He glanced at Conall, who still walked with a limp. The warrior had fallen from the wall above Stonegate and had only survived because the crush of those fighting about the gates had broken his fall.
The warrior was all confidence and swagger, quick to laugh and quick to anger. Beyond the arrogance there was a keen intelligence. Conall saw much. It had been a wise choice, winning him over, though he had needed a little help. He was learning the power of the earth, extracting secrets from the book he had discovered in the tunnels beneath the fortress. There were ways to influence a man, even control him. He felt like a novice, struggling in the dark, but he had learned enough to add an edge of power, of persuasion to his voice, especially when the target’s will was wavering. And so he had won Conall’s loyalty.
‘You have no regrets leaving your brother, Halion, opposing him?’
Conall looked surprised and his mouth twisted, a haunted look sweeping his face. ‘No. I am glad to be out from under his shadow. He was turning from me, in deeds if not in words. It was clear he’d chosen Brenin and flattery over me.’ He grimaced. ‘We all live with the consequences of our choices, eh?’
‘That we do,’ Evnis muttered, glancing at an old scar on the palm of his hand, a reminder of a glade in the Darkwood, of a pact made years ago to Asroth, his master, to whom he had pledged his life, his soul. And Asroth had told him to aid Nathair, of that he was certain. So aid the young King of Tenebral he would. And if somehow that turned out to his benefit, then all the better.
Figures burst from an alleyway and Conall half drew his sword, but they were only children, running and laughing as they goaded a skinny hound with a bone.
‘Jumping at shadows,’ Evnis said.
‘Well, you’re not the most popular man in the fortress right now. Most of Dun Carreg must want you dead,’ Conall said, glaring at the children.
‘I’m more concerned over the quality of my enemies than their quantity,’ Evnis murmured, thinking of Owain.
‘I’ve heard something similar, though usually from the ladies.’
Evnis snorted, almost smiled. Laughter rippled through the warriors behind him.
‘Enemies in high places. I’ve had that problem myself,’ Conall said.
‘Really? And what did you do?’
‘I ran away.’
‘I see.’ He regarded Conall silently, wondering about his new shieldman’s hidden past. ‘Perhaps I have a less drastic remedy.’ Friends in high places. Or in this case friend. Nathair. The young King had come to him asking questions about the Benothi, Dun Carreg’s ancient giant masters and their treasures, and that was a subject that Evnis knew much about, possibly even more than old Heb or Brina. Evnis had hinted at his knowledge, given snippets of information, whispered promises of more, and it was those promises that he hoped would keep him alive until Rhin arrived. Nathair would protect him, at least while it was in his interest to do so. Or so Evnis hoped. Owain was unpredictable. It had been a gamble, helping the King of Narvon gain entrance to the fortress, but Nathair had asked him for help, and so he had given it. The act of opening Stonegate had won much favour with Owain, but Evnis was not sure how much the act of slaying a king had compromised that favour. Nobody liked that, especially not another king.
‘Time will be the judge,’ he muttered.
‘Aye. It usually is,’ Conall replied.
The rest of their journey passed in silence. Evnis hardly spared a glance at the charred pile of ash that marked all that was left of Dun Carreg’s fallen defenders, the stench of their burning still lingering in the air. He swept into the keep and marched through it into the corridors beyond until he reached Nathair’s chambers.
One of the black-clad warriors that he had spirited into the fortress to such devastating effect was standing guard. The man ushered him into the chamber but blocked Conall as he made to follow.
‘Only you,’ the man said to Evnis.
Evnis nodded to Conall and those behind him as the guard closed the door.
Nathair sat within, sipping a cup of wine. His bodyguard, Sumur, was standing beside an unshuttered window, sword hilt jutting over his shoulder. A handful of Nathair’s eagle-guard were lounging at a table in the far end of the chamber, gathered about a half-eaten round of cheese and a leg of pork. They eyed Evnis suspiciously, then went back to their food. Evnis stared at them, remembering their comrades in the keep the night Dun Carreg fell, arrayed about him and Brenin and Nathair in a wall of shields. They were all dead now, most of them cut down by Gar, the crippled stablemaster. That night had left more than one mystery in his mind that begged to be solved.
‘Welcome, Evnis,’ the King of Tenebral said, standing and gripping Evnis’ wrist. ‘Thank you for coming so promptly. Are you hungry? Thirsty?’ He gestured to the food and wine.
‘I have already broken my fast. Though perhaps some wine.’
‘Of course.’ Nathair filled a cup for him. ‘I was hoping that you might help me.’