I spent the evening in the company of my small coterie of Divine Blood, keen to stay clear of the carnality and inevitable violence as the celebrations wore on. There were six in all now, each one plucked from the ranks of the artisans and given a new name to go with the Darkblade’s favour. There would be more to come over the course of the following year, Gifted souls found amidst the ruin of town and camp, but they were different from these first six. Being born into the Stahlhast had provided me with siblings aplenty, and more cousins than I can easily remember, but apart from Kehlbrand I had never known the true nature of family, not until I crafted my own.
“Ouch!” Varij cursed, snatching his hand away from Eresa’s, much to the hilarity of the others. It was a game they played, holding her hand for as long as possible as she steadily increased the flow of power through her fingertips. Varij, for reasons that were becoming increasingly obvious, always held on the longest.
“You made it worse that time,” he accused, flexing his hand and blowing on the flesh.
“A man who can crush stone can’t stand a little extra tingle?” Eresa chided in response. She held her hand out to Shuhlan, a chunky former slave from one of the more northerly tors. She had been a scrawny thing when I found her, charming mice into the snares she set without understanding how. In those days she would have happily sworn loyalty to a mange-ridden dog if it meant a full belly, and her appetite had barely abated since.
“No thanks,” she said around a mouthful of freshly roasted goat haunch.
“You’re no fun.” Eresa pouted and extended her hand to me. “Divine One?”
She gave an impish smirk at my glare of annoyance. Much as I insisted on being addressed simply by my name and nothing more, they continually contrived ever more grandiose titles for me.
I was about to rebuke her, yet again, when I saw Juhkar’s tall form rise and move towards the tent flap. He was unusual amongst the former slaves in that he had never laboured at the tors. Instead the Skeltir who captured him as a boy had quickly discerned his uncanny facility for tracking game, often without benefit of tracks. So he had been spared labour over the succeeding years but not the lash, as his master was an impatient hunter. Consequently, it hadn’t troubled my conscience when Kehlbrand ordered Obvar to cut the fellow’s head off for refusing to give up what he termed his best dog.
“Someone’s coming,” Juhkar said, turning to me with warning in his eyes. “Someone like us.”
I felt the familiar sensation of gathering power as the others all swiftly rose from their mats to assume a well-practised formation around me. Eresa and Varij moved to place themselves between my person and the tent flap, whilst Kihlen, the youthfully pretty master of flames, moved to my left. His identically Gifted and equally pretty twin sister, Jihla, fell in on my right and Juhkar moved to guard the rear. Shuhlan, meanwhile, concealed herself in the shadows at the far end of the tent where a massive hunting dog waited for her command. Kehlbrand’s ascendancy had done much to quell the fractious nature of the Hast, but occasionally deadly feuding continued and I had never been so secure in my position as to consider myself immune from such things.
The man who stooped to enter the tent was tall, near as tall as Obvar in fact, but considerably thinner. I recognised him as one of the lesser priests, often seen in the background whenever the Mestra-Dirhmar conducted a ritual. Like all those called to the priesthood he had a gaunt aspect, hollow cheeks below sunken eyes and skin prematurely lined with age. I could feel the power in his veins that marked him as one of the Divine Blood, but it was a small thing in comparison to those he faced in this tent, like a song whispered into a gale.
“What do you want?” I said.
His gaze roved over each of us in turn, narrowing momentarily into an unmistakable grimace of purest envy before the usual impassivity returned. “The Mestra-Dirhmar . . .” he began, hesitating before mouthing the next word with distasteful reluctance, “. . . requests your presence.”
“What for?”
“His intentions are not for me to know. I serve the Unseen and they speak through him. Will you deny their word?”