so long?
In the past, he’d been a master of shielding what he felt. Since that day at Wedderburn, when he had so nearly escaped this travesty of a life, it had become ever harder to maintain his detached look. Now he saw a question in his comrades’ eyes as they glanced at him. Whether it was because the king had ordered him to prove his loyalty at the Gathering, or whether it was the delay in returning to court after the trip to Wedderburn – only a short delay, thanks to Rohan’s intervention, but noticed all the same – he felt he was under scrutiny even by the men of his own troop. Midsummer seemed a long time away. And yet, it would come all too quickly.
‘Owen?’ Rohan was right beside him, arms folded. ‘The king wants you. Now, in the small council chamber.’
‘Any idea why?’
His second-in-command shook his head. ‘Here, give me those.’ Rohan took the horse brush and the rough cloth. ‘You’d better get cleaned up before you present yourself.’
They looked at each other. Many times, Flint had been a hair’s breadth from confiding in Rohan, whom he increasingly believed had more than an inkling that his troop leader was living a double life. But he had never risked it. If he was wrong, taking such a step would not only ensure his own death, it could bring down the entire rebel movement. If he was right, of course, then he had a valuable ally, someone who was prepared to live the lie with him rather than see him destroyed. It had been Rohan who had suggested Flint go alone to the isles, and thereby helped him save his old mentor. It had been Rohan who’d helped him rescue Tali and Neryn at the Gathering and not asked a single question afterwards. It had been Rohan who’d come for him when he was on the verge of quitting the king’s service. Each time, Flint became more convinced that these were his comrade’s own choices, not those of a king’s lackey trying to trick him into betraying himself. Still, he would not speak openly.
‘Go on, then,’ Rohan said.
The small council chamber had two guards on the door, men from Wolf Troop. Inside, there was only Keldec. The king was seated at an oak table, frowning at a manuscript spread out before him. A map, the south of Alban from coast to coast, done in meticulous detail. Flint could see rivers, islands, mountain ranges, a fortification with a banner atop its tower, a lake in which a grotesque sea monster swam. Keldec was tracing a path with a dry quill. He appeared to be deep in thought.
Flint came to a halt a few steps from the table and stood waiting in silence. The king ignored him. Well, two could play at that game. He stood breathing slowly, hoping to be ready for whatever Keldec might have to say to him. The silence drew out.
Finally, ‘Of what use is a Caller, Owen?’ the king asked. ‘You’ve seen those fey folk, how puny and helpless they are. Touch them with the smallest knife or bracelet or buckle and their flesh swells and weeps as if burned. I thought my Caller would bring me warriors. Instead, he brought toys. Living poppets for the entertainment of women and children. And yet, in the old tales, Callers are instrumental in changing the course of battles. Callers aid in the conquest of new territories. They enable leaders to wield enormous power. So Brydian tells me. Esten . . . I see the fellow’s potential, of course. But his reach seems quite limited. I had hoped for better things, far better.’
‘I’m sorry, my lord King.’
‘Sorry? You’re sorry?’ Keldec cast aside the quill and jumped up to stride over to a narrow window, where he set his hands against the wall on either side and stared out toward the east. Winterfort stood on a hill; a fortress wall encircled that hill, and below it a substantial settlement had grown up. ‘In what way is this your fault, Owen? I am musing, only musing.’ The king’s shoulders were tight. ‘When word came to me that a Caller had been found, my mind leaped to what we
In the past, he’d been a master of shielding what he felt. Since that day at Wedderburn, when he had so nearly escaped this travesty of a life, it had become ever harder to maintain his detached look. Now he saw a question in his comrades’ eyes as they glanced at him. Whether it was because the king had ordered him to prove his loyalty at the Gathering, or whether it was the delay in returning to court after the trip to Wedderburn – only a short delay, thanks to Rohan’s intervention, but noticed all the same – he felt he was under scrutiny even by the men of his own troop. Midsummer seemed a long time away. And yet, it would come all too quickly.
‘Owen?’ Rohan was right beside him, arms folded. ‘The king wants you. Now, in the small council chamber.’
‘Any idea why?’
His second-in-command shook his head. ‘Here, give me those.’ Rohan took the horse brush and the rough cloth. ‘You’d better get cleaned up before you present yourself.’
They looked at each other. Many times, Flint had been a hair’s breadth from confiding in Rohan, whom he increasingly believed had more than an inkling that his troop leader was living a double life. But he had never risked it. If he was wrong, taking such a step would not only ensure his own death, it could bring down the entire rebel movement. If he was right, of course, then he had a valuable ally, someone who was prepared to live the lie with him rather than see him destroyed. It had been Rohan who had suggested Flint go alone to the isles, and thereby helped him save his old mentor. It had been Rohan who’d helped him rescue Tali and Neryn at the Gathering and not asked a single question afterwards. It had been Rohan who’d come for him when he was on the verge of quitting the king’s service. Each time, Flint became more convinced that these were his comrade’s own choices, not those of a king’s lackey trying to trick him into betraying himself. Still, he would not speak openly.
‘Go on, then,’ Rohan said.
The small council chamber had two guards on the door, men from Wolf Troop. Inside, there was only Keldec. The king was seated at an oak table, frowning at a manuscript spread out before him. A map, the south of Alban from coast to coast, done in meticulous detail. Flint could see rivers, islands, mountain ranges, a fortification with a banner atop its tower, a lake in which a grotesque sea monster swam. Keldec was tracing a path with a dry quill. He appeared to be deep in thought.
Flint came to a halt a few steps from the table and stood waiting in silence. The king ignored him. Well, two could play at that game. He stood breathing slowly, hoping to be ready for whatever Keldec might have to say to him. The silence drew out.
Finally, ‘Of what use is a Caller, Owen?’ the king asked. ‘You’ve seen those fey folk, how puny and helpless they are. Touch them with the smallest knife or bracelet or buckle and their flesh swells and weeps as if burned. I thought my Caller would bring me warriors. Instead, he brought toys. Living poppets for the entertainment of women and children. And yet, in the old tales, Callers are instrumental in changing the course of battles. Callers aid in the conquest of new territories. They enable leaders to wield enormous power. So Brydian tells me. Esten . . . I see the fellow’s potential, of course. But his reach seems quite limited. I had hoped for better things, far better.’
‘I’m sorry, my lord King.’
‘Sorry? You’re sorry?’ Keldec cast aside the quill and jumped up to stride over to a narrow window, where he set his hands against the wall on either side and stared out toward the east. Winterfort stood on a hill; a fortress wall encircled that hill, and below it a substantial settlement had grown up. ‘In what way is this your fault, Owen? I am musing, only musing.’ The king’s shoulders were tight. ‘When word came to me that a Caller had been found, my mind leaped to what we
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