The three men reached the road that led to Jerolin’s gates. The meadow about them was wider than it used to be; trees from the nearby forest had been harvested for the shipbuilding. Men were gathered on the plain, hundreds of them, warriors training in Nathair’s shield wall. It looked a fearsome thing, on land, but Lykos sneered as he passed. Little use on a ship’s deck, he thought, knowing even as he did so that he was being illogical. The Banished Lands will not be conquered on the ocean. Beyond Tenebral’s warriors was a cluster of tents, before which at least two thousand of the Jehar were at their training, this sword dance that Lykos had watched with a sense of dread. Here were warriors that would take some beating. Good thing that they fought on the same side. For now.
He looked back at the war-galleys on the lake shore, at the warriors in the meadow, men of Tenebral and the Jehar of Telassar. This was a land mustering for war, and he was at the heart of it, had been preparing for it for nearly two decades.
He swept through the fortress’ gates uncontested and passed quickly through the streets of Jerolin, people moving out of his way. A man stood at the stableblock, arms folded across his chest, scowling at them. A man with a grudge, if ever I saw one, Lykos thought, making a mental note of the man’s features. Wouldn’t do for the hard work of a lifetime to be done away with by a knife in the ribs.
The doors to the keep were open and he strode in, continuing through the feast-hall, and climbed the spiral tower that led to the royal chambers. Here half a dozen eagle-guard stood in their black-polished breastplates and silver helms – Tenebral’s elite. The royal guard had been increased since Aquilus’ assassination.
Fidele was seated behind a wide desk, dark hair framing her pale, beautiful face. Lykos did not allow himself the luxury of staring at her loveliness, close to perfection in his opinion, even if there were creases around her eyes and her lips, a streak of silver in her otherwise jet hair. Never allow another to know they have any kind of hold over you, his father had told him. Wise words.
Fidele was not alone. Another of the eagle-guard stood behind her. Orcus was wiry and as knotted as an old tree, dark eyes set in a face with a nose that had been broken more than once. Fidele gestured and he poured three cups of dark red wine, offering one to Lykos.
‘My thanks,’ the Vin Thalun murmured as he sipped the wine, resisting the urge to gulp it.
‘I have had no word from my son in some time. Have you heard from him?’ Fidele asked with measured calm, but Lykos could sense something else beneath the surface, something brittle.
‘Not since he reached Dun Carreg,’ Lykos said. Though I would hear long before you, with your outdated methods, he thought. Lykos tried to repress a shudder as his thoughts flickered towards his dreams, the alien presence in his mind, in his soul. ‘Calidus has an intricate network of messengers.’
‘I am sure,’ Fidele said, failing to hide a sour twist of her lips. ‘My husband and I had dealings with Calidus a long time ago. He proved . . . wanting. And, besides, Calidus is somewhere in Forn Forest, fighting giants, while Nathair is in Ardan.’
‘Calidus is very well connected with both his information and his informers, my lady. I am sure that he is in close contact with Nathair, no matter where he is. If I receive any kind of word regarding your son I shall of course forward it on to you. Immediately.’
‘My thanks. And how goes the task my son has set you?’
‘The shipbuilding proceeds well. Twelve galleys are ready on your lake shore. The other shipyard on the coast does better still. Fifteen war-galleys, and seven deeper-draughted ships for transport. Progress could be even better, though, if the supply of wood was less sporadic.’
‘Surely there is enough wood here for your purposes.’
‘Oak and elm is in plenty here, and on the coast, you are right. But I need a supply of spruce and cedar as well. That is less readily found.’ He paused and sipped some more wine. ‘May I speak plainly?’
‘Of course.’
‘Your barons controlling that supply are not cooperating as well as they might. I speak specifically of Marcellin in the north and Lamar in the south.’
‘There is trouble in the north that may be affecting your supply lines,’ Fidele said. ‘The Kurgan giants are raiding from their mountain strongholds. I have sent Peritus to deal with it.’
‘That still would not explain the lack of cooperation in the south,’ Lykos said. ‘And, allow me to speak frankly – I believe Marcellin and Lamar are being obstructive because I am Vin Thalun.’
Fidele sat back, considering him coldly. ‘Yes, I believe you are right.’
Lykos raised an eyebrow. ‘We have signed a treaty, formed an alliance.’
‘Yes, we have. As we are speaking frankly, let me say this. The situation between our two peoples is new, and old ways of thinking are hard to change in a day, or a moon, or a season, or even a year.’
‘Our treaty was signed nearly two years ago, my lady,’ Lykos said.
‘Yes. But there were decades of enmity before that.’
‘Not under my reign,’ Lykos snapped, suddenly fierce, feeling his temper flare. ‘And the men that ruled then, well...’ He paused, tugging at an iron ring woven into his beard, a timeworn method of controlling his anger. ‘They have either bowed the knee or had their heads separated from their shoulders.’