A Dream of the Heaven

Chapter 17 (Part 1 of 2)

Chapter 17

Isendrin

*

The Northergate opened just before dawn.  Among the first to leave Monruath were three riders in drab travelling gear, hoods up against the light rain.  There were a thousand miles to go.  Isendrin did not look back.

His brother had been startled to see him the previous evening when he had marched straight into Exodus.  Imlon had frantically produced a map detailing the first part of their journey: straight north before dawn to gain Haruyen before the day was out; turn from the high road in four days time into the Birchwood; straight north through Tentruar, the Haruyese capital, to the Willowwood and the border with the marsh.  They could clear Haruyen in less than two weeks if the roads were good.

As the sun rose and Isendrin thrashed his horse north, drawing Imlon and Temith in his wake, he wondered what had been said at the dinner.  One of Greenwick’s attendants had come to his manor later in the evening, asking after Lord Held.  The steward did as he was told, telling the attendant that his master was away, whilst Isendrin was upstairs gathering all he would need.  It was a shame for Lady Vito, but she would have many other suitors.  It was also a shame that he had not seen Lord Farrant’s reaction to his absence, or Beresso’s in the weeks to come.

In the mid-morning, with the rain still persistent, the three travellers stopped at a wayside inn.

“What name are you going by?” Isendrin asked Imlon as they breakfasted.

“What?”

“False names.  What do you want to be called?  Something Tysider, Roethennan?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“We’d better.  Come now Master Callyrian, what name would you give to my face?”

Temith jerked up in surprise.  After Imlon had introduced them that morning, they had not spoken to one another.

“I cannot say,” said the Erluethan, stuttering.  “I have little knowledge of Emmaressian names.”

Temith looked back down at his plate.  Isendrin shook his head before spearing a rasher of bacon.  It was tough meat: thank God he had remembered his own knife.

After breakfast, the tiring horses demanded that they slow the pace, but Isendrin forced the three of them on for another hour.  Someone more prominent than a servant would likely have already visited Jewelcutters, in the city now more than ten miles behind them, only to find it empty.  He reckoned on four days for the news to get out.  Today, confusion; tomorrow, a quiet search; the day after, rumours; the fourth day, knowledge – Lord Held, principal exile of Monruath, had vanished from the city.  Some men within the Prince’s Wall, however, would have their ears closer to the ground.  The pounding rhythm of his horse’s whirling hooves, iron on stone, rang inside Isendrin’s skull, and he knew the spies could hear it too.

*

They were delayed in the afternoon by the traffic.  Carts piled high with the ore that fed Monruath continually emerged from the mine roads to the west.  It was almost dark by the time the travellers crossed the border, marked by nothing but a shallow, fordable river.

“So this is Haruyen,” said Temith, looking out over the fields.  The three had ridden in silence for much of the day, but the theologian had frequently tried and failed to start a conversation.

“No,” said Isendrin.  “Legally, yes.  But this isn’t real Haruyese territory.”

Temith, from his look, seemed to expect more information.  Isendrin ignored him.