by Anthony Ryan
“A bit late for that,” Vaelin said, opening his eyes.
He lay on a bed of furs in a large bare room, the walls and the ceiling richly decorated with faded paintings of animals and strange sea creatures he couldn’t name. The floor was covered in an elaborate mosaic showing a pear tree laden with fruit surrounded by unfamiliar symbols and intricate swirling patterns. Nortah stood near the door accompanied by a slightly built man with greying hair and wary eyes.
“Brother,” Nortah said with a smile. “You are well?”
Vaelin felt at his side, expecting to find it tender to the touch but there was no pain. Pulling down the furs he saw the livid bruise he expected was absent, his flesh smooth and unmarked. “It appears so. Thought that beast had broken a rib at least.”
“She did more than that,” the slightly built man said. “Weaver had to spend half the night on you. Snowdance is not a easy animal to control, even for Sella.”
“Snowdance?”
“The cat,” Nortah explained. “A war cat left behind by the Ice Horde. It seems some of them made the mistake of wandering into Lonak lands after the Tower Lord sent them packing. Sella found her when she was a kitten. Apparently she’s not yet fully grown.”
“Grown large and ferocious enough to keep us safe,” the other man said, giving Vaelin a cold look. “Until now.”
“This is Harlick,” Nortah said. “He’s scared of you. Most of them are.”
“Them?”
“The people who live here, and a very strange bunch they are too.” He went to a corner where Vaelin’s clothes and weapons were neatly arranged and tossed him a shirt. “Get dressed and I’ll give you a tour of the fallen city.”
Outside the sun was bright and high, warming the air and banishing shadows from the ruins. They emerged from what appeared to have been an official building of some kind, its size and the cluster of symbols carved into the lintel above the entrance marked it out as a place of importance.
“Harlick thinks it was a library,” Nortah said. “He should know, used to be a man of importance in the Grand Library in Varinshold. What became of all the books, however.” He shrugged.
“Gone to dust ages past, most like,” Vaelin said. Looking around he was struck by an impression of beauty despoiled. The elegance of the buildings, evident in every line and carving, had been displaced and disfigured by the city’s fall. His eyes picked out marks in the stonework and the broken statues, not cracks of age but scars hewn into the stone. Elsewhere he noted the way all the taller buildings had fallen in different directions, as if pulled down at random. There was a violence to the destruction that spoke of more than the deprivations of passing years and harshness of the elements.
“This place was attacked,” he murmured. “Torn down centuries ago.”
“Sella said the same thing.” Nortah’s face clouded a little. “She has dreams sometimes. Bad dreams, about what happened here.”
Vaelin turned to face him, searching his face for signs of wrongness. Nortah was certainly different, the weariness that dulled his eyes since their time in the Martishe was gone, replaced by something Vaelin took a moment to recognise. He’s happy.
“Brother,” he said. “I must know. Has she touched you?”
Nortah’s expression was both amused and guarded. “My father once told me there are some things a true nobleman does not discuss.”
Vaelin was momentarily undecided whether to be jealous or angry that Nortah could throw off his vows so easily. He surprised himself by finding he was neither. “I meant…”
There was a rapid scrape of claws on stone and Vaelin fought to contain his alarm as the war-cat Snowdance bounded toward them, leaping a fallen column and nearly knocking Nortah from his feet as she pressed her great head against him, purring loudly.
“Hello you viscous beast,” Nortah greeted her, tickling her behind the ears, for the all the world as if he was petting a kitten. Vaelin couldn’t stop himself edging away. The obvious power of the animal made even Scratch look weak in comparison.
“She won’t hurt you,” Nortah assured him, scratching the cat’s jaw as she angled her head. “Sella won’t let her.”
Nortah led him through the ruins to a cluster of buildings which seemed more intact than the others. There were people there, about thirty in all of varying ages, with a few children running about. Most of the adults regarded Vaelin with a mixture of fear and suspicion, a few were openly hostile. Oddly they showed no fear of Snowdance, a couple of children even running over to pet her.
