51

The walls were closing in on her.

It had been happening to Kirven for days. A slow and certain claustrophobia that got worse as time passed. With it came a sense that she was being watched. That every Rai or soldier or servant or monk that passed her knew. They all knew. Only a matter of time.

News would come. People would talk. She would be exposed.

The failure.

Days passed, the light moved across the sky, the Cowl Star danced in the night, and she remained.

But the fear never left.

The walls were closing in on her. There was no escape, the vast weight of Tiltspire was going to crush her and she would crumple beneath the weight of it as if she was hollow. Everything she had cared for gone; only fear remained.

“High Leoric,” a knock on her door. Falnist. Was today the day? Was now the time? But surely it would be Galderin, not Falnist, who came, though the trion would enjoy her fall as much as any of them. It would almost be a relief. The knock again. “High Leoric, I have news.” How much she wanted to tell them to leave. To go. She looked out of the window. Once more thinking of the possibility of taking her freedom there. Climbing up to the marant landing and throwing herself off, ending her torment falling through the cold, clear air of Harnspire. “High Leoric, there is an embassy to see you.” She stood. Walked to the door. Opened it.

“Who?” made the word a challenge.

“They would say very little to me, High Leoric, but they are from Harn,” said Falnist, “and they come with a letter of introduction from the Leoric of Harn-Larger.”

The walls closing. Tighter and tighter. No room to move. No way to breathe. Harn. And they had already involved Harn-Larger…

“High Leoric, are you well?”

“I am well, Falnist,” she said, her mouth dry. Now was the moment. Let the walls close? Or throw herself into the air? “Who have these people spoken to?” Falnist looked confused, their face wrinkled up, no doubt some scheme passing through their mind. “Only the guards on the door, they alerted me.” They smiled to themselves. “I know you have had dealings with Harn so I thought it might be of interest.”

“Did they say why they were here?” Falnist waited a moment, Osere take them they were holding something back. “If you are hiding something from me, Falnist, there will be repercussions.” The trion bowed.

“Of course, High Leoric, I was not keeping secrets. It is only that what they said, well,” Falnist shrugged and avoided her eyes, “it seemed rather unlikely.”

“Tell me.” She wondered whether they would deny her. If her power had eroded so far that Falnist dare defy her.

“I think I heard them talk of treefall.”

A moment when she found it almost impossible to breathe. Possibilities. Drawbacks. Danger. All came upon her at once. She felt dizzy.

“Put these people from Harn somewhere they will not be disturbed. Let none see them,” she said. “They will wait on my pleasure.” Falnist stared at her, aware something was happening in the mind of the High Leoric, but not what. “Go!” she said. Falnist bowed and left. She waited. Knew exactly how long it took the trion to walk away from her rooms and go down the stairs. Turn off towards the outside rooms.

She ran.

Down the corridor and through Harnspire, making for the cells. Past the silent guards and into the room that held Sorha.

“I am still waiting for my executioner, High—”

“Quiet!” hissed Kirven. “You said we needed each other, did you mean it?” For once, Sorha did not seem relaxed, uncaring, sure of herself. She was entirely still, as if caught in a trap. Only her eyes moved, watching Kirven. “Well? Did you mean it?” Sorha nodded. A slow nod, not slow to agree, more surprised, as if this thing had come upon her unexpected.

“Yes,” said Sorha. So quiet.

“Then we have an opportunity,” said Kirven. “One chance.”

“What is it?” She licked her lips but her mouth was too dry for her tongue to offer any relief.

“There are people from Harn here.”

“We could both be finished then, High Leoric.” Kirven shook her head.

“Not if we get our stories straight,” said Kirven. “The truth will be lost in the excitement.”

“Excitement?”

“They bring news of treefall.”

“At Harn?” said Sorha. Kirven nodded.

“How much did they see, Sorha?” The Rai closed her eyes, drifting back to the events in Harn. Feeling once more the visceral terror as the grey warriors cut apart her soldiers.

“Almost nothing, they were shut in their houses, prisoners.” She thought, stopped. “Some I had do work, they may have seen the false Cowl-Rai caged. The houses were poor things, full of holes, so it is hard to be sure.” Kirven thought for a moment.

“No one knows you are here,” said Kirven. “So you have just returned. The people of Harn betrayed you and had Du-Nahere attack you in your sleep.”

“The villagers will tell a different story if they are questioned.”

“That is why you will be doing any questioning, Rai Sorha,” the High Leoric stepped forward and opened the cage, “we are bound together now, for good or ill. We have both failed at Harn and if word of the truth gets out, we will both be seen as weak.”

“I will still have failed, High Leoric,” said Sorha, “and because of that and what I am, no Rai will stand with me.”

“That is why I will put you in charge of my Hetton,” said the High Leoric, “as no other wants that job. Now, gather your armour, clean yourself up and we will meet with Harn’s emissaries.”

