Blood Song

by Anthony Ryan

  He looked around wildly. Black Arrow’s body, if it was indeed his, was gone. The stone structure that had drawn his gaze when he first entered the clearing was now bare of foliage, revealing a finely carved plinth of grey granite, its top perfectly flat save for a circular indentation in the centre. He moved closer, reaching out to trace a finger along the surface.

  “You shouldn’t touch that.”

  He whirled, levelling his sword at the source of the voice. The woman was of medium height and dressed in a simple robe of loosely woven fabric, the design of which was completely unfamiliar. Her hair was black and long, tumbling over her shoulders and framing an angular, pale-skinned face. But it was her eyes that fixed him, or rather the fact that she had no eyes. They were a milky pink in colour, devoid of pupils. As she neared he saw they were shot through with a fine web of veins, like two orbs of red marble regarding him above a faint smile. Blind? But how could she be? He could tell she was seeing him, she had seen him reach out to the stone. Something about the set of her features triggered a memory from a few years ago, a grave, hawk-faced man shaking his head sadly and speaking in a language Vaelin didn’t know.

  “Seordah,” he said. “You’re of the Seordah Sil.”

  Her smile widened a little. “Yes. And you are Beral Shak Ur of the Marelim Sil.” She raised her arms, encompassing the clearing. “And this is the place and time of our meeting.”

  “My…name is Vaelin Al Sorna,” he said, mystification making him stumble over the words. “I am a brother of the Sixth Order.”

  “Really? What’s that?”

  He stared at her. The Seordah were renowned for their insularity but then how could she know his language but not know of the Order?

  “I am a warrior in service to the Faith,” he explained.

  “Oh, you’re still doing that.” She came closer, her brows furrowed, head angled, red marble eyes regarding him for a moment of unblinking scrutiny. “Ah, still so young. I always assumed you would be older when we met. There is still so much for you to do, Beral Shak Ur. I wish I could tell you it will be an easy road.”

  “You speak riddles, lady.” He glanced around at the impossible summer day. “This is a dream, a phantom in my mind.”

  “There are no dreams in this place.” She moved past him, reaching out to the stone plinth, her hand hovering over the circular indentation in the centre. “Here there is only time and memory, trapped in this stone until the ages turn it to dust.”

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you want of me? Did you bring me here?”

  “You brought yourself.” She withdrew her hand and turned back to him. “As for who I am, my name is Nersus Sil Nin and I want many things, none of which you can give me.”

  He realised he was still holding his sword and sheathed it, feeling faintly foolish. “The man I killed, where is he?”

  “You killed a man here?” She closed her eyes and a note of sadness coloured her voice. “How weak have we become? I had hoped I was wrong, that my sight had failed me. But if blood can be spilled here, then it has all happened.” She opened her eyes again. “My people are scattered, are they not? They hide in the forests whilst you hunt them to extinction?”

  “You do not know of your own people?”

  “Please. Tell me.”

  “The Seordah Sil dwell in the Great Northern Forest. My people do not go there. We do not hunt the Seordah. It is said they are greatly feared. Even more than the Lonak.”

  “Lonak? So they survived the coming of your kind. I should have known the High Priestess would find a way.” She turned her blank gaze on him once more, the impression of scrutiny was overpowering, his sense of wrongness flaring with it. But the sensation was different this time, not so much a warning of danger, more a feeling of disorientation, as if he had climbed a cliff and found himself awed by the sight of the ground far below.

  “So,” said Nersus Sil Nin, her head tilted. “You can hear the song of your blood.”

  “My blood?”

  “The feeling you just experienced. You have felt it before, yes?”

  “Several times. Mostly in times of danger. It has…saved me in the past.”

  “Then you are fortunate to be so Gifted.”

  “Gifted?” He didn’t like the tone she used when speaking the word, there was a gravity to it that made him uncomfortable. “It is simply an instinct for survival. All men have it I’m sure.”

  “All men do, but not all can hear it as clearly as you can. And the blood-song has more to its music than simply a warning of danger. In time you’ll learn its tune well enough.”

