by Anthony Ryan
“I came close to dying today,” he told her, his tone flat, reflective. She didn’t turn but her back stiffened. “You know I lost my song,” he went on. “When you brought me back. Without it … I dropped my sword, Dahrena.”
She turned, a frown of anger on her face. “Is that self-pity I hear, my lord?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Just honest words…”
“Well, I have some honest words for you.” She came to him, kneeling to clasp his hands, small slender fingers working to clasp his own. “I once saw a boy fight like a savage to win a banner in some dreadful game. I thought it cruel then, in truth I still do. But the boy I saw that day did not hear a note from his song, otherwise I would have felt it. You were always more than your gift.” She took a firmer grip on his hands. “A gift is not muscle, or bone, or a skill learned since boyhood, a skill I cannot believe has dulled in but a few weeks.”
She raised her gaze, the anger faded now as she stood, releasing his hands to enfold his head, pulling him close. “We both have much still to do, Vaelin. And I believe our queen’s purpose would be better served with you at her side.” She moved back, smiling down at him, her smooth, warm hand tracing from his brow to his chin before placing a kiss on his lips. “Did you happen to find a key for this door?”
Later she lay with her head resting on his chest, her small and perfect form pressed against him, dispelling any vestige of the chill. It had begun at Alltor with scarcely any word spoken that first night. There had been no preamble, just silent and unabashed need as they coiled together in the dark, drawn together by something neither felt any inclination to resist.
“The queen hates me,” she whispered now, her breath ruffling the hairs on his chest. “She strives to hide it, but I can feel it.”
Whereas I can only suspect it, he thought. “We break no law and offer no insult,” he said. “And even a queen is allowed her own feelings.”
“You and her, when you were young, did you…?”
He gave a faint chuckle. “No, such a thing could never have happened.” His smile faded as Linden Al Hestian’s face came to mind, so many years on and still the guilt of it cut him.
“She loves you,” Dahrena went on. “You must see it.”
“I see only the queen I am bound to follow.” Best for all if I see nothing more. “What do the Seordah say of her?”
He felt her tense, her head shifting on his chest. “Nothing, to me that is. What they say to each other, however, I cannot say.”
He knew the Seordah’s attitude to them both had undergone a severe transformation since Alltor, a deep wariness replacing the affection they held for her and the reluctant respect they had begun to show him. “What is it?” he asked her. “Why do they fear us so?”
She remained silent for a long time, eventually raising herself up to rest her chin on her hands, her face hidden in the dark but her eyes catching the light from the small opening in the basement wall. “Like the Faithful, the Seordah do not see death as a curse. But they believe when a soul takes leave of the body it goes not to a world beyond this, but to a hidden place, a world that exists in every shadow and dark corner, unseen and unknowable by living eyes. In this world you take every lesson learned when alive, every hunter’s trick or warrior’s skill, every scrap of lore, and you embark upon the great and endless hunt, but free of fear or uncertainty, every burden carried in life gone, leaving only the hunt. You may have seen them in the forest sometimes, reaching a hand into the shadowed hollow of a tree or the shade cast by a rock, hoping for a whispered message from a loved soul lost to the hunt.”
“When you brought me back,” he said. “You deprived me of a gift.”
“The greatest gift.”
“You should talk to them, tell them the truth of it.”
“I did. It didn’t help. In their eyes I am a transgressor and you should no longer be walking this earth. They are lost to me now.”
He held her as she lowered her gaze once more, playing his hands over her shoulders and feeling her sorrow. “Then why do they stay?” he asked.
Her reply was soft, sighed through tears, “They do what we do: heed the wolf’s call.”
Reva’s sword thumped against his bruised side drawing a pain-filled grunt. She hopped nimbly backwards as he answered with a clumsy upward slash, then lunged forward in a crouch, jabbing a thrust at his chest. He dodged away, flicking her wooden blade up and aiming a cut at her legs which struck home as she waited too long to form the parry.
“Better,” she said. “Don’t you think?”
