Jure’lia invaded, Ygseril would grow silver fruits in his branches, which would fall, hatching into the Eboran war-beasts. For each invasion, a silver rain.’
Noon tipped her head to one side, as though listening to a distant voice. The movement exposed the smooth skin of her neck, which looked creamy against the scarlet of her coat. Unbidden, the memory of the taste of her blood seemed to flood his mouth.
‘I know that. I mean, why is it called the Ninth Rain? Wasn’t the last one – the one where your god died – the Eighth Rain?’
‘Oh,’ said Tor. ‘That.’ The water in the kettle was boiling, so with his good hand he reached down and poured it into the clay pot, watching the leaves swirl darkly. ‘That’s a longer story. Quite a personal one, actually. And I hardly know you.’
She looked at him frankly again, smiling slightly now. For the briefest moment his chest felt tight, and he wondered if he were ill: a cold caught on the back of the blasted bat, or the crimson flux coming for him finally. This woman burned your face, he reminded himself.
‘Fine. What else do I have to do on this lovely evening, but reveal painful family secrets?’ He gestured around at the low hills, growing darker all the time.
‘Stop complaining. Pour me some tea.’
‘You have to let it steep longer than that, you barbarian.’ Even so, he retrieved the small tin cups from his pack, and passed one to Noon. ‘My people live for a very long time. If all goes well and we are not hacked to pieces in battle or eaten up by the crimson flux, we can live for hundreds of years. My father was still young during the Eighth Rain, and my mother had not long had me and my sister. At first, it seemed to be a smaller, almost half-hearted invasion by the Jure’lia. They landed near what is now Reidn, and started to consume that part of Sarn as swiftly as possible. Their Behemoths birthed their giant, hungry maggots, and the other scuttling creatures that are part of their charming company, and soon great stretches of that place were lost under a slick of their varnish.’
He paused to pour them both a cup of tea. The warmth was very welcome, particularly to his stiff, burned hand.
‘My father and his older sister travelled there as part of the main force, wearing their shiny armour and happily carrying their lethal weapons. Back then, it was a matter of pride to repel a Jure’lia invasion, a rite of passage almost. My father had been anxious that the worm people might never return, and he would never get to face them on the battlefield. His younger sister was furious, as she didn’t even get to leave Ebora.’ Tor smiled slightly. ‘What idiots they were. What idiots we are, especially if your dream turns out to be true.’
‘Your father fought with the war-beasts?’
‘Not directly alongside them,’ he said. ‘Only the most skilled warriors fought alongside the sacred beasts. There were those who had a special relationship with them, men and women who were heroes to the rest of us. My father and my aunt were not so important. Not then, anyway.’
‘What do you mean?’
Tor grimaced, and took a sip of his tea to wash away the sudden bitter taste in his mouth. ‘When the crimson flux came, it wiped out much of a generation. The old generals, the war leaders, the politicians and the royalty – all those who had been in power for centuries, in other words – all died of the curse. Those Eborans left behind suddenly found themselves with the reins of the kingdom – even if it was a doomed one. My family were largely untouched by the flux to begin with, and they rose in importance.’ He snorted. ‘Although all that really meant by that point was that you got the pick of the empty chambers in the palace.’
‘And the sword?’
‘Mm? Oh, yes.’ Tor patted it absently where it lay on the ground next to him. ‘My aunt was the real warrior of the two of them. She had dedicated a full century of her life to the martial arts, while my father had only been training for a decade.’
‘Only a decade, huh?’
‘He was absolutely determined to go, despite his lack of experience, and in truth, my mother and my grandparents made no real attempt to stop him – as I said, fighting the Jure’lia was considered an honour, a rite of passage for any young Eboran. My aunt promised that she would keep a close eye on him, and off they went to Reidn.’
There was a flurry of leather wings nearby, and the flames of their fire danced wildly for a few seconds as Fulcor landed. The great bat scuffled over to them and dropped a dead hare at Noon’s feet, before taking to the air again. Tor craned his neck to watch her go, but she was lost in the darkness almost immediately.