“No slave built this.” She moved to the tall, pointed arch that formed the entrance to the spire, running her fingers over intricate carvings decorating the marble frame. They resembled the Caerith script I had seen in the Doenlisch’s book, but possessed of a flowing elegance, as if they had truly been written in the stone rather than carved. “This,” Juhlina smiled as her eyes roved over the characters, “was made with love.”

  “She sees what you do not, Alwyn Scribe,” the Eithlisch said, stepping past me to enter the vast structure via a tall arched opening. “This is not the product of the lash.”

  “How could you know?” I asked, following. The spire’s base was a large, vaulted space that echoed our voices with uncanny precision. Although bare of monument or statue, its every surface, from floor to ceiling, was covered in the same flowing script. “You can’t read any of this, can you?” I went on, gesturing to the mass of words. “Is that why you value ancient Caerith books so much? You hope they might provide the key to translating all of this.”

  The Eithlisch confined his answer to a brief glower before starting towards another arched opening in the opposite side of the structure. Juhlina and I followed him out and on to the bridge beyond, crossing the gentle curve of its span to the next islet. The spire here was yet taller, its hollow base once again rich in inscriptions.

  “I once possessed a key to translating Caerith text,” I informed the Eithlisch as we followed him through the spire to another bridge. Seeing his broad back tense as he resisted the impulse to reply, I found I couldn’t resist an additional taunt. “It was formulated by an Ascarlian scholar of my prior acquaintance. Sadly, I was obliged to surrender it to the Doenlisch’s care. Surprising, don’t you think, that she never felt the need to convey it into your hands?”

  The Eithlisch kept walking, but consented to reply in a soft growl, “Be sure to tell the council that, Alwyn Scribe. There are those among the Caerith willing to torment you to death for the meaning of just one word inscribed on these stones.”

  After that, I felt a judicious silence to be in order. We traced our way across three more bridges to the largest of the islands, which, appropriately, also featured the tallest spire. Given the Eithlisch’s portentous warnings, I had expected the council of Caerith elders to be a large gathering, a parliament of strange ancients. Instead, upon entering the shadowed vastness of the spire’s base, I counted only four people awaiting us at the centre of the broad swathe of inscribed stone. They remained silent as we approached, offering no greeting to our guide, and he none to them. However, the bright gleam of his eyes in the unalloyed gloom of this cavernous space told of distinct wariness.

  Drawing closer to the group, I saw that it consisted of two men and two women. As seemed to be ever the case with the Caerith, they were disparate in appearance and age. I perceived a wealth of experience in their collective gaze as each of them studied me with intense scrutiny. The tallest among them exuded the least hostility. A man of peach-coloured hair and skin even more pale than the Eithlisch, he maintained a placid expression that bordered on a smile. Even so, his gaze was no less piercing than his companions’ in the way it scoured my face and form.

  The woman to his left appeared small in comparison, even though she was about Juhlina’s height. Her skin was dark and flawlessly smooth, save for the reddish marks on her neck. The tahlik on her back and the hardiness of her leather garb marked her as a warrior, one who was either greatly skilled or very lucky, judging by the absence of scars. Her face was stripped of emotion, as if she worried what her expression would reveal.

  The woman to the tall man’s right appeared to be the oldest of the group, her stooped form clad in overlapping, partly ragged woollen shawls and long tendrils of untidily braided hair cascading over her face. She supported herself with a gnarled tree branch, which she clung to with both of her hands. The swollen knuckles and protruding veins made it appear as if her flesh had been welded to the branch over time. Her frailty was evident, but so too was the keen insight of the eyes that glared at me from behind her scraggly veil of hair.

  The man beside her made no effort to conceal his hostility, his shaven head and deer-hide garb marking him as Paelith. His colouring was much like that of the fanatical Morieth, and I discerned a definite similarity of feature in his scowling face, creased with both age and, unlike the toalisch woman, the scars of combat. Morieth’s father? I wondered. Grandfather, even. Given the span of their years, such things were always difficult to judge among the Caerith.

