The Twilight herald

Thus speaks a king, came a sudden voice in Isak's head. The white-eye stopped dead; that was as clear as he'd ever heard the dead spirit in his mind. The normal echo of self-pity and overwhelming loss was absent as Aryn Bwr said, Compassion and morals have no place in a king's deeds.

Says the one who rebelled against his own Gods? Isak thought with scorn. Come then, advise me.

You are a poor copy of one who was never our equal, snarled the last king. My war was beyond your comprehension. You beg for advice? Very well, regrets are for fools; action is what makes a king great. Failure to act is cowardice – and that is something history will hate you for.

The anger in Aryn Bwr's voice was palpable. Isak turned abruptly away from the balcony and headed for the stair. Suddenly the small rooom above the hall felt enclosed and stifling.

/ never wanted to make choices like this, he thought miserably. A care-lessly a

Come now, mocked the dead soul, a white'eye thirsts for power, does he not? The fire of magic in your veins; the fury of the storm at your snow-while fingertips: it's given to you for a reason.

Isak looked down at his hand. He was marked forever by what he'd dune in Narkang, using the power of his God to slaughter hundreds of Fysthall soldiers and mercenaries as they breached the wall of King hum's palace, but the change was only skin-deep.

'That is how I was born to be. It doesn't have to be who I am,' he murmured to himself.

You deny your own nature? That is a path to ruin, to pretend you are something you are not. I have seen it a hundred times. It will leave you as empty inside as you fear to become, because of the decisions you are forced to make,

'At least that would be my choice,' Isak said. '1 would have chosen who I was; what more can anyone ask?'

It is the hard choices that make a king.

IT IS THe hard choices Thal make a man. That will do for me.'

CHAPTER 12

Trying to resist the urge to loosen the stiff collar of his dress uniform, Major Jachen Ansayl strode off down the corridor with as much dig¬nity as he could muster. The old uniform still fitted, but it had been years since he'd had to put it on, and it had never been comfortable. Today it seemed to catch at every small movement, as though it no longer considered him worthy to wear it. The embossed buttons had scratched his fingertips and the collar squeezed his throat, leaving him breathless whenever he stood less than perfectly straight.

He shouldn't have worn it – half of the men here would take it as an insult – yet he had nothing else. Five years' exile up a mountain didn't do much for a man's wardrobe. Jachen ran his hand through his chestnut hair, tugging at the tangles. The cheap soap at his lodgings had not helped much in making him look something approaching presentable. He couldn't really afford private lodgings, but the alter-native was the barracks here at the palace, and he didn't think that would he wise.

Following the servant's directions, he found himself standing before an unassuming door. He had enough sense of direction to recognisi that he'd been sent around the back of the Tower of Semar, the rem‹»i est part of the palace; it appeared he was being kept out of everyone'* way while he waited for Swordmaster Kerin's summons. After thi hostile faces in the Great Hall he could see the sense in that.

Jachen sighed. 'What am 1 doing here?' he wondered aloud. 'I le Kerin found a new way he can punish me?'

Once they'd seen great potential in him; the Swordmaster hinwll had recommended his promotion. Personally, Jachen had nevei been so sure.

He opened the door and stepped inside, sniffing dust and polish, antique wood and lamp oil, the faint mustiness of a room regularly

aired but not lived in. It reminded him of the Temple of Amavoq, where he'd gone to pray and consider his choices before being trans¬ferred to the rangers – not that there had been much of a choice, in truth, but Jachen had never been one to take the easy road. Obstinacy and stupidity tended to get in the way.

Shutting the door behind him, Jachen hesitated. A single slit win¬dow far above head height on the opposite wall cast a shaft of light to the centre of the room, illuminating tall mahogany pews that were so dark they could have served in Death's temples. They also lined the walls on his left and right. On the far side was a massive oak table with a carved top, under which the wood curved inwards and down to thick root-like feet, giving the impression that the table had been hewn from a single great tree. The style was archaically intricate, too overblown for modern tastes – no doubt why it was in here, left only to the admiring eyes of those being kept out of the way.

As his eyes adjusted to the weak light, Jachen stiffened. Peering over the backs of the central pews he saw he was not alone. A bulky figure was squatting on the floor, shrouded by the dark tent of a cape that spread around him.

'Forgive me,' Jachen said. 'I hadn't realised anyone was in here.'

If the man heard, he made no sign. He was crouched between the far end of the table and the pews, head bowed low. His hair, though not particularly long, was tied up in a top-knot. A soldier then, Jachen thought, and from his size, a white-eye, perhaps one of the Guard.

'I've been ordered to wait in here. I'll not disturb whatever you're doing- ah, what are you doing?'

Playing hide-and-seek, of course.' The reply was a low rumble, sug-gesting massive pair of lungs.

The major licked his lips and gave his uniform another tug before asking, 'Hide-and-seek?'

'Hide and-seek,' confirmed the figure, head still stooped as if in prayer 'What of it!'

I… Noihing. It's just a little unusual. I was not expecting you to say that.'

'Much of what I do confounds prediction.'

Who ane you?' Who in damnation are you?'

Jachen bit back his response.Just keep your mouth shut. If Kerin's going to give you another chance, don't blow it by starting a fight before you've even reached the man's office.

'My name is Jachen Ansayl,' he replied, adding defensively, 'Major Jachen Ansayl.'

'Ansayl, eh? Bastard, are you?'

'That's rich, coming from a white-eye.' Damn. The name Ansayl marked him as a bastard (or grandson of a bastard, in Jachen's case) of the Sayl suzerainty north of Tirah. He'd grown used to the jibes, learning through bitter experience that it was better to meet them with a joke than a scowl. Either was a bad idea here.

The white-eye gave a throaty chuckle that sounded like the grating of a tomb's door to Jachen. He raised his head and looked straight at Jachen, his disconcerting eyes shining out of the gloom like Arian's cruel light on Silvernight. Jachen had never liked white-eyes, despite years of soldiering alongside them; he had never been able to get used to the dark malevolence they all exuded. Even those who weren't violent drunkards u

This man was younger than Jachen had first thought. His features were sharp, calculating. A faint prickle of foreboding ran down Jachen's spine. The white-eye emitted a long sigh, as though only now emerging from whatever trance he'd been in, and flicked aside his cloak. A lump appeared in Jachen's throat as he saw the fine clothes His heart sank further when he saw the naked silver blade that lay across the white-eye's lap, glowing faintly in the shadows.

Damn again. All the way to the Dark Place.

'My Lord, 1-'

Jachen's apology was cut short by a raised hand. 'I can let it pass.'

Lord Isak rose and Jachen found himself edging backwards. The new Lord of the Farlan was almost as big as Lord Bahl, though not yet quite as solid. Not quite as solid? Jachen scoffed at himself. This man could tear you in two with his bare hands and your first thought is that he's not so large as another giant of a man? He forced himself to stand still as Lord Isak sheathed his sword with a flourish and began to inspect Jachen with u