The Ember Blade

by Chris Wooding

  She finished tuning her lute and turned her sleepy green gaze upon him. ‘I have been away a long time,’ she said. ‘Five years as an apprentice to a master bard, travelling Embria and gathering songs as we went. Two years playing for the High Houses of Harrow. That’s where I met Harod.’ She smiled up at him. ‘He is my most faithful friend, and my guardian in these troubled times.’

  ‘Speak your business, boy!’ Harod demanded.

  ‘He also has a marked lack of patience with strangers,’ she said pointedly, giving him a harder look. The slightest bobbing of his throat was the only outward sign that he was chastened.

  ‘I won’t keep you from your performance,’ said Aren quickly. ‘I just have one question. Er … Do you need any help?’

  She laughed in surprise. ‘Do I look like I do?’

  ‘It’s just that, well, I met a Sard and …’ He drew back his sleeve to show her the tiny red symbol there. ‘He gave me this mark.’

  Orica’s eyes widened. ‘Where did you meet him?’ she asked sharply.

  This time, Aren thought it best to be cautious. Admitting that he was an escaped prisoner wouldn’t be a smart thing to do. ‘I can’t tell you. He wanted to stay hidden, and I must honour that wish.’

  Orica seemed to grudgingly approve of that. She took his hand, turning it left and right, studying the mark.

  ‘He helped me. When I offered to help him in return, he told me to help another Sard instead.’

  Orica nodded thoughtfully. ‘Lled na saan.’

  ‘Yes, he kept saying that.’

  ‘It means to pass one’s fortune forward. To give it to another. We do not like to let anything go to waste, whether food or favours. If we cannot make use of something, we make sure it goes to someone who can. But this is strange ink. Did he tattoo it on your skin?’

  ‘He bit his thumb and pressed it to my wrist. When the blood flaked off, this mark was left behind.’ He remembered something. ‘He called himself ydraal.’

  Orica looked stricken. ‘Ydraal?’ It was only by contrast that Aren realised how badly he’d mispronounced it. ‘You met an ydraal?’

  ‘What is an yd … one of those?’

  ‘Have a care, milady,’ Harod intoned, leaning down to glare at Aren face to face. ‘He seeks to trick you! That mark could be faked to win your confidence!’

  ‘Tsss. It would take a spy of great craft to know this sign and ydraal both, and I am but a bard, not worth the effort.’ She let his hand drop.

  ‘Will you tell me about this mark?’ Aren asked. ‘And the nature of the boy who gave it to me?’

  Orica’s eyes were guarded. ‘I will, because if you are false then you know the answers anyway, and if you are not then you deserve to have them. That is the sign of a Sardfriend: one who is not of our blood, but who is willing to aid us. Without such a mark, many of my people would likely not talk to you at all, much less accept help from you. We have become suspicious of late, and with good reason.’

  Aren stared at his wrist, perturbed by this new information. ‘Um … And how do I get it off?’

  ‘You do not want to be a Sardfriend?’ Her voice had taken on an edge.

  ‘No, of course I do, it’s just …’ He flailed. ‘Well, after I’ve done what I promised … I mean, I didn’t ask to be marked like this.’

  ‘I understand,’ she said flatly. ‘Do not fear, young Ossian. None but Sards will recognise it.’

  Aren was ashamed at the disgust in her voice. She’d read him right. He didn’t really want to be a Sardfriend, and he certainly didn’t want to declare himself one in public. It was too much of a risk. At best, he’d look untrustworthy and suspicious; at worst, he’d draw the attention of the Krodans. Such arguments seemed reasonable in his head, but they withered in the face of Orica’s disdain.

  She sighed and looked back to her lute. ‘I do not know how you would remove that mark. It was put there by an ydraal: one of the true blood. They are our seers and mystics, and their powers are strange. When your task is done, perhaps he will remove it himself. Perhaps it will disappear on its own. But I do not need your help, so it must remain there yet. Now, please excuse me, I have neglected my duty tonight.’ She slipped the lute strap over her head. ‘Goodbye, Sardfriend,’ she said, disappointed.

  ‘You are no longer wanted here,’ Harod told him firmly.

