‘Panagyn is no friend, and I do not trust Aric.’
The broad-shouldered bodyguard shrugged. ‘Even if Panagyn were an enemy he would be a fool to attempt an assassination in a hall filled with the Duke’s supporters. Put your mind at rest. Tonight is a celebration.’
‘Are there many people here?’ asked Niallad, trying not to show his fear.
‘Only about a hundred so far, but they are still arriving.’
‘I shall be down presently,’ said Niallad. ‘Is the food being served?’
‘Aye, it looks enticing.’
‘Then go down and eat, Gaspir. I will see you in a little while.’
The guard shook his head. ‘You are in my charge, young lord. I will wait outside.’
‘I thought you said there was no danger.’
The man stood his ground for a moment, then nodded.
‘It will be as you say,’ he replied at last, ‘but I will watch for you. Do not be too long, sir.’
Alone now in the sanctuary of his rooms, Niallad felt the panic building. It was not even that he expected to be attacked. His mind knew it was entirely improbable. And yet he could not suppress the fear. His uncle had been in his own garden when the assassin, Waylander, shot him in the back. His own garden! With the king murdered, the country in a state of near-anarchy, the Vagrian army had poured across the border, burning towns and cities and butchering thousands.
Niallad sat down on the bed, closed his eyes, and took several deep, calming breaths. I will stand up, he thought, and walk slowly out on to the gallery. I will not look down at the mass of people. I will turn left and descend the stairs . . .
. . . into the heaving mass.
His heartbeat quickened once more. This time it was accompanied by anger. I will not be cowed by this fear, he promised himself. Rising, he marched across the room and pulled open the door. Immediately he heard the noise from below, the chattering, the laughter, the sounds of cutlery on dishes, all mixed together creating a discordant and vaguely threatening hum. Niallad walked to the banister rail at the edge of the gallery and looked down. At least a hundred and fifty people were already present. His father and mother were seated almost exactly below him, their chairs raised on a circular dais. Lord Aric was standing close by, as was the magicker, Eldicar Manushan, and little Beric. The boy looked up and saw him. Niallad smiled and waved. The men around the Duke also glanced up. Niallad nodded to them, and stepped back from the edge. In the far corner he saw the portly priest Chardyn talking to a group of women. And there, by the terrace arch, the Grey Man, standing alone. He was wearing a sleeveless jerkin of brushed grey silk, over a black shirt and leggings. His long black and silver hair was held back from his face by a slender black headband. He wore no ornaments or jewellery. No rings adorned his fingers. As if sensing eyes upon him, the Grey Man glanced up, saw Niallad, and raised his goblet. Niallad walked down the stairs towards him. He did not know the man well, but there was space around him, and the beckoning safety of the terrace beyond.
The bottom of the stairwell had been recently closed off by an archway and two doors. A guard stood inside the porch. He bowed as Niallad approached the door. The porchway blocked much of the sound from the hall and Niallad toyed with the thought of engaging the guard in conversation for a while, putting off the dread moment when he must step through and face the throng. But the man lifted the lock-bar and pushed open the doors. Niallad stepped through and walked across to where the Grey Man stood.
‘Good evening to you, sir,’ said Niallad politely. ‘I trust you are enjoying my father’s celebration.’
‘It was courteous of him to invite me,’ said the Grey Man, extending his hand. Niallad shook it.
Up close he saw that the Grey Man’s clothes were not entirely free of adornment. His belt had a beautiful, and unusual, buckle of polished iron, shaped like an arrowhead. The same design had been used on the outer rim of his calf-length boots.