“Why didn’t you take his sword?” a tall man with a black beard demanded of Nortah. He was clutching a heavy quarter staff and a little girl was peering out from behind his legs, eyes wide with fear and curiosity.
“It’s not mine to take,” Nortah replied in a placid tone. “And I’d advise you not to try, Rannil.”
Vaelin was struck by the way the people avoided his gaze as they moved through the camp, a couple even covered their faces although he knew none of them. There was also a murmur from the blood-song, a tone he hadn’t heard before, it felt almost like recognition.
Nortah paused next to a heavily built young man who, unlike the others, paid them no attention at all. He sat surrounded by piles of rushes, his hands moving deftly as he worked them together, interlacing the long stems with unconscious skill. A number of completed conical baskets lay nearby, each one seemingly identical.
“This is Weaver,” Nortah told Vaelin. “You have him to thank for your unbroken ribs.”
“You are a healer, sir?” Vaelin asked the young man.
Weaver stared up at Vaelin with blank eyes and a vague smile on his broad face. After a moment he blinked, as if recognising Vaelin for the first time. “All broken up inside,” he said in a rapid tumble of words Vaelin almost didn’t catch. “Bones and veins and muscles and organs. Needed fixing. Long time fixing.”
“You fixed me?” Vaelin asked.
“Fixed,” Weaver repeated. He blinked again and returned to his task, his fingers resuming their expert work without further pause. He didn’t look up as Nortah drew Vaelin away.
“He’s slow of mind?” Vaelin asked.
“No-one’s quite sure. He sits weaving his baskets all day, rarely speaks. The only time he’s not weaving is when he’s healing.”
“How can he have learned the healing arts?”
Nortah paused and rolled up the shirt sleeve on his left arm. There was a thin scar running along the forearm, faded and barely noticeable. “When I cut my way out of the Battle Lord’s tent one of his Crows caught me with a lance. I stitched it best I could but I’m no healer. By the time I made it into the mountains the gangrene had set in, the flesh around the cut was black and stinking. When I found myself among these people Weaver put down his rushes, came over and put his hands on my arm. It felt… warm, almost like burning. When he took his hands away the wound looked like this.”
Vaelin looked back at Weaver sitting surrounded by his rushes and baskets and felt the blood-song murmur again. “The Dark,” he said. Glancing around at the wary faces of the others the meaning of the song’s new tone became clear. “They all have it.”
Nortah leaned close, speaking softly. “So do you, brother. How else could you find me?” He grinned at the shock on Vaelin’s face. “You hid it so well, all these years. None of us had any idea. But you couldn’t hide it from her. She told me what you did for her, for which I thank you most humbly. After all, we’d never have met if you hadn’t. Come on, she’s waiting.”
They found Sella encamped in a large plaza in the centre of the city, smoke rising from a campfire above which a steaming pot of stew was suspended. She wasn’t alone, Spit snorting happily as she ran a hand over his flanks. His snorts turned to a familiar whinny of irritation as Vaelin approached, as if he resented the intrusion.
Sella’s embrace was warm and her smile wide, although he noted she wore gloves and avoided contact with his skin. Her hands moved with the clean fluency he remem
bered. You’re taller, she said.
“And you.” He nodded at Spit, now nuzzling a gorse bush with studied indifference to his master. “He likes you. Usually he hates everyone on sight.”
Not hate, her hands said. Anger. His memory is long for a horse. He remembers the plains where he grew up. Endless grass, boundless skies. Hungers to return.
She paused to press a kiss to Nortah’s lips as he pulled her close with easy familiarity, provoking a moment of unease. So, she has touched him.
Spit gave an abrupt whinny of alarm when Snowdance came bounding into view and would have fled if Sella hadn’t calmed him with a hand-stroke to his neck. She turned her gaze to the war-cat, halting her in mid-stride. Vaelin felt a whisper of the blood-song as Sella’s gaze remained locked on the cat. After the briefest pause Snowdance blinked, shaking her head in confusion, then bounded off in another direction, quickly disappearing into the ruins.