Vaelin moved to the nearby tree stump where his canteen sat, drinking deep. The sky was overcast today and the air chilled, heralding the onset of autumn and the prospect of a less-than-easy march to Varinshold. They had lingered at Warnsclave for three days now as they waited for the Meldenean fleet to appear. The supply situation had been alleviated by Lord Al Bera’s provisions but they still lacked sufficient stocks to sustain the northward advance, especially in light of their ever-growing number of recruits. Over a thousand people had made their way to the ruined city since their arrival, forcing the addition of yet more companies to Nortah’s regiment. The Volarians, it seemed, hadn’t been quite so efficient as they imagined in gathering slaves, though scouts brought daily evidence of their proficiency in slaughter, telling tales of one ruined village after another, each well stocked with rotting corpses.
“No,” he told Reva. “If anything I’m worse today.” He tossed his canteen aside and charged at her, delivering a rapid series of thrusts and slashes, his wooden sword moving in a blur. She dodged and parried with a fluency that put her early lessons to shame; battle-honed skill always counted for more, he knew. He also knew she was going easy on him, allowing him to land strokes she could have easily blocked, making her replies just fractionally slower than they should have been.
“This won’t do,” he muttered, pulling up short from another lunge.
“Oh come now,” she mocked. “Not giving up, are you?”
You love me too much, he thought with an inward sigh. Scared to watch me die again. He cast his gaze at the field below the hill where they practised, the army labouring under the instruction of officers and sergeants, new recruits and old being honed into their queen’s deadly instrument of justice. He could see her cantering along on her white horse, black cloak trailing in the wind, raising salutes and exhortations wherever she rode.
“Do you…?” Reva had come to stand beside him, speaking in hesitant tones.
“What?” he prompted.
“The queen.” Reva’s eyes tracked Lyrna’s horse as she trotted towards Nortah’s new companies, people falling to the knees as she came to a halt. “What was done to her. Do you ever wonder what it might mean?”
“Her healing?”
“No. Not her healing. What was done before. To suffer what she suffered, healed or not the scars run deep.”
“As deep as yours, sister?”
“Perhaps deeper, that’s what worries me. My hands are red, as are yours. We have no claim to innocence and I’ll answer to the Father when my time comes. But she … Sometimes I think she would burn the whole world if it meant the death of the last Volarian. And even then she wouldn’t be sated.”
“Don’t you hunger for justice?”
“Justice, yes. And to make my people secure once more. To do that I’ll fight her war and free her city. But that won’t be enough will it? What will you tell her when she orders you to follow her across the ocean?”
No song. No guidance. Just ever-more-silent uncertainty.
“Thank you for the practice, my lady,” he said, turning to offer a bow. “But I think I need a less caring tutor.”
Davern’s ash sword batted Vaelin’s parry aside and cracked against his unarmoured ribs, leaving him winded and doubled over. Davern stepped back as Vaelin gasped for air, glaring up at him. “Who told you to stop, sergeant?”
The former shipwright gave a momentary frown, which quick
ly transformed into a bright-toothed grin, lunging forward to deliver a jab at Vaelin’s nose. He twisted, the ash blade missing by a whisker, grabbing the sergeant’s arm and throwing him over his shoulder. Davern was quick to recover, leaping to his feet and whirling to deliver a round-house slash at Vaelin’s legs. Wood cracked as Vaelin blocked the blow then replied with a series of two-handed strokes aimed at chest and head, the sergeant backing away and blocking every blow, deaf to the calls of the onlookers.
Three days now and Vaelin had yet to land a blow, drawing a larger crowd with each repeated bout of practice. Davern, as expected, had needed little persuasion to fight with the Battle Lord, his evident delight increasing further when Vaelin’s reduced skills became apparent. It would have been easy to do this away from the eyes of the army but Vaelin resisted the temptation, finding the scrutiny of so many critical eyes a useful impetus to greater effort.
He was improving, he could feel it, the chill not so deep now. But still the sword felt strange in his hand, the once-sublime artistry replaced with workmanlike efficiency. How much was the song? he wondered continually. How much do I need it?
Davern ducked under another stroke, jerking to the side then delivering a precise thrust that found its way past Vaelin’s guard to jab into his upper lip, drawing blood and making him reel backwards.
