Back at Arianlach’s side, he ordered more tea, and drank it with the Earl. Now that he’d been in Silverheim for a few hours, apprehension was beginning to tighten its grip around his heart. The place seemed chaotic, disarray evident in every corner, as if a whirlwind governed it and blew things willy-nilly and wherever it willed. On Arianlach’s other side, Henarian had returned and sat leaning against his cousin, his feet on the table, a cup of ale and a mackerel kitten in his lap. The little cat had its claws wrapped around his forefinger, but he only laughed, shook it gently, and encouraged it to further violence. The Herviks had a foul reputation, and Sorrel wondered how far Henarian would go, if pushed. He seemed good natured enough, yet under the sunny disposition lurked a fire that threatened to flare up at any provocation. He knew he'd better watch his step around the boy. And the rest of his family.
Arianlach squirmed around against Henarian to peer at Sorrel. ‘I can tell you think this place is a shit hole.’
‘Your hall is…’ Sorrel floundered, hunting desperately for words that wouldn’t offend, but wouldn’t be a lie either. The Queen was listening. He gazed around, casting his eyes to the rafters, down the long tables ranged alongside the walls. The tapestries were faded, the wood scrubbed bare and bald with too much salt, the straw old and damp. The torches guttered black oily smoke into the gloom. ‘It’s magnificently crafted, with many fine carvings…’
‘It’s a fucking shit hole, you impossible stiff!’
Sorrel winced. ‘What do you want me to say to that? Would you have me be polite?’
‘Not at all. Men do me the favour of honesty all too little. Tell me what you really think!’
‘Of what? Silverheim?’
‘Of Silverheim, yes; and of me, my family, my country. Let’s get to know each other.’
Arianlach swept an expansive hand before him, nearly dislodging Henarian. ‘I want to know what you think of my stinking mead hall! It's my favourite place, other than the moor. But,’ he added, with a sly grin at Melysarian, ‘I especially want to know what you think of my sister.’
‘I can already tell what he thinks of you!’ Melysarian shot back, leaning around her mother to poke her tongue at the Earl.
Sorrel coughed. ‘I’m no judge of women.’
‘You must have an opinion, though. I want to hear it!’ Arianlach slammed his palm on the table, making the board tremble.
Leiryn smiled placatingly, releasing the sudden tension. ‘I believe he likes you, Arianlach, and I believe he likes your wastrel cousin here, although I suspect his judgement completely lacking in that case, because anyone can see Henarian’s a loose bow-string in the wrong hands. Perhaps this Tethiri warrior shall like your sister, Henarian; and the rest of your family too, and he needn’t throw himself off the nearest precipice to get away from you all. Are you satisfied?’
‘Not nearly!’ Arianlach’s mouth split in a wide grin, flashing even, white teeth in the smoky gloom. He thumped Sorrel’s arm. ‘But you and I will get along well enough I think, foster-brother!’
‘Too well,’ put in Henarian, laughing at Leiryn’s assessment of him. ‘I think there are plenty of people who are going to regret this little plan you had of putting you two together before the year is out! And I get to watch!’
Arianlach shoved his cousin upright and rose. ‘Hold your thick tongue or I’ll rip it out’.
Henarian held up his hands. ‘I meant no offence, cousin.’
Arianlach sneered, and turned to Sorrel. ‘Do you want to see my stables, horse-lord? I have a wild mount that I doubt you could resist trying.’
Henarian tucked the little cat down the front of his tunic, the feud forgotten as fast as it had sprung up. ‘If we’re trying him on that dervish, I propose a wager. Ten venta that he fails.’
‘Done.’ Arianlach held out his hand, and clasped Henarian’s. ‘But I say he won’t fail. He’s a prince of the Tethiri, as we’ve just been reminded. He was born in the saddle! I hope you even have ten venta, you hot-headed idiot, because you’re about to lose it!’
‘I have that and I shall have twenty by the time we’re done!’ Henarian tossed his curls and grinned. ‘Do you agree, Sorrel?’