  Blood-song? “You’re saying I’m afflicted with the Dark, somehow?”

  Her mouth twitched in faint amusement. “The Dark? Ah yes, the name your people will give to what they fear and refuse to understand. The blood-song can be dark, Beral Shak Ur, but it can also shine very brightly indeed.”

  Beral Shak Ur… “Why do you call me that? I have a name of my own.”

  “Men such as yourself tend to collect names like trophies. Not all the names you’ll earn will be so kind.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “My people believe the raven to be a harbinger of change. When the raven’s shadow sweeps across your heart your life will change, for good or ill, there is no way to know. Our word for raven is Beral and our word for shadow is Shak. And you, Vaelin Al Sorna, warrior in service to the Faith, are the Shadow of the Raven.”

  The sensation, the blood-song she called it, was still singing in him. It was stronger now, the feeling was not unpleasant but it did make him wary. “And your name?”

  “I am the Song of the Wind.”

  “My people believe that the wind can carry the voices of the Departed from the Beyond.”

  “Then your people know more than I gave them credit for.”

  “This”—Vaelin gestured around him at the clearing—“this is the past, isn’t it?”

  “In a way. It is my memory of this place trapped in the stone. I trapped it there because I knew one day you would come and touch the stone, and we would meet.”

  “How long ago is this?”

  “Many, many summers before your time. This land belongs to the Seordah Sil and the Lonak. Soon your people, the Marelim Sil, the children of the sea, will come to our shores and take it all from us, and back to the forest we will go. I have seen it, the blood-song is your gift but mine is the sight that can pierce time. Only when I use my gift can my eyes see, it is the price I pay.”

  “You’re using your gift now? I am…” He fumbled for the right word. “…a vision?”

  “In a way. It was necessary that we meet. And now we have.” She turned and began to walk back to the trees.

  “Wait!” He reached out to her but his hand grasped nothing, passing through her robe like mist. He stared at it in bewilderment.

  “This is my memory, not yours,” Nersus Sil Nin told him without pausing. “You have no power here.”

  “Why was it necessary for us to meet?” The blood-song had raised its pitch now, forcing the questions from his lips. “What was your purpose in calling me here?”

  She walked to the edge of the clearing and turned, her expression sombre but not unkind. “You needed to know your name.”

  “VAELIN!”

  He blinked and it was all gone, the sun, the lush grass beneath his boots, Nersus Sil Nin and her maddening riddles. Gone. The air felt shockingly cold after the warmth of that summer’s day uncountable years ago, the whiteness of the snow making him shield his eyes.

  “Vaelin?” It was Nortah, standing over him, his face a mixture of bemusement and worry. “Are you hurt?”

  He was still slumped against the plinth, now once again covered in weeds. “I…needed to rest.” He accepted Nortah’s hand and hauled himself upright. Nearby Barkus was rifling the corpse of the old archer Vaelin had killed.

  “You tracked me here?” he asked Nortah.

  “It wasn’t easy without Caenis. Yo
u don’t leave much of a trail.”

  “Caenis is hurt?”

  “He earned a cut on the arm when he took care of the sentries. It’s not too bad but he’s laid up for a while.”

  “The battle?”

  “It’s over. We counted sixty-five Cumbraelin bodies. Brother Sonril lost an eye and five of Al Hestian’s men have gone to join the Departed.” Nortah’s eyes showed the same haunted look that had clouded them when he first killed a man during their hunt for Frentis. Unlike Caenis and the others, Nortah did not appear to be growing accustomed to killing. He gave a mirthless laugh. “A victory, brother.”

  Vaelin recalled the sound of the arrow as it flew past his ear and embedded itself in Linden Al Hestian. A victory…It feels like the worst of defeats.

  “Did he linger for long?”

  Nortah frowned. “Who?

  “Lord Al Hestian. Did he suffer?”

  “He suffers still, poor bastard. The arrow didn’t kill him. Brother Makril doesn’t know if he’ll live. He’s been asking for you.”

