Tathrin had agreed something lightened the grief in Charoleia's violet eyes.
Ernout's thoughts had moved on. 'Let's hope young Tathrin's plans prosper.' He patted her hand. 'I'd like to see you a spring bride and Derou tells me she approves.'
'Bless Drianon for that.' Failla smiled. Did Ernout guess she had been braiding ribbons into her hair, imagining Tathrin cutting her wedding plait short, their offering to the mother-goddess's altar?
'Have you met his family?' Ernout enquired.
'Not yet.' Failla gazed into the glowing range.
Tathrin had written letters from Triolle, from Ashgil, to tell them he had come unscathed through the fires of Wyril. But he'd had no reply. Would his parents ever forgive him for rejecting that safe life in Vanam they had sacrificed so much to secure for him? For taking a dishonoured woman to wife?
Would she first meet them carrying the urn of his ashes, if this hideously dangerous plan was the death of him?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tathrin
Parnilesse Town,
10th of Aft-Winter
It was quite different from Carluse and Triolle. Tathrin couldn't really compare it to Sharlac. He'd barely seen anything beyond the panic, smoke and slaughter engulfing the castle there.
They were riding down the Inchra Road. Ahead, Parnilesse Town's walls were formidably high and Duke Orlin had plainly forbidden so much as a pigsty to be built outside. A grassy bank below the masonry slid into a broad ditch now choked with snow. Beyond that the ground had been cleared for two plough-lengths. Anyone approaching would be spotted long before they came within bowshot of the vigilant turrets.
Tathrin coughed as the capricious wind shifted. He was heartily sick of this journey through the most dismal days of the year. 'I take it that stink's the marshes?'
Sorgrad had explained how the higher ground that thrust Parnilesse's rocky coast out into the sea fell away in a long escarpment here. Brackish swamps stretched towards the River Asilor, with one safe channel cutting through the mire to bring ships to the deep pool at the base of the scarp.
'Do you suppose Branca and the scholar are baffling Reniack's lad by now?' Gren looked ahead to the great gate looming over the road.
'Let's hope so.' Apprehension knotted Tathrin's guts.
He had seen how reluctant Kerith was to use his Artifice against their erstwhile colleague, when the Adept had shared the latest news from Carluse. Would that unwillingness fatally undermine that aspect of their stratagem? Would Branca have the strength to frustrate Jettin's aetheric spying on her own?
'We'll know soon enough.' Sorgrad was unconcerned. 'Less chatter. Let's close up with the others.'
Tathrin urged his weary horse forwards. Sorgrad and Gren encouraged their shaggy ponies with broad Parnilesse accents.
He was saying as little as possible, uncomfortably aware of the Caladhrian intonations, common in Carluse and Marlier, which marked him as a stranger here. Parnilesse speech held more closely to the Tormalin spoken across the border.
As they caught up with the travellers ahead, though, a couple of faces turned to offer tired smiles. There were all too few on this road; just these apprentice carpenters who'd braved the menacing weather to pay festival visits to their families in nearby farmsteads.
Whatever they might have thought of his accent, they had welcomed Tathrin's honest face, the breadth of his shoulders and his razor-sharp sword. No one paid much heed to Sorgrad and Gren. No one had, since Serafia had dyed their fair hair muddy brown. Along with voluminous cloaks to hide their battle-hardened muscles, they adopted hangdog, fearful expressions, befitting two runts accustomed to ill-treatment.
Tathrin had been impressed. Their masquerade hadn't faltered once. Though Jettin's Artifice presumably saw through any such feints. Would armed men be waiting for them?
The carpenters kicked their weary horses into a trot. No one wanted to be locked out when the gates were secured at sunset. Tathrin had learned that Reniack's regime still held to a good many of Duke Orlin's practices. The ominous shadow of the gate soon enveloped them.
'Anyone you recognise?' Sorgrad looked upwards, not at the crossbow-wielding guards but at the severed heads thrust on bristling spikes.
The faces were surprisingly well preserved. Queasily Tathrin recalled Gren explaining how such ghastly trophies were boiled in brine and vinegar, to slow rot and deter hungry crows.
Gren contemplated the array for a moment. 'No.'
Two of the carpenters exchanged greetings with the halberd-wielding gate-wards. Gren rode forward to humbly tug at the cloak of another prentice woodworker. The lad had been reasonably civil since Gren had lost the pathetic contents of his purse to him, suffering remarkable ill-luck with the