overlaid by the clump of boots on dry, packed earth. They washed over Doranei without effect as he closed his mind to everything but the clouds overhead, losing himself in their swift, silent passage. He let the breeze sweep away the tangle of his thoughts, dissipating them like smoke.
Then the door to the tower opened again and the Brothers saw Mihn staring fixedly at Doranei.
Mihn had removed his cloak and pack. He wore his customary black linen trousers and tunic. The failed Harlequin was a short, slim man, especially compared with the men of Narkang, and that difference was highlighted by everyone around him wearing armour. It was somehow hard to believe how capable Mihn was - until you saw him moving with purpose, Doranei thought.
‘You want something?’ he said eventually.
‘You,’ Mihn said. ‘We have some questions for you.’
Doranei felt his hand tighten. ‘Of course you do.’ He carefully handed the stub of his cigar to Veil and followed Mihn. ‘Don’t suppose I’d be lucky enough you’d be asking about swords and the like?’ he said dryly.
Mihn hesitated and looked back at Doranei for a few moments. Then, his eyes twinkling in the darkness, he started up the stair again.
‘I am sure King Emin could phrase the question in terms of your sword, if that would help,’ he murmured.
Doranei sighed.
CHAPTER 33
Doranei slept poorly in the humid night air. Words and faces danced on the edges of his consciousness, questions and memories colliding uncomfortably. Some part of him sensed the bedroll underneath him, and the pack he was using as a pillow, but at the same time he could feel the cool, clean sheets of Zhia’s bed in Byora.
The sensations mingled and added to the mess of confusion in his dreams, and everything was dominated by Zhia’s darkly glittering sapphire eyes. The questions continued, voices speaking at once: Mihn’s soft lilt, King Emin’s crisp, aristocratic tone, and they were all asking about those sapphire eyes.
Can she be trusted? Where do her allegiances lie? Will she take sides?
He couldn’t answer any of them. In his dreams his tongue swelled, making speech impossible, but even if he had been able to speak, there was nothing he could say, no assurances he could give.
An unexpected chill shivered down Doranei’s spine and he jolted awake, heart hammering and dread slithering across his skin. The room was dark, and as he sat up his head cracked against the underside of the dining table under which he’d been sleeping. A deep thump reverberated around the room as Doranei fell back onto his bedroll, gasping.
‘Told you,’ whispered someone nearby.
It took Doranei a few moments to focus as he winced and rubbed his stinging head. When the stars cleared he saw Veil, watching him owlishly from the other side of the table.
‘Told me what?’
Veil grinned. ‘That you wake up sudden-like sometimes, so maybe under a table ain’t the best place to sleep.’
Doranei looked around at the rest of the dining room: a long, ancient hall - older even than the keep - that had been incorporated into the newest wing of Moorview Castle. Apart from the huge, empty fireplace there was precious little space not occupied by dozing King’s Men. He opened his mouth to reply, but hesitated, remembering the strange sensation that had woken him.
‘Thought I heard something,’ he said at last.
‘No, you didn’t,’ Veil said. ‘You’d have a sword in hand if you did. You dreamed you did, or some girl with sapphire eyes just reached out and touched you.’
Doranei frowned and tried to order his thoughts. He didn’t remember dreaming of anything that would wake him so abruptly. Zhia’s touch was accompanied by a memory of her perfume; this was neither, it was something unfamiliar.
‘Think I’ll go get some air,’ he muttered.
Veil watched without comment as Doranei picked up his sword; unnatural happenings and strange sensations were familiar to the Brotherhood, as were overactive imaginations in the dark of night. However, the need for caution was ever-present, and confusion hadn’t overridden Doranei’s natural mistrust.
Doranei slipped out of the darkened hall and found himself in a moonlit corridor. He didn’t know what bell it was, but the stillness indicated the depths of night. He looked around and as he shivered involuntarily, his hand closed around the sword grip . . . but nothing happened, so, feeling foolish, he released it again and buckled the scabbard properly to his waist.
He still felt better when he was holding the sword. King Emin’s belief that Lord Styrax would not use