“Apologies, my lord,” Davern said, his sword smacking into Vaelin’s right leg and sending him to the ground, slapping his feeble counterstroke away and raising his weapon for a no?doubt-painful final blow. “But you did say to display no restraint.”
“That’s enough!” Alornis was striding forward, face red with fury. She shoved a smirking Davern aside and knelt by Vaelin, pressing a clean rag to his bleeding lip. “This is over,” she told the sergeant. “Go back to your regiment.”
“Does your lady sister command here now, my lord?” Davern asked Vaelin. “Perhaps she should.”
“Sergeant.” The voice was soft but Davern’s smirk disappeared in an instant. Nortah stood nearby, casting his eye about the onlooking soldiers, mostly free fighters from his own regiment, all quickly finding somewhere else to be. Snowdance moved from Nortah’s side to nudge at Vaelin’s shoulder, purring insistently until he got to his feet.
“Your man is a brute,” Alornis told Nortah, continuing to staunch the blood flowing from Vaelin’s lip.
“Merely following his lordship’s order, Teacher,” Davern said to Nortah. Whereas he showed a complete absence of fear in regard to Vaelin, his attitude to Nortah was always markedly more respectful.
“Indeed he was,” Vaelin said, pausing to hawk a red glob onto the ground. “And very well too, I might add.”
Nortah spared Davern a brief glance. “See to the pickets,” he ordered quietly.
The sergeant bowed and hurried off.
“A thousand things can happen in a battle,” Nortah said to Vaelin. “You put too much stock in one dropped sword.”
“Wars aren’t won with dropped swords, brother.” Vaelin took the rag from Alornis and walked towards the tree where he had tethered Scar.
“Brother Kehlan should see to that,” she called after him but he just waved and climbed into the saddle.
Finding Caenis wasn’t difficult. The Seventh Order contingent, now grown to some four brothers and two sisters, were housed in a canvas roofed ruin near the harbour, somewhat removed from the rest of the army, who continued to eye them with unabashed suspicion. Caenis sat with the others, talking in low but earnest tones, each of them listening with keen attention. They were all younger than his brother. The gift of youth provided a greater chance of surviving the Volarian onslaught, the young being better suited to the rigours of battle or more likely to catch the slavers’ eye. One young man had clearly endured some harsh treatment, sitting shirtless as he listened to Caenis, his back striped with recent whip-strokes, raw and red in the evening light.
“The province of war is no longer confined to the Sixth Order,” Caenis was saying. “Now all the Faithful are called to join this struggle. Now we are all warriors. Concealment is a luxury we can no longer afford.”
He fell silent as Vaelin stepped from the shadows, the others turning to regard him with a mixture of customary awe and grave respect.
“Brother,” Vaelin said. “I would speak with you.”
They walked the length of the mole as darkness fell, a three-quarters moon showing through intermittent cloud. Caenis said nothing, waiting for him to speak, perhaps fully aware of the first word he would say.
“Mikehl,” Vaelin said when they had come to the end of the mole. The evening tide had drawn the sea back from the mole so it seemed they stood atop a great height, assailed by a strong breeze, the gently lapping waves barely visible below. He searched Caenis’s face as his brother gave no response, seeing what he had expected to see. Guilt.
“Before I sailed to the Reaches Aspect Grealin assured me he had no part in it,” Vaelin went on. “Placing the blame squarely on Brother Harlick, who in truth has admitted his part, though not in the most fulsome terms. Is there perhaps something you would like to add to the story, brother?”
Caenis’s expression didn’t change and his voice was toneless as he replied, “My Aspect instructed me to keep you safe. I did as I was instructed.”
“The men who killed Mikehl told of another, someone I fancy they met in the forest that night. Someone they feared.”
“They were expecting a brother of Harlick’s acquaintance, someone complicit in his scheme. I found him, killed him, and took his place. The assassins hired by Nortah’s father were not so easily killed, so I sent them in the wrong direction, a direction I expected would lead them clear of any brothers. Mikehl, however, was always so slow, and so easily lost.”