Kirven watched the small group from Harn walk down the great room. Past the statues of Tarl-an-Gig, past the flags and the great fires, past the great eight-branched stars of Iftal. They looked small and scared and Kirven Ban-Ruhn thought that good. She wanted them small and scared. She wanted them too frightened to speak lest they say too much. To her left stood Rai Galderin, splendid in his armour, though deeply displeased. To her right stood the reason: Rai Sorha, though she had her visor down. Kirven did not want anyone from Harn recognising Sorha, saying the wrong thing in the wrong place.

She waited until the small group had made its way down the room to stand before her. They knelt. She made them wait. Letting the slow count of time pass and weigh on them. Making these provincial people, far from their home and all they knew, surrounded by a splendour they must find intimidating, wonder if they had somehow insulted her. She did not pity them for what was to come. She could not afford pity. They were a tool, a way of bringing her child back to her with the minimum of embarrassment, a way of keeping her position safe despite all that had happened. It would cost them dear and that was unfortunate.

If unavoidable.

“It is brave,” said Kirven Ban-Ruhn, “for people who have betrayed the Cowl-Rai to come and stand before me.” She heard a sob from one of them. Fear. It gave her a little strength. Reminded her of who she was. Their leader, a tall, bald man dressed in clothes she would have been ashamed to use as rags, raised his head.

“We,” he began, his voice giving way. He cleared his throat. “We deeply regret what happened at Harn. But it was not our fault. The man, Cahan Du-Nahere, was an outcast, unwelcome in our village and…”

“And yet,” said Ban-Ruhn, her voice as cold and imperious as could be, “you did not tell us we had failed to kill him when my people first came for him. You kept his continued existence secret.” She barely moved, stayed utterly still in her throne. Knowing that in her braids and beads and layers of colourful wool she would appear larger than life to them. Something impossibly rich and powerful.

Which, of course, she was.

“We are…”

“My soldiers died.” She stood, putting a fierceness into her words. “One of my Rai is missing and…”

“We will give him to you, and the trion we—”

“Quiet!” she roared it. She could not have them say too much. “Why are you here?”

“To make restitution,” the man said, the words quick, high and breathless. He would not look at her, was shaking with fear.

“Your village is not worth even one of my soldiers.”

“Treefall!” shouted the man. “There has been treefall. If you can forgive us, we will give you Cahan Du-Nahere and take you into Wyrdwood, we will…”

“You will tell us where the treefall is now,” said Galderin. He was not slow to realise what really mattered. “We do not deal with people like you, rebels and worshippers of forest gods.”

“We are not! We are not!” the man put his forehead to the floor, the ones who had come with him prostrated themselves. “We worship Tarl-an-Gig, we are loyal to the new Cowl-Rai and we hate the forest. We will give you Cahan Du-Nahere, we will give you the apostate monk, we will give you the trion, we will—”

“Tell us where treefall is,” said Kirven. “That is a good start.”

Silence.

Waiting.

“I cannot,” said the man. “I do not know. Only our Leoric knows.”

More silence. She let it continue for as long as she could bear. Watching the filthy villagers in their fear before her. She could smell them from the throne.

“You do not know?” Their leader shook his head, looked up from his place on the floor.

“We hope for forgiveness,” they said. “And in turn we open our gates to you and give you all you want.” Kirven watched the man. Wondering if he was brave or stupid. Deciding that one did not preclude the other. Letting time pass, letting them worry.

“Then we must go to Harn,” she said it in a much less severe way, felt the man breathe out, felt his relief. “Go with my Rai here,” Kirven waved towards Sorha. “She will find you somewhere to stay. You may stand now.” They stood and Sorha walked past her. Kirven touched her arm, pulled her down so she could whisper to her. “Keep the leader alive, find out what the rest know.” A nod from Sorha. She watched the emissaries and Sorha leave. When they were gone she turned to Galderin, the stiff wool of her clothes rustling.

“Prepare a force, a large one, two hundred at least. We will wipe Harn off the map. We take dullers to deal with this Cahan Du-Nahere and my personal guard…” Galderin almost laughed. Held it back.

“Dullers? For one man?”

“One man trained to be Cowl-Rai.”

“But not Cowl-Rai,” said Galderin. “We have a Cowl-Rai.”

“He killed our soldiers, took my child prisoner. Almost killed Sorha.” Did he know they had lied to him? Rai were so hard to read.

“Well,” said Galderin, “Sorha is no Rai, not now. And from what she says, he attacked by surprise, at night and with help. I will not blunt my power, High Leoric. What Sorha can do will have to be enough.” She nodded, thought him wrong. But could not say why without telling him more than she was willing. Putting herself, putting Venn, in danger.

“How long before we can be at Harn’s gates?”

“We will need strong Rai, plenty of soldiers. A show of force will have them open their gates.” He stared down the great room. “We cannot loosen our grip on Harnspire either. It will take time to balance our forces. I suggest your guard remain.”

“How long,” she said.

“The second, or third week of Harsh,” said Galderin. Kirven breathed in. Not too long, not really.

But a long time to keep a secret.