Sorrel smiled. ‘Ellazhán. I think you’ll be ten venta richer before too long.’
‘I know it.’ If Henarian cared that he'd been denied the privilege of using Sorrel's familiar-name, he didn't show it.
‘Then come.’ Arianlach strode to the door, and Sorrel and Henarian followed.
The stables at Silverheim were of the same grey granite as the castle, thick-walled and thatched with heather.
'We have no need to build walls of stone,' said Sorrel, gazing about him in awe at the scale of the building. He could not see into the shadowed rafters, high above him.
Arianlach grinned. 'There are always wolves here, so we build in stone to keep them out. Or so they tell us. I know Silverheim was built by the people from Marisken almost five hundred years ago. They didn’t want their throats cut by the natives of this land.’
Sorrel narrowed his eyes at the grey stone. ‘Understandable. They never came further than the mountains. My people waited for their scouts, in the passes. The scouts never returned.’
He slanted a glance at Arianlach. The Earl didn’t seem bothered by Sorrel’s admission of past violence on the part of his people. And his own folk were particularly proud of that history. They’d been fierce fighter, skilled and deadly. And the Mariskenes had realised when to give up. The rugged, rocky hills between Selahalaros and Vartjastafel remained an effective barrier, even now. Only the Tethiri and their caravans had the knowledge and skill to make the crossing on the West side of the land. Oh, there were occasional others – lone pedlars and tinkers – who dared, but they were rare. Usually even they waited for the caravans to come, and joined them for the crossing. The country there was hilly rather than mountainous but it was still a challenge for those who lacked hardiness or skill.
And there were the Ulthvár to contend with. Sorrel suppressed a shiver. The cruel wolf-warriors were feared across the land. The bard-songs mentioned those of them that had come down from their mountain caverns and allied themselves with men and lived relatively human lives, but no-one had heard of such a thing for nigh on sixty years now.
Arianlach nudged him.
‘You sleep in tents of wood and hide, do you not? Not unlike those of my people, out on the tundra. Not everyone lives within the walls of a fortress. But walls they are, all the same.'
'I know.'
'You know. Oh, of course you do. It doesn't take a genius to know you've never stepped outside your own salazhán before, Prince Ellazhán.'
Sorrel was surprised at Arianlach’s use of his language, and said so.
Arianlach snorted. ‘In truth I don't know much of it, but I know a few names for things. And I know salazhán means 'season-camp'. We have a similar word. But it means 'transient’. We don’t use it much anymore. The Tethiri that you see camped outside the main town have been there for so long they've begun replacing their rotted hide and felt with wood and stone, wanderers no more.'
His eyes clouded for a moment, and Sorrel wondered if the Earl regretted the loss of the Tethiri way of life, for those at Silverheim, at least. But then that had been their choice. Just like his own tribe, they'd chosen to remain in one place, or two at most, alternating between them according to the season.
‘This is anything but transient,’ said Sorrel, still staring, his eyes still searching the lofty rafters, picking out white doves among the gloomy thatch, laced with cobwebs and hung with old harness and bridle, disused now but kept for sentiment’s sake, an homage to old and long-gone warriors.
Forty horses of the Queen's guard were stabled there, with the Earl's smaller guard alongside them. Sorrel followed Arianlach and Henarian along the rows of stalls, touching velvet noses as he passed, revelling in the scent of horsehide and manure, fresh straw and leather and wood. Unlike the hall, the stables were well-kept, and Sorrel approved wholeheartedly, even as he felt the walls close in around him. The rafters were high and dark with shadows, and he couldn't see the stars.
‘You will ride with me?’ he asked, as Henarian drew back the bolt on a stable door and grabbed a handful of oats from the feed sack just outside. Henarian proffered his hand to the dun-and-black warhorse who swung his head toward the slender young man and nuzzled at the front of his tunic. The cat hissed and spat at the sudden attack, and Henarian darted back, laughing.
Arianlach came to leaned on the door. ‘Yes. But I’ll warn you, horse-lord. This wild creature I have for you has never been ridden. Think you could be the first?'
