The inn was crowded, and Kaelin eased his way to the bar. Here he gave his name to a round-shouldered man with a short-cropped grey beard. The man led him through to the rear of the building and up a short flight of stairs.
‘You want me to tell the lady you’ve arrived?’ asked the man.
‘No. I’ll see her later.’
The room was small, but a fire had been laid in the hearth, and the innkeeper lit a lantern, which he placed on a table by the bedside. Once alone Kaelin walked to the window and stared out into the street below.
Maev wanted him to meet the Moidart, to stand face to face with the man who had murdered his father. The thought was abhorrent to him. And yet Maev was right. It was vital to know one’s enemies. The Moidart was an evil man, cold and deadly. He hated the Rigante, and, had it not been for this awesomely stupid war, would have led his forces against Call Jace and the clans. One day we’ll have to fight him, thought Kaelin.
On that day I will avenge Lanovar.
What ofGaise Macon? What of your brother? The thought leapt unbidden to his mind. Kaelin sighed. ‘He is not my brother,’ he said aloud. ‘And if he comes against me I’ll kill him.’
Aran Powdermill once had a cat. It was an exceptional rat killer. Grey and sleek it would sit quietly as the rat showed itself, its golden eyes watching unblinking. There seemed to be no tension in it, no desire or bloodlust. It would watch and wait. When it pounced Aran would always jump. The movement was so swift, sudden and deadly. The cat never played with its prey. It moved in and killed. Then it would pad away to its resting place beneath the window, and wait for another victim.
Aran could not help thinking about the cat as he stood in the company of the Moidart. The earl had spent most of the day with the unfortunate Marl Coper. The screams had been quite chilling. When the Moidart finally emerged he went to his rooms and bathed and changed. He was now wearing a grey silk jacket, embroidered with silver, over a white lace shirt, trousers of charcoal grey and knee length boots. His black and silver hair was neatly combed, though Aran struggled to avoid looking at the small splash of blood on the hair at the Moidart’s right temple.
‘What do you know of the Orb of Kranos?’ asked the Moidart.
‘Might I sit, lord? I have a near permanent ache in my right leg. It is hard to concentrate while in pain.’
The Moidart gestured to a chair. Aran sat and massaged his calf. The pain had been growing worse of late, especially if he had to walk any distance, or stand for more than a few minutes. ‘The Orb is said to be a vessel of some kind, perhaps a—’
‘It is a skull,’ said the Moidart. ‘What does it do?’
‘A skull! Yes, that was the description given by Prassimus in one of the oldest texts. He maintained it was the skull of a great king -a man who believed he was immortal. According to Prassimus he was a vampire of great power. He was destroyed in a war thousands of years before the dawn of our history.’
‘Where did he come from?’
‘Prassimus?’
‘Kranos.’
‘No-one really knows, lord. There have been some archaeological finds across the narrow sea. One hundred years ago a burial mound near Goriasa was found to contain three gold tablets, upon which was a script no-one could translate. There were also items that pre-dated our own civilization. A vase I recall that was crafted from volcanic rock. To this day no-one has been able to ascertain how it was created.’
‘Vases do not interest me. Could this Kranos have been from my lands?’
‘Why would you think so, lord?’
‘Coper tells me that Winter Kay has spent years acquiring maps of the highlands north of Eldacre. He has also studied Rigante history and is fascinated by their myths.’
‘I suppose Kranos could have come from the north,’ said Aran. ‘There are certainly the remains of ancient structures in various sites.’