Huanin blood. His heart sang at the thought.
He turned away from the feeble necklace of lights springing up in the cottages along the shore and the forest's shadows enfolded him.
Orisian's bedchamber was cold, but there was comfort in its familiarity. A knock at the door just as he finished changing announced the arrival of Ilain, the keep's oldest chambermaid.
'We were not sure when you would get back, or we could have had some food waiting for you.'
Warmth and severity rubbed shoulders in her voice. She worked as she talked, gathering up his discarded riding clothes and clutching them to her chest.
'Sorry, Ilain. But I'm not hungry, in any case. We ate as we rode.'
'Well,' she said, 'that will foul up your stomach sure as fish are wet. No matter. You'll want a rest?'
'No. Really, I'm fine.'
The chambermaid frowned. 'You'll have a fire lit, at least.'
'Yes, please,' responded Orisian promptly, knowing better than to refuse her again.
She turned, still carrying his clothes, to go and fetch a taper.
'Where is everyone, Ilain?' asked Orisian.
'I think Anyara is with your father. He is still unwell.'
'And Inurian?'
Ilain rolled her eyes skywards, and Orisian felt a twinge of instinctive guilt at her displeasure. He had never quite shaken off the childhood memory of Ilain's scoldings. More often than not Anyara or Fariel had been at the root of whatever misadventure incurred the chambermaid's wrath; nevertheless, it had usually been Orisian who was left to face the consequences, never quite as adept as the other two at identifying the ideal moment to disappear. He was too old now for her to scold, but when Ilain disapproved of something it was not well concealed. Inurian was counsellor to Orisian's father, and the closest thing to a friend Kennet nan Lannis-Haig had. That was not enough to make everyone in the castle comfortable with his presence.
'He is in his rooms, no doubt,' Ilain said, and swept out.
Orisian hesitated. He knew he should visit his father, but he had a strong urge to put that off a while longer. It was a much easier thought to go to Inurian. That at least would be a meeting that had only uncomplicated feelings attached to it.
The door to Inurian's chambers, which lay on the top floor of the keep, was closed as always. Orisian listened for a moment. There was no sound from within. He knocked.
'Come in, Orisian.'
As he entered he at once caught the unique scent that always greeted him here: a tantalising, rich mixture of parchment, leather and herbs. The room was small and crowded. Book-lined shelves filled one wall; racks of jars and pots packed with herbs, powders, spices, even soils, another. An ancient, scored table held a scattering of papers, maps and a neatly arranged collection of dried and wizened mushrooms. To one side, a curtain concealed the tiny bed-chamber in which Inurian slept. In the narrow window Idrin the crow was bobbing up and down on his perch.
A handful of carved wooden figurines and a small pile of manuscripts cluttered the desk. Inurian himself was sitting behind it, leaning back with his arms folded across his chest. He was a small man of middle years, with a mop of pale brown hair interspersed here and there with grey strands like threads of silver.
The one thing that anyone meeting him for the first time would notice, however, was that he was a na'kyrim: a child of two races. In him, Huanin and Kyrinin were blended. His Kyrinin father had given him penetrating eyes of a pure flinty grey and the fine features and thin, almost colourless, lips of his inhuman kind. When he came from behind the desk and reached out to greet Orisian, his lean, long fingers and clouded nails also betrayed his mixed parentage.
There were other, invisible, marks too. Inurian would never have children; no na'kyrim could. And there was the Shared, that mysterious, intangible realm lying beneath the surface of existence. It was beyond the reach, and the understanding, of pure-bred Huanin
He turned away from the feeble necklace of lights springing up in the cottages along the shore and the forest's shadows enfolded him.
Orisian's bedchamber was cold, but there was comfort in its familiarity. A knock at the door just as he finished changing announced the arrival of Ilain, the keep's oldest chambermaid.
'We were not sure when you would get back, or we could have had some food waiting for you.'
Warmth and severity rubbed shoulders in her voice. She worked as she talked, gathering up his discarded riding clothes and clutching them to her chest.
'Sorry, Ilain. But I'm not hungry, in any case. We ate as we rode.'
'Well,' she said, 'that will foul up your stomach sure as fish are wet. No matter. You'll want a rest?'
'No. Really, I'm fine.'
The chambermaid frowned. 'You'll have a fire lit, at least.'
'Yes, please,' responded Orisian promptly, knowing better than to refuse her again.
She turned, still carrying his clothes, to go and fetch a taper.
'Where is everyone, Ilain?' asked Orisian.
'I think Anyara is with your father. He is still unwell.'
'And Inurian?'
Ilain rolled her eyes skywards, and Orisian felt a twinge of instinctive guilt at her displeasure. He had never quite shaken off the childhood memory of Ilain's scoldings. More often than not Anyara or Fariel had been at the root of whatever misadventure incurred the chambermaid's wrath; nevertheless, it had usually been Orisian who was left to face the consequences, never quite as adept as the other two at identifying the ideal moment to disappear. He was too old now for her to scold, but when Ilain disapproved of something it was not well concealed. Inurian was counsellor to Orisian's father, and the closest thing to a friend Kennet nan Lannis-Haig had. That was not enough to make everyone in the castle comfortable with his presence.
'He is in his rooms, no doubt,' Ilain said, and swept out.
Orisian hesitated. He knew he should visit his father, but he had a strong urge to put that off a while longer. It was a much easier thought to go to Inurian. That at least would be a meeting that had only uncomplicated feelings attached to it.
The door to Inurian's chambers, which lay on the top floor of the keep, was closed as always. Orisian listened for a moment. There was no sound from within. He knocked.
'Come in, Orisian.'
As he entered he at once caught the unique scent that always greeted him here: a tantalising, rich mixture of parchment, leather and herbs. The room was small and crowded. Book-lined shelves filled one wall; racks of jars and pots packed with herbs, powders, spices, even soils, another. An ancient, scored table held a scattering of papers, maps and a neatly arranged collection of dried and wizened mushrooms. To one side, a curtain concealed the tiny bed-chamber in which Inurian slept. In the narrow window Idrin the crow was bobbing up and down on his perch.
A handful of carved wooden figurines and a small pile of manuscripts cluttered the desk. Inurian himself was sitting behind it, leaning back with his arms folded across his chest. He was a small man of middle years, with a mop of pale brown hair interspersed here and there with grey strands like threads of silver.
The one thing that anyone meeting him for the first time would notice, however, was that he was a na'kyrim: a child of two races. In him, Huanin and Kyrinin were blended. His Kyrinin father had given him penetrating eyes of a pure flinty grey and the fine features and thin, almost colourless, lips of his inhuman kind. When he came from behind the desk and reached out to greet Orisian, his lean, long fingers and clouded nails also betrayed his mixed parentage.
There were other, invisible, marks too. Inurian would never have children; no na'kyrim could. And there was the Shared, that mysterious, intangible realm lying beneath the surface of existence. It was beyond the reach, and the understanding, of pure-bred Huanin
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