  Vaelin fought down a shudder of guilt-ridden despair. Seeking a distraction, he moved to where Barkus was busily stripping the archer’s corpse of any valuables. “Anything to say who he was?”

  “Not much.” Barkus quickly pocketed a few silver coins and extracted a sheaf of papers from the small leather satchel slung over the man’s shoulder. “Found some letters. Might tell you something.”

  Nortah took the papers, his eyebrows rising as he read the first few lines.

  “What is it?” Vaelin asked.

  Nortah carefully folded the papers away. “Something for the Aspect’s eyes. But I think this little war of ours may be about to grow beyond this forest.”

  Lord Linden Al Hestian lay on a bed of wolf fur, dragging air into his lungs with long, rasping breaths, his skin grey and moist with sweat. Brother Makril had extracted the arrow from his shoulder and dressed the wound with a herb poultice to draw out the poison, but this was only to ease the noble’s mind, there was no saving him. They had forced redflower on him despite his objections, taking the edge from his pain but still he suffered as the poison worked its way through his veins. The men had erected a tent for him, the stench inside stirring Vaelin’s memory of his agonised recovery from the Joffril root.

  “My lord?” Vaelin said, sitting down next to him.

  “Brother.” There was a ghost of a smile on the young noble’s pale lips. “They told me you went after Black Arrow. Did you get him?”

  “He’s…with his god now,” Vaelin replied, though in truth he still didn’t know for certain who the man had been.

  “Then we can go home, eh? I think the King will be satisfied, don’t you?”

  Vaelin looked into Al Hestian’s eyes, seeing the pain and the fear there, the knowledge that there would be no homecoming for him, he would soon be gone from this world. “He will be satisfied.”

  Al Hestian slumped back into the furs. “They killed the boy, you know. I told them to leave him be, but they cut him to pieces. He didn’t even cry out.”

  “The men were angry. They respect you greatly. As do I.”

  “To think my father warned me against you.”

  “My lord?”

  “My father and I have many differences, many arguments. Truth to tell, I confess I like him not, father or no. Sometimes I think he hates me for not matching his ambition with my own. And men of ambition see enemies everywhere, especially at court, where intrigue abounds. Before I left he warned me of rumours, tales of a hidden hand moving against me, although he refrained from telling me whose hand. But he said I should mind you well.”

  Rumours of a hidden hand…The princess has been busy it seems.

  “Why you would seek to hurt me I cannot imagine,” Al Hestian went on in his pained rasp. “You’ll tell him for me, won’t you? You’ll tell him we were friends.”

  “You’ll tell him yourself.”

  Al Hestian’s laugh was faint. “Humour me not, brother. There is a letter in my tent, back at the camp. I wrote it before we left. I would be grateful if you would see to its delivery. It’s…for a lady of my acquaintance.”

  “A lady, my lord?”

  “Yes, Princess Lyrna.” He paused, sighing in sorrow. “Coming here was to be the means by which I would finally win the King’s favour. Our union would have had his blessing.”

  Vaelin gritted his teeth to forestall a curse at his own stupidity. He had known since meeting Al Hestian that the King’s description of him had been fanciful at best but hadn’t realised the true reason for his mission here. He was to rid the princess of an unsuitable match.

  “The princess must have regretted seeing you ride into danger,” he said.

  “She is a lady of great fortitude. She said love must risk all or perish.”

  I have much to do and I will tolerate no obstacle… Vaelin felt a wave of self-loathing course through him. Princess, between us we have killed a very good man.

  “I have a younger brother, Alucius,” Al Hestian was saying. “I would like him to have my sword. Tell him…tell him it would be best if he leaves it sheathed. I find war is not much to my liking…” He paused, face tensing as a tremor of pain swept through him. “Lyrna…Don’t tell her it was like thi—” He choked off, convulsed in pain, blood staining his chin. Vaelin reached for him but could only watch helplessly as Al Hestian writhed in his furs. Unable to bear it, he fled the tent, finding Brother Makril by the fire, his flask in his hand, gulping Brother’s Friend.