  After we halted before them, their collective scrutiny shifted from me to Juhlina. The Paelith spoke first, his voice a suspicious rasp. “This Ishlichen was not called here,” he said, pointing to Juhlina but addressing his words to the Eithlisch. “Why did you bring her to this most revered of places?”

  “He brought her because I willed it,” I said, taking some small satisfaction from the man’s surprise at being addressed in his own language. “And I am here because the Doenlisch wills it.” Reasoning that a modicum of diplomacy might serve me well, I arranged my face into bland agreeableness, spreading my hands and lowering my head. “If you have questions for me, I will answer them. Though I will not pretend to know the Doenlisch’s mind in all things.”

  The stick-clutching old woman let out a harsh, grating sound. I initially took it for a cough but, seeing the baring of yellowish-grey teeth behind her dangling hair, realised it had been a laugh. “He speaks in meaningless platitudes,” she said, her voice a croaking whisper that nevertheless commanded attention. “As is always the way with his kind. Blandishments and compliments one minute, then it’s all fire, blades and pillage the next.”

  “And yet he bears the Doenlisch’s mark,” the tall pale-skinned man said in mild, well-modulated tones that chimed a bell of recognition in my head. This one’s a scholar, I decided.

  “You put too much stock in her,” the old woman retorted. “She is not infallible. I knew her long before any of you were born, remember?”

  “She never claimed infallibility,” the tall man replied. “Only truth, and never did I know her to falter in that regard. He bears her mark. That cannot be denied nor ignored in our deliberations. I feel her hand upon him, and I know you do too.”

  “I feel it, true enough. Doesn’t mean I like it.” The old woman shuffled closer to me, shawls and hair swaying. “So then,” she said, halting to deliver a weak jab at my foot with her stick, “what do they call you, child?”

  “If you’re to have my name,” I replied, “I’ll have yours first.”

  I saw the Paelith bridle at this, while the old woman gave another grating laugh. For their part, the scholar and the warrior displayed scant emotion.

  “Names, is it?” The old woman jabbed at my foot again, harder this time. “I’ve got quite a few. Which do you want?”

  “Whichever one pleases you most.”

  “Heh.” She spent a moment in contemplation. “You can call me Shaelisch, then. Always liked that one. My tenth and favourite husband preferred it. That one’s Turlia,” she went on, flicking her stick at the toalisch woman, “he’s Deracsh,” she pointed to the scholar, before casting a sour glance in the Paelith’s direction. “And this whelp is Corieth.”

  “Kin to Morieth, perhaps?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at the plainsman. “Who we met on the way here.”

  This brought an abrupt silence as the other three members of this council redirected their scrutiny to the Paelith. He, however, kept his eyes on me. “I am proud to call Morieth my great-grandson,” he said. “As fine a rider as ever to grace the back of a paelah.”

  “Strange then that the paelah he rode threw him off and offered his back to me.”

  Apparently, the Paelith’s wealth of years didn’t ward him against a quick temper. “You lie!” he hissed, starting towards me. “Just like all your kind!”

  “He speaks true,” the Eithlisch said, a softly spoken intervention that succeeded in bringing Corieth to a halt. “Remember where you are.”

  My experience with the Caerith had imbued me with an impression of unity. They had always seemed to possess a cohesion and absence of discord that distinguished them from the people of Albermaine. Seeing the spasm of quivering hatred Corieth directed at the Eithlisch then, I wondered if such cohesion was merely a facade. Ancient and wise, they surely were, but for the first time I understood the deep divisions of belief and purpose running through the hearts of these people.

  Corieth’s fury, impotent though it may have been, shifted into barely concealed fear when Shaelisch addressed him. Her voice was softer now, intent rather than commanding, but it had lost the harshness of age. The voice of someone who expected all questions to be answered. “Did you set your great-grandson to prevent the Eithlisch bringing the Ishlichen here, Corieth? Did you attempt to subvert the will of this council?”

  I hadn’t seen a Caerith lie before. The Sack Witch could be infuriatingly vague, but never deceptive. The Eithlisch would simply ignore questions he didn’t want to answer. Corieth, however, was the only Caerith I ever saw utter a blatant untruth. From the way his mouth twisted around the words and the rapid blinking of his eyes, he was clearly unaccustomed to deceit. So poor was his performance. In fact, I almost pitied him.