Vaelin turned away from him, staring out to sea. The wind was rising and the wave-tops shone white in the dim moonlight. Farther out he could see a black shape on the horizon, soon joined by several more. “Our Fleet Lord makes good his promise,” he observed.
Caenis glanced at the approaching ships. “This war has garnered some strange allies.”
“And revealed much in the process.”
“That day you found us … My words were unfair. I had lost so many men, so much unforeseen death. It seemed the Departed had abandoned us, as if your Faithlessness had drawn their judgement. It was a foolish notion, brother.”
“Brother,” Vaelin repeated softly. “We’ve called each other that for so long I wonder if it still holds meaning. So much has been concealed, so many lies spoken. That first day, in the vaults, Grealin patted you on the shoulder and you flinched. I thought you feared his imaginary rats, but he was greeting you. You weren’t joining the Sixth Order, you were reporting to your Aspect.”
“It is how we persist, how we continue to serve the Faith. At least until now. With Aspect Grealin gone the burden of rebuilding this Order falls to me. It would sit easier with your help.”
“The Gifted from the Reaches want no part of your Order. Cara and Marken aren’t even of the Faith and I doubt Lorkan could summon the will to believe in anything.”
“Much like you, brother.” Caenis’s words were softly spoken but Vaelin heard the judgement in them clearly.
“I did not lose my faith,” he told Caenis. “It shrivelled and died in the face of truth.”
“And will this great truth win this war, brother? Look around you and see how many have suffered. Will your truth sustain them in the months and years ahead?”
“Will your gift? I’ve yet to learn what manner of power you hold, and if I am to command this army, I should greatly like to know.”
Caenis stood regarding him in silence, eyes intent and unblinking. Vaelin’s hand went to the hunting knife at his belt, gripping the handle tight, ready to draw it forth, stab it into his brother’s eye … He breathed out slowly, releasing the knife and finding his hand trembling.
“So now you know, brother,” Caenis said before turning and walking away.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alucius
Aspect Dendrish sagged on hearing the news, seeming to shrink as his bulk subsided onto his too-narrow bed. His jowls shimmered as he worked his slug-like lips, brow drawn in a frown of despair. “There…” He paused and swallowed, gazing up at Alucius with wide-eyed desperation. “There could be some error in this. Some misunderstanding…”
“I doubt that, Aspect,” Alucius said. “It seems Master Grealin has truly met his end, though in rather strange circumstances.” He went on to relate the tale Darnel had told him, complete with the Dark powers attributed to the fallen Master of the Sixth Order.
Dendrish’s response was swift, immediate and far too practised to be anything but a lie. “Utter nonsense. In fact I am appalled a man of learning could lend any credence to such lurid piffle.”
“Quite so, Aspect.” Alucius fished inside his sack and brought out a fresh volume, tossing it onto the bed. One of his more prized finds, Brother Killern’s The Voyage of the Swift Wing. He had intended to annoy the Aspect with an annotated copy of Lord Al Avern’s Complete and Unbiased History of the Church of the World Father, but felt the plump scholar’s spirits might be in need of a lift. Dendrish, however, didn’t even glance at the book, sitting and staring at nothing as Alucius begged leave and departed the cell.
Aspect Elera was more careful in her response, commenting briefly about her scant acquaintance with the late master before expressing her deep appreciation for the fresh medicine and new books. Her tone, however, became markedly more intent when she asked him, “And the wine, Alucius?”
“I have yet to seek it out, Aspect.”
She met his gaze, speaking in a surprisingly harsh whisper. “Then be sure to slake your thirst soon, good sir.”
With Darnel and much of the Renfaelin knights gone off to hunt down the elusive Red Brother, Varinshold was even more quiet than usual. Most of the Volarian garrison were Varitai, never particularly talkative, and the smaller contingent of Free Swords kept to themselves in the northern quarter mansion houses they had transformed into barracks. The streets, such as they were, remained unpatrolled for the most part since there was hardly a soul left to police. Most slaves had been shipped across the ocean weeks ago and those that remained were fully occupied fulfilling Darnel’s vision of his great palace, one in particular providing the most valued labour, so valued in fact that Darnel had threatened to sever the hand of any overseer who touched him with the slightest kiss of a whip.