  Aren didn’t need telling. He went back to his table, mortified and humbled by the scorn in the bard’s words. It didn’t seem fair that he’d been made to feel so small. After all, when he’d implied he didn’t want to be a friend to the Sards, he hadn’t meant her. She was beautiful and looked kind. He’d only meant … well, the other Sards. The deceitful ones. The swindlers and the liars.

  Just thinking it made him realise how pathetic that sounded. No wonder she’d been disgusted at him; he was disgusted at himself. Shaking his head, he took a bitter swallow of ale as Orica struck up a new tune.

  ‘No luck, eh?’ said Keel jovially. But he didn’t press the issue, because Garric returned then.

  ‘You and old Rapapet had a lot to say to each other,’ Keel observed as Garric sat down.

  ‘He misses his home. We were discussing the wonders of Xulan military technology, among other things.’ He leaned forward over the table and dropped his voice so only those around it could hear. ‘Our plans have changed,’ he said. ‘Dreadknights have been seen on the south road.’

  It was like having cold water thrown over them. ‘The same three that followed us to Skavengard?’ Keel asked.

  ‘I don’t know. But that road is too dangerous now. It would be a risk to travel so close to Salt Fork anyway; the countryside is still crawling with Krodans. We will take a different route.’

  He turned to Aren. ‘I’ve arranged transport for you and Cade to Greenrock. A caravan of merchants is leaving at dawn. I’ll pay the Skarl’s passage, too; he’s earned that much. After that, your paths are your own.’

  Cade looked at Fen, upset. He hadn’t expected the decision to be made for him so soon, nor so firmly.

  Grub was even more distressed. ‘But Grub wants to go with you to do dangerous deeds!’ he cried.

  Garric ignored that. ‘Whither you, Vika?’

  ‘I will go with you,’ she said. ‘If you’ll have me.’

  ‘You do not know what you ask. There will be great risk.’

  Grub groaned in exasperation and threw up a dismissive hand.

  ‘I was guided to you, and I cannot ignore that,’ said Vika. ‘There are greater forces at play here, and I am set upon a purpose I do not yet understand. My way lies with yours, for now.’

  ‘Then you are most welcome,’ said Garric.

  ‘Why Grub not most welcome when Painted Lady is?’ Grub protested, but was ignored again.

  Garric tossed a small pouch onto the table. It landed with a chink of coins. ‘Ten guilders for the merchants. Don’t let them charge you more,’ he said to Aren. ‘The rest is for you, to keep or divide as you wish. It’ll get you started, wherever you go.’

  Aren nodded gravely in thanks. Whatever he felt for this man, it was right to be gracious. ‘You may have been my father’s enemy, but you saved my life more than once and held to your oath when many would not have. Whatever else you are, you’re a man of honour.’

  Garric grunted, taken aback by the unexpected praise. ‘We are none of us responsible for the sins of our fathers. I shouldn’t have held yours against you.’ He got to his feet. ‘Be in the stable yard at sunrise. Speak to Tarpin. I’ll say farewell now, for I won’t see you again.’

  He departed without ceremony, leaving the others with the remains of their meal. They looked at one another uncertainly. The atmosphere had turned morose. Aren realised that neither Keel nor Fen nor Vika would be happy to see the back of them. Perhaps they’d half-hoped they’d all continue on together. Apparently it wasn’t to be.

  ‘Let’s not get maudlin, eh?’ said Keel, and he took up his flagon. ‘Hallen gave us the perfect remedy for a heavy hear
t. The night’s young, and if it’s to be our last all together, let’s not waste it on sadness.’

  Fen picked up her own flagon. So did Cade and Vika. Grub reached surreptitiously across the table for the bag of coins, but Aren put his hand on it first.

  ‘Why don’t I keep hold of this?’ he said.

  49

  The sun was cresting the hills to the east as Garric watched the merchant caravan crawl up the road. The room he shared with Keel faced full into the morning and the upper panes of the latticed window had turned to dazzling fire. He squinted against the glare, seeking Aren among the pack, but the men and horses were only silhouettes and he couldn’t find him. He was likely inside one of the covered carts in any case.

  That’s the end of it, then, he thought, and he felt a stone shift and tumble away from the cairn piled over his heart. His duty had been discharged. Aren was safe, and he could move on.

  But Nine, the cost. The bloody cost of it.