  “Morieth follows his own path,” he rasped, forcing himself to meet Shaelisch’s eyes in the manner unique to determined, if inexpert, liars. “As all true Caerith do.”

  Whether Shaelisch perceived this lie or not, I couldn’t tell. What appeared plain as day to me may not be so stark to a soul unused to outright dishonesty, ancient or not. Her reaction was confined to a faint sigh before she turned away from Corieth, flicking her stick at me.

  “You have words for us, child,” she said, voice now possessed of an impatient tetchiness. “So speak them.”

  I saw little point in further preamble, nor did I attempt to imbue my words with performative gestures or grandiose phrasing. Such things were beyond my command of Caerith, and I doubted they would carry much weight for this audience in any case.

  “A new queen has risen in the land beyond the northern mountains,” I said. “A queen I believe to be under the sway of the beings my people refer to as the Malecite. She possesses powerful vaerith which guides her actions. She has used this to seize power and will use it again to bring her armies against the Caerith, for she hates you and believes your destruction to be ordained by her faith. To defeat her, you must join with her enemies. To the north, exiles from my lands and toalisch already gather together to learn the skills of the Vahlisch. Only through alliance will we prevail. These are my words, and this is the will of the Doenlisch.”

  The reaction of the council was one of silent contemplation, even Corieth who had regained enough composure to mould his features into a frown of doubtful disparagement. Predictably, he was the first to speak.

  “How do you know the will of the Doenlisch?” he demanded.

  “She told me,” I replied simply.

  “You met her?”

  “Several times.”

  “Where? When—?”

  “Enough!” Shaelisch snapped, the tip of her stick rapping loud on the inscribed marble floor. “He has her mark. This has already been established.”

  “I cannot believe the Doenlisch would seek to embroil us in an Ishlichen war,” Corieth stated.

  “Soon it will be our war,” the Eithlisch said. “Ever has the Doenlisch worked to preserve the Caerith. Her tools may be—” he spared me a brief glance “—roughly made. But always her purpose cannot be doubted.”

  Turlia, the toalisch woman, spoke for the first time then, flawless face regarding me with the same pitch of scrutiny. “Yet she is not here. If we were to hear this from her own lips, I would harbour no doubts.” She turned to the Eithlisch. “When last we met, you agreed to send a veilisch to seek out the Doenlisch, beseech her to return to us. What became of their mission?”

  The Eithlisch’s features tightened in sorrow and he lowered his head. I spoke up before he could answer, feeling the duty to be mine.

  “Her name was Lilat,” I said. “She guided me across the mountains and stayed with me when it became clear the Doenlisch could not be found. She saved my life.” I worked my throat to banish the sudden catch before pushing the words out. “She was murdered by the queen for seeking to aid me when I lay captive.”

  “Lilat,” Turlia repeated, her eyes still lingering on the Eithlisch. “The veilisch who would be a toalisch. I remember her well from the toawild. Her skills were great and a fine toalisch she would have made, yet I turned her away at your request. You told me her mielah would lead her to a great destiny, a great service to all Caerith. Is this what you meant? A death at the hands of an Ishlichen tyrant?”

  I watched the Eithlisch’s shoulders sag, his features tensing not with anger, but guilt. I recalled his fury that first night at Castle Dreol. Had it truly been directed at me, or to himself?

  “You knew?” I asked, a sudden heat building in my chest. “You knew what would happen to her and you sent her anyway?”

  “Are your hands so clean, Alwyn Scribe?” he asked, a resentful gleam in his eye as he turned to address his fellow elders. “I know of no member of this council who can claim their mielah unsullied by a single misdeed. Lilat was precious to me, as are all Caerith. But her mielah could not be denied, nor would she have wished it to be.”

  “This does not aid our discourse,” Deracsh said in his scholar’s voice. “A decision lies before us, one this council has never faced before: alliance with those from beyond our borders.”

