Our kin have come.
Bleda sat at a table in a chair too big for him, fidgeting and picking at a scab on his thumb. In response to their barrage of breathless questions, Kol, the Ben-Elim, had given them nothing, except for a dark scowl. The only thing Bleda really wanted to know was who rode beneath the Sirak banner.
Has my mam come to claim me? Finally to take me home?
Jin was seated beside him and he could see her trying to look calm and indifferent despite him being sure she felt the same mixture of fear and excitement as he. The Lord Protector swept through the open doors, a dozen White-Wings marching behind him. Israfil’s expression was as emotionless as usual.
His mastery of the cold-face would earn even my mother’s respect.
There was something in his stride that spoke of something else, though.
Agitation?
Israfil stood before Bleda and Jin, somehow managing to hold both of their gazes at once. Bleda noticed a twitch in his wings sending a ripple through the white feathers.
‘You were not at your letters,’ Israfil said, a statement. ‘You could not be found when you were needed and, as a result, you have not been briefed on the arrival of your Clansmen, or been able to prepare for it.’
Bleda returned Israfil’s gaze as long as he could, felt Jin doing the same beside him, felt her shift as her head bowed. He was not long behind her.
‘You are given every advantage here. Learning – language, your letters, the histories, all manner of knowledge. You are taught your weapons, no less than our greatest warriors. Food, clothing, everything that you could want for, you are given; a preparation for the great task ahead of you, to rule your people, to spread the peace of Elyon.’
To be trained as your puppet king and puppet queen of the Arcona Clans, you mean.
‘You are given the utmost respect; are you not?’
Bleda and Jin were silent a few moments.
‘We are, Lord Commander,’ Bleda said. He could not deny that they were treated well.
For prisoners.
He felt Jin’s eyes burn into him, a look that did not go unnoticed by Israfil.
‘All that is expected of you is a measure of that respect returned,’ Israfil said, frowning at Jin.
Jin remained darkly silent.
Bleda clamped his lips shut. Part of him agreed with Israfil, knew that his behaviour was insolent and rude, and felt a stirring of shame for that. But another part of him remembered, would never forget. His brother. His sister.
I represent my Clan, here. Am the face and voice of the Sirak.
‘I apologize for our rudeness,’ Bleda said, seeing Jin’s head snapping around and ignoring the look of disgust she sent him.
‘Good.’ Israfil nodded and heaved a long sigh. Bleda felt his neck flush red.
And then horns were ringing and the open doorway of the keep was full of figures, a handful of giants entering first, axes and war-hammers slung across their backs, ringmail shirts gleaming. Jin hissed as the giants moved to one side, revealing a stern-faced man, head shaved apart from a long dark warrior braid curling across his shoulder, an iron-grey beard upon his chin. He wore a fine sky-blue deel, edged in gold thread, belted with soft-tooled leather, his breeches bound tight from ankle to knee, and baggy above. His eyes locked with Jin’s and his stern face softened, eyes creasing in the hint of a smile.
‘Father,’ Jin whispered, half rising.
‘Stay, child,’ Kol murmured from behind them and Jin sat back down.
And then everything else in the room faded for Bleda.
His mother, Erdene, Queen of the Sirak, strode through the doorway.
She was older, with lines in her brown, weathered face that had not been there the last time he’d seen her, streaks of grey in her thick-bound warrior braid. A white scar stood out across her shaven head.
She looked as fine a Sirak lord as he had ever seen, dressed in a richly woven white deel tunic, fox fur trimming its collar and hems, a thick leather belt dressed with chains of silver and gold about her waist, and his heart thumped with pride to see her march towards him. He felt his face shifting, mouth stretching into a smile.
Her eyes looked into his, saw his smile, but he received nothing in return, only her cold-face, flat and impassionate. He gritted his teeth together and with an act of will wiped all emotion from his face.
Behind Uldin and Erdene walked a small retinue from their courts. Bleda saw an old face staring at him.
Old Ellac!
Bleda’s heart leaped a little with joy at another familiar face. The old warrior stared straight at Bleda, though he too showed no spark of emotion.
‘Welcome to Drassil,’ Israfil said as they were all shown to seats around the table. Food was brought and drinks were poured as Israfil continued his greeting, speaking of the journey from Arcona and the new peace in the Land of the Faithful. His voice became a blur of sound that Bleda did not hear, all his attention focused on his mother, and on maintaining the required facade of indifference.
Is she ashamed of me? Five years since I saw her last, and not even a nod of her head. He was suddenly painfully aware of his appearance, how little he now looked like a Sirak prince. Especially his hair, which should have been grown long enough for a warrior braid, the rest of his head shaved and the long braid bound upon completing his warrior trial and Long Night. Instead his hair was cut short, the same way as the other training warriors at Drassil wore their hair.
To her it must look as if I have become one of them. Does she think I have betrayed my Clan?
Bleda felt all this raging within him, rearing and lashing at him, like a wild stallion’s hooves. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead with the effort of keeping it all hidden.
I will not shame her more than I already have.
And then Israfil’s voice faded and Bleda realized a silence had fallen over the table.
‘My thanks for your courteous welcome,’ Uldin of the Cheren said, his voice warm and strong. ‘It is a pleasure to be in fabled Drassil. Truly, it is a place of magnificent wonders, greater even than we had ever imagined, and I am only left with the question of why have I not journeyed here before. Why have I left it so—’
‘What Uldin is trying to say,’ Erdene interrupted, her voice calm and flat as a windless sea, ‘is: why are we here? Why have you summoned us?’
Israfil inclined his head to Erdene.
‘Five years have passed since your two Clans went to war,’ Israfil said, ‘breaking the peace of the Faithful. Breaking Elyon’s Lore. And in those five years your two Clans have known unbroken peace, is this not so?’