  He wouldn’t dwell on it. If he started counting his losses, he’d never stop. There was only onward, onward, onward. Keep going. Never quit.

  Never again.

  The latch rattled and Keel came in.

  ‘You saw them down to the stable yard?’ Garric asked.

  ‘I did,’ said Keel. ‘Didn’t stay, though. I’m not much for farewells.’

  He joined Garric at the window. The caravan was growing smaller in the distance now.

  ‘Was it worth it?’ Keel asked.

  ‘You ask as if I had a choice.’

  ‘Other men might say you did.’

  ‘Other men place little value on their honour.’

  Keel sat down on the edge of his bed and massaged the back of his neck. He looked none the worse for the night’s revels, but then, he always could drink like a horse. ‘Well, they’re on their way, for better or worse. What of our path? You’ve not changed your mind?’

  ‘About the Ember Blade?’

  Keel gave a derisive snort. Small chance of that. ‘About Wracken Bay.’

  ‘I said we’re going, and we are. As soon as we can find someone willing to take us north.’

  Keel blew out his breath, though whether in relief or trepidation Garric couldn’t tell. ‘I’m going home!’ he said, as if in amazement.

  Had he secretly hoped otherwise? Garric wasn’t sure. Returning home was never simple for Keel. He loved his wife and boy as fierce as a man could love, but there were other things waiting for him in Wracken Bay. Things he’d taken to the road to avoid, because he couldn’t bear them any longer. Responsibility. Judgement. Limits.

  Every time Keel went back to Wracken Bay, Garric feared he’d never leave again, that the pull of family would prove stronger than his need for freedom. Keel was the only man he counted a true friend, and losing him to Mariella would be a blow hard to take. But there was no choice this time. Garric had business in Wracken Bay, business that he couldn’t share with anyone. Not even Keel.

  ‘Yes. To Wracken Bay we go,’ he said. ‘We’ll take a ship from there, round the west coast and up the Redwater to Morgenholme, where we’ll meet Mara and Yarin. We’ll lose some time, but it’s the safer route.’

  ‘Better than running into those dreadknights again,’ Keel agreed.

  ‘Aye,’ said Garric faintly. The dreadknights. He wondered where they really were, as despite what he’d told his companions, they weren’t on the south road.

  Secrets. Lies. It didn’t sit well with him, to deceive his friend so. But he’d understand. They’d all understand, in the end.

  They headed to the common room, knocking at Fen and Vika’s room on the way.

  ‘They’ll be at breakfast already, no doubt,’ said Keel. ‘Did you see the druidess last night? She can eat, I’ll say that for her. I like that in a woman, eh?’

  Garric gave him a sidelong look.

  ‘What?’ Keel protested. ‘I’m just saying I like a woman who can eat!’

  ‘All women can eat, Keel. They’d be dead if they couldn’t.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  There were scattered groups around the common room when they arrived, breaking their fast with new-baked bread, bacon and fresh eggs. Garric saw the Krodan family that had been there last night: a pale, meek couple and their children dwarfed by their hairy Brunlander bodyguard. He searched for Fen and Vika and found them tucked into a booth in the far corner. They were eating as Keel had predicted, but not alone.

  Garric felt a knot pull tight under his breastbone and heat rise up in his throat. Aren was there, with Cade and Grub.

  The Bitterbracker saw them, too, and held up his hands in innocence. ‘I watched them get on the cart, Garric.’

  ‘Looks like they got off again,’ he growled. Anger drove him forward as he stamped across the room.

  Vika jumped to her feet as she saw him approach and spoke before he could. ‘Is it true?’ she asked urgently. ‘Is it true what Aren says?’

  Garric turned his gaze onto Aren. Aren was looking back with that impertinent, arrogant calm he’d taken on of late. This new fearlessness infuriated him.

  ‘What does Aren say?’ he snapped.

  ‘That you seek to claim the Ember Blade!’

  Keel spat an oath. ‘Will you keep your voice down?’ He looked around in case anyone had overheard, but this booth had been chosen for privacy. By Aren, no doubt.

  You insidious little bastard.

  ‘The champion with the burning blade …’ Vika breathed. ‘The blade that shines like sunlight. It is you!’

  Garric didn’t know what she was talking about, and he was too incensed to care. ‘Who told you?’ he demanded of Aren, looking at the others to find his betrayer.