  “One who spends his life harvesting stories should know the folly of this,” Corieth said. “Ever since the Ealthsar has it been proven time and again that we have no friends save ourselves. Moreover—” he jutted his chin at me “—his kind are mired in greed and violence. Allow them a foothold in our lands and they will never leave. They will stay and grow like corruption in an open wound. Our land will be spoiled, our very blood sullied, and in time we will become as they are. This is what my vaerith tells me. Be it known that whatever your decision this day, the Paelith will have no part of any alliance with the Ishlichen.”

  “It is not within your gift to speak for all Paelith, Corieth,” Deracsh replied. “This council guides, it does not seek to instruct. Such a thing would entail the claiming of aerleth.” This word was unfamiliar to me, but the careful, somewhat ominous emphasis with which Deracsh spoke it indicated considerable significance. “Is that your intent?” he asked, his tone far from mild now.

  “You know it is not!” Self-deceit can be as obvious as any lie. In Corieth’s case, it showed in the defensive pitch of his voice and the way he backed away from the council, bridling in anger and self-righteous pride. “I’ll hear no more from this Ishlichen wretch!” he stated, affording me a disgusted glance as he continued to retreat. “You have heard my words and I’ll say no more. To the plains I go. There every clan will hear my truth. Mark well that in the days to come it shall be they who stand as the true shield of the Caerith.”

  “If you leave now,” Deracsh called after him, “you will never stand among this council again.”

  Corieth’s echoing footsteps continued without pause. He soon dwindled to a small silhouette against the light of the tall arched exit before disappearing completely. In his absence, the remaining members of the council all took on a sorrowful aspect. I doubted any harboured particular affection for the Paelith elder, leading me to ascribe their darkened mood to the sundering of the council’s unity.

  “What does aerleth mean?” I asked the Eithlisch.

  “In your tongue it would be termed ‘authority’ or ‘governance’,” he said. “Kingship, to put it simply.”

  “Ah.” I pursed my lips. “Among my people, a man who seeks to weaken their resolve against an enemy while accruing power to himself would be termed a traitor.” There was no Caerith equivalent to this word, so I used the Albermaine-ish before going on to elaborate. “One who acts against his own people through deception. In my lands, traitors are tortured and hanged.”

  “And yet,” the Eithlisch replied, “in your lands, traitors are as common as the rain. And are not you, Alwyn Scribe, called such by the very queen you seek to oppose?”

  Scanning the faces before me, frowning in puzzlement but also no small measure of disdainful judgement, I realised the scale of the gulf that still existed between us. They might regret Corieth’s departure, and criticise his reasoning, but the thought of acting against him was plainly anathema. Aerleth, I thought. They resist it. Detest it even. The notion made me both envious and resentful of the sudden sense of inferiority it engendered.

  “I have spoken my words,” I said. “A decision stands before you.”

  “A decision not to be taken without due consideration, Alwyn Scribe,” the Eithlisch said. He turned and gestured to the spire’s entrance. “Leave us, for what follows is not for your ears.”

  “There’s something more,” I said. “The Doenlisch told me to seek out the stone feather. Where is it?”

  The other three elders exchanged weighty glances before Deracsh spoke, this time his scholarly tones were laden with reluctance. “Another subject for discussion.”

  “I’ll seek it out,” I told them. “With or without your leave.”

  “Go!” the Eithlisch repeated in a growl. “And wait!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Six!” Juhlina said, happily triumphant as she skimmed another stone across the surface of the lake. I replied with a distracted smile, casting yet another glance at the shadowed interior of the spire.

  “Didn’t seem to go all that well,” she commented, hunting among the islet’s rocky shoreline for another stone to throw. She appeared almost childlike, her boots removed and trews drawn up to allow her to explore the water’s edge. It was usually easy to forget her comparative youth given all that she had suffered, as I often forgot mine. She had allowed her hair to grow during this journey, revealed as a pleasing shade of chestnut brown. I liked seeing her like this, freed from the pall of grief and anger that had persisted ever since the ugly events that brought her into the Covenant Company. It seemed the mere act of travelling Caerith lands had a healing effect.