Wants to play with your horse, Sella said. She’ll stay away from him now. She moved to the campfire, lifting the stew pot from its tripod.
“Will you eat with us, brother?” Nortah asked.
Vaelin realised he was fiercely hungry. “Gladly.”
The stew was goat meat seasoned with thyme and sage which apparently grew in abundance amidst the ruins. Vaelin wolfed down a bowl with his customary lack of manners, noting Nortah’s wince of apology in Sella’s direction. She just smiled and shook her head.
“How’s Dentos?” Nortah asked.
“Bruised, you nearly broke his cheekbone.”
“He damn near broke mine. The Crows didn’t get him then?”
“He made it safely back to the High Keep.”
“I’m glad. He and the others, were they angry?”
“No they were worried. I was angry.”
Nortah’s smile was tight, almost wary. “Did you come here to kill me, brother?”
Vaelin met his gaze squarely. “I knew you wouldn’t let me take you back.”
“You were right. And now?”
Vaelin pointed to the medallion chain around Nortah’s neck and gestured for him to hand it over. Nortah hesitated briefly then took out the small metal icon of the blind warrior, hooking the chain over his head and tossing it into Vaelin’s palm.
“Now there is no need,” Vaelin said, putting the chain around his own neck. “Since you unwisely fled into Lonak territory weakened by your wound. Having fought off several Lonak attacks you sadly fell victim to an unnamed but famously savage beast known to dwell near the fallen city.” He touched a hand to the medallion. “I could scarcely recognise your remains but for this.”
Will they believe you? Sella asked.
Vaelin shrugged. “They believed what I told them about you. Besides, it’s the King’s belief that matters, and I suspect he will choose to take my word without further investigation.”
“So you do have the King’s ear,” Nortah mused. “We always suspected. Did the Battle Lord live?”
“So it seems. The Realm Guard have returned to Asrael and Lord Mustor is now installed as Fief Lord in the Cumbraelin capital.”
“And the Cumbraelin prisoners?”
Vaelin hesitated. He had heard the story from Brother Artin and wasn’t sure how Nortah would react to the news, but decided he deserved to hear the truth. “The Battle Lord is popular with the Crows, as you know. After what you did to him they rioted, the prisoners were slaughtered to a man.”
Nortah’s face sagged with sorrow. “All for nothing then.”
Sella reached over to clasp his hand briefly. Not for nothing, her hands told him. You found me.
Nortah forced a smile and got to his feet. “I should hunt.” He planted a kiss on her cheek and shouldering his bow and quiver. “We’re running short of meat, and I suspect you both have much to discuss.”
Vaelin watched him walk off towards the northern edge of the city. After a moment Snowdance emerged to pad alongside him.
I know what you’re thinking, Sella said when he turned back.
“You touched him,” Vaelin replied.
Not how you think, her hands insisted. You have something of mine.
Vaelin nodded, fishing inside his collar for the silk scarf she had given him. He untied it from his neck and handed it to her, feeling oddly reluctant. It had been his talisman for so long its absence felt strange, unnerving.
Sella smiled sadly as she laid the scarf out on her knees, her fingers tracing over the delicate gold thread pattern. Mother wore this all her life, she signed. When she passed it came to me. Its message is precious to those who believe as we do. See. She pointed at sigil woven into the silk, a crescent encircled by a ring of stars. The moon, the sign of calm reflection, from where reason and balance are derived. Here. She pointed to a golden circle ringed with flame. The sun, source of passion, love, anger. Her finger traced to the tree in the centre of the scarf. We exist here, between the two. Grown from the earth, warmed by the sun, cooled by the moonlit night. Your brother’s heart had been pulled too far into the realm of the sun, fired with anger and regret. Now he has cooled and he looks to the moon for guidance.
“By his own choice or by your touch?”
Her smile became shy. I feared him when Snowdance called to me with news of his coming. We found him fallen from his horse, raving with fever from his wound. The others wanted to kill him but I wouldn’t let them. I knew what he was, a man with his skills may have been useful to us, and so I touched him. She paused, looking down at her gloved hands. Nothing happened. For the first time, no rush of power, no sense of control. A slow flush crept up her cheeks. I can touch him.