  ‘I didn’t say a word,’ said Keel.

  Fen shook her head.

  ‘How we know isn’t important,’ said Aren. ‘We know, that’s all. And now Vika and Grub do, too. I thought a little openness would make a refreshing change.’

  ‘You’re a fool, boy. A fool who can’t keep his mouth shut. So you’ve endangered us all, put the whole plan in jeopardy. Is that your hope, to ruin us? I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s in your blood to sell out your own.’

  The insult had no effect. Aren looked at him coolly. It was absurd that one so young should be so controlled, so in command.

  ‘You’re short on bodies,’ Aren told him. ‘I’d say you could use all the help you can get.’

  His meaning dawned on Garric then. ‘You’re volunteering?’ he asked in disbelief.

  ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t want the three of us running round Greenrock, knowing what we do. Krodans might catch us, and who knows what they’d make us say?’

  ‘Grub rubbish at keeping secrets!’ the Skarl added enthusiastic­ally. ‘One time, his friend love another man’s woman in secret. Grub tell whole town, friend kill himself! Throw himself off cliff, splat! True story.’

  ‘As you see,’ Aren said, ‘better if we stick together, so you can keep an eye on us.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Keel. Garric glowered at him, but he just shrugged. ‘We are thin on numbers. The Skarl’s got his uses and the boys have brains and guts. They broke out of a Krodan work camp on their own, didn’t they?’

  ‘You must take them!’ said Vika. ‘Can’t you see? As I was guided to you, so they were, too. If you are the champion in my vision, then all this was meant to be.’

  Garric had great respect for the druids, but that kind of talk sounded like zealotry. ‘If this was meant to be, Vika, then the Krodans were also meant to crush us thirty years ago, and Osman was destined to die. Nobody decides my fate, neither god nor man.’

  And yet, despite his protests, it was being decided without him. Ever since he’d heard the name of Aren of Shoal Point, his influence over his companions had been slipping. Fen was on the edge of leaving already. Even Keel was beginning to doubt him, and there was a real danger he might choose to stay in Wracken Bay. He’d never really believed they could fulfil their mission after they lost Tarvi and
Varla and the others. Rejecting Aren now could be the final straw for him. And no matter how determined Garric was, he couldn’t do it all alone.

  Aren was still watching him, waiting for a decision. Nine, how he reminded Garric of his father then. Crafty enough to out­manoeuvre him, brave enough to face him down. As much as Garric had hated that man, he’d loved him as a brother once. Maybe the boy did deserve the chance to stand on his own merit.

  We are none of us responsible for the sins of our fathers.

  He wondered if he really believed that.

  Handbells clanged outside and they heard the clopping of hooves on the flagstones. ‘Hear this, in the name of the Emperor!’ called a voice in Krodan. ‘Stay where you are and prepare your passes for inspection!’

  Keel raised his head in alarm. ‘Road patrol!’

  ‘But we don’t have passes!’ Cade said.

  Garric grabbed Grub by the arm and pulled him from the booth. ‘Hide,’ he said. ‘Don’t leave the building. The place is already surrounded and they’ll be looking for runners.’

  ‘Grub good at hiding,’ Grub told him. ‘One time, Grub hid from—’

  ‘Just go!’ Garric shoved him towards the door. Another man got up and ran after him; he obviously had no pass, either. It wasn’t uncommon to risk a journey without the proper authorisation and most considered it a very minor crime, but the punishment if caught was still harsh.

  The other travellers watched them leave. Garric scanned the room for anyone who might report them. The Ossians and foreigners would likely keep their peace, unless pressed by the inspectors; it was the Krodan family that worried him. The father looked at Garric, sensing his attention. He’d seen Grub in their group, and seen him run. All of them looked guilty now.

  ‘What about us?’ Cade asked, afraid. ‘We didn’t exactly have the chance to pick up paperwork while running for our lives from the dreadknights!’

  ‘I carry no pass, either,’ said Vika. ‘I do not need Krodan permission to walk in my own land.’

  ‘Today you do,’ said Garric, digging into a pouch at his belt. He handed her a folded and battered document. ‘Your name is Lana of Houndbridge.’ To Aren and Cade, he gave two more passes. ‘Barrin of Oxfell. Dredge of Hog’s Wallow.’