  “Is there no hope?” Vaelin pleaded. “Nothing you can do?”

  Makril barely glanced at him. “He’s had all the redflower we can give him. If we move him, he dies. A healer from the Fifth Order could ease his passing but even they couldn’t halt it.”

  Vaelin winced as a shout of pain came from the tent behind him.

  “Here.” Makril held out his flask. “It’ll dull your hearing.”

  “We can’t leave him to suffer like this.”

  Makril looked up, meeting his eyes. The suspicion was still there, his instinctive knowledge of Vaelin’s guilt. After a moment he looked away and started to rise. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “No.” Vaelin turned back to the tent. “No…it’s my duty.”

  “The jugular. It’s the quickest way. I doubt he’ll even feel the cut.”

  He nodded, walking back to the tent on numb legs. So the King has made me a murderer after all…

  Al Hestian’s eyes were glazed and unfocused as Vaelin knelt beside him, only coming back to life when they caught the glimmer of the dagger’s blade. There was a moment of fear, then a sigh, whether of sorrow or relief Vaelin would never know. He met Vaelin’s eye, smiled and nodded. Vaelin held him, cradling his head in his arm, laying the blade against his neck.

  Al Hestian spoke, forcing the words out through a fresh grimace of pain. “I’m…glad it was you…brother.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “And these letters were found on the body of this Black Arrow?”

  The Aspect’s hands were splayed on the letters before him like two pale spiders, his long face intent as he stared up at Vaelin and Makril. Vaelin supposed they must look dreadful, grimy and worn from the twelve-day trek back from the Martishe, but the Aspect seemed indifferent to their appearance. After listening to their report he demanded the letters, his eyes scanning them quickly.

  “We believe the man may have been Black Arrow, Aspect,” Vaelin replied. “There is no way to know for sure.”

  “Yes. Perhaps you shouldn’t be so quick with the killing blow next time, brother.”

  “I was remiss. My apologies, Aspect.”

  The Aspect dismissed the admission with a barely perceptible shake of his head. “You understand the import of these letters?”

  “Sendahl read them to us,” Makril said.

  “Did anyone outside the Order hear him?”

  “We gave Al Hestian’s men a double rum ration that night. I doubt they could hear anyt
hing.”

  “Good. Pass the word to your brothers: they are not to discuss this with anyone, including each other.” He gathered the letters together and placed them in a solid wooden chest on his desk, shutting it firmly and securing a heavy lock on the latch. “You must be tired, brothers. On behalf of the Order I thank you for your service in the Martishe. Brother Makril, you are confirmed as a Brother Commander. You will reside with us here for the time being. Master Sollis is currently commanding a company on the southern shore, the local smugglers are becoming excessively violent in resisting the King’s excise men. You will take over his lessons. You still remember enough of the sword to teach it, I’m sure.”

  “Of course, Aspect.”

  “Brother Vaelin, report to the stables at the eighth hour on the morrow. You will accompany me to the palace.”

  “Congratulations, brother,” Vaelin offered as they made their way towards the practice ground, where Al Hestian’s regiment was encamped. There were no barracks available for them so the Aspect had granted permission to remain at the Order House. Vaelin suspected no provision had been made for them in the city because the King hadn’t expected any to return.

  Makril paused, regarding him with silent scrutiny.

  “A commander and a master,” Vaelin went on, discomfited by the tracker’s silence. “An impressive achievement.”

  Makril stepped close to him, his nostrils flared, drawing the air in. Vaelin resisted the impulse to reach for his hunting knife.

  “Never did like your scent, brother,” Markil said. “Something not quite natural about it. And now you stink of guilt. Why is that?” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked off, a stocky figure in the gloom. He gave a brief, shrill whistle and his hound emerged from the shadows to pad alongside as he made his way to the keep.

  The tower room Vaelin had shared with the others for so many years was now occupied by a fresh group of students so they had been obliged to camp with the regiment. He found his brothers clustered around the fire, regaling Frentis with tales of their time in the Martishe.