Something for which I’m sure he’s very grateful, Vaelin thought fighting a pang of envy. “He does not do your bidding? He is not…” he fumbled for the right words, “enslaved?”
Mother told me it would be this way. One day I would meet someone who would be immune to my touch, and we would be bound together. It is always this way for those with our gift. Your brother is as free as he ever was. Her smile faded, sympathy colouring her eyes. More free than you, I think.
Vaelin looked away. “He told me what Weaver did for him,” he said, desiring a change of subject. “All the people here are touched by the Dark are they not?”
Her hands twitched in annoyance and a frown creased her brow. The Dark is a word for the ignorant. The people here are Gifted. Different powers, different abilities. But Gifted. Like you.
He nodded. “That’s what you saw in me, all those years ago. You knew it before I did.”
Your gift is rare and precious. My mother called it the Hunter’s Call. In the days of the Four Fiefs it was known as the Battle Sight. The Seordah…
“Blood-song,” he said.
She nodded. It’s grown since our last meeting. I can feel it. You have honed it, learnt its music well. But there is still so much to learn.
“You can teach me?” He was surprised at the hope evident in his voice.
She shook her head. No, but there are others, older and wiser with the same gift. They can guide you.
“How do I find them?”
Your song links you to them. It will find them. All you must do is follow. Remember, it is a rare gift you hold. It may be years before you find one who can guide you.
Vaelin hesitated before asking his next question, he had kept the secret so long it was a habit he found hard to break. “There is something I need to know. How can it be that I have faced two men, now dead, who both spoke with the same voice?”
Her face was suddenly guarded and it was a moment before her hands spoke again. They wished you ill, these men?
He thought of the assassin in the House of the Fourth Order and the murderous desperation of Hentes Mustor. “Yes, they wished me ill.”
Sella’s hands now moved with a strange hesitancy he hadn’t seen before. There are stories among the Gifted… Old stories… Myths… Of Gifted who could return…
He frowned. “Return from where?”
From the place
where all journeys end… From the Beyond… From death. They take the bodies of the living, wear them like a cloak. Whether such a thing can truly be done I don’t know. Your words are… troubling.
“Once there were seven. You know what this means?”
There were once seven orders of your faith. An old story.
“A true story?”
She shrugged. Your faith is not mine, I know little of its history.
He glanced back at the camp and its fearful inhabitants. “These people all follow your beliefs?”
She gave a small laugh and shook her head. Only I follow the path of the Sun and the Moon here. Amongst us are Questers, Ascendants, followers of the Cumbraelin god and even some adherents of your faith. Belief does not bind us, our gifts do that.
“Erlin guided all these people here?”
Some. There was only Harlick and a few others when he first brought me here. Others came later, fleeing the fears and hatreds our kind attracts, called by their gifts. This place. She gestured at the surrounding ruins. Once there was great power here. The Gifted were protected in this city, vaunted even. The echo of that time is still strong enough to call us. You can feel it, can’t you?
He nodded, the atmosphere seemed less oppressive now he knew its meaning. “Nortah said you have bad dreams of this city. Of what happened here.”
Not all bad. Sometimes I see it how it was before the fall. There were many wonders here; a city of artists, poets, singers, sculptors. They had mastered so much, learned so much, they felt themselves invulnerable, thinking the Gifted among them all the protection they needed. They had lived in peace for generations and had no warriors, so when the storm came they were naked before it.
“Storm?”
Many centuries ago, before our kind came to these shores, before even the Lonak and the Seordah, there were many cities like this, this land was rich in people and beauty. Then the storm came and tore it all down. A storm of steel and twisted power. They swept aside the Gifted who fought them and vented all their hate on this city, the city they hated most of all. She paused, a shudder making her pull her shawl around her shoulders. Rape and massacre, the burning of children, men ate the flesh of other men. Every horror imaginable was visited here.