by Anthony Ryan
Vaelin hesitated, unwilling to part with the name. “He was once a scholar in the Great Library.”
“Learned indeed.” She pursed her lips. “Do you know I never read a book twice? I don’t need to. I remember every word perfectly.”
Her tone was so matter-of-fact he knew this was no boast. “So a man with the same skill would have no need to keep a book, a dangerous book. Once read he has possession of the knowledge.”
She nodded. “Perhaps this man was attempting to preserve such knowledge, not destroy it.”
So that was Harlick’s mission. He stole the Dark books from the Great Library. Destroying them to hide their knowledge, first reading them to keep it, protect it. But why?
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” the princess asked. “Who he was. Where you found him.”
“Just a curious incident I witnessed…”
“I know my regard for you is not returned, brother. I know your opinion of me is not high. But my opinion of you has always been based on the fact that you do not lie to me. Your truth may be harsh, but it is always truth. Tell me the truth now, please.”
He met her eyes and was shocked to see tears shining there. Are they real? Can they be? “I don’t know if I can trust you,” he told her simply. “We once did a terrible thing together…”
“I didn’t know!” she whispered fiercely. She leaned close, her tone urgent. “Linden came to me with his mad idea for an expedition to the Martishe. My father ordered me to bless his endeavour. I made no promises to Linden, I did love him but as a sister loves a brother. But he loved me more than any sister and he heard what he wanted to hear. I swear I didn’t know my father’s true design. After all you were going too, and I knew you were not capable of murder.” The tears spilled from her eyes and traced along the perfect oval of her face. “I made my own researches, Vaelin. I know you didn’t murder him, I know you spared him a horrible end. I tell you these truths because you must believe me now. You must heed my words. You must refuse to do what my father asks of you this day.”
“What does he ask of me?”
“Princess Lyrna Al Nieren!” A strong voice. A voice of command. A king’s voice. Vaelin hadn’t seen Janus for over a year and found him yet more aged, the lines in his face deeper, more grey streaking the copper main of his hair, the stoop of his shoulders more pronounced. But still, he retained a king’s voice. They both rose and bowed, suddenly aware of the vast silence of the crowd.
“Daughter of the royal line of Al Nieren,” the king continued. “Princess of the Unified Realm and second in line to the throne.” A thin, liver-spotted hand appeared from beneath the king’s ermine robes, jabbing at the field behind them. “You forget your duty.”
Vaelin turned to see Lord Darnel, crouched on one knee before the royal pavilion. Beyond him the fallen knights of the melee were stumbling away or being carried from the field, Baron Banders in his rust stained armour among them. Despite the servility of his bow Lord Darnel’s head was not lowered and his helm was clasped at his side. His eyes were locked onto Vaelin’s, shining with an intense and disconcerting fury.
Lyrna quickly wiped the tears from her face and bowed again. “Forgive me father,” she said in a tone of forced frivolity. “I haven’t spoken with Lord Vaelin in such a long time…”
“Lord Vaelin does not command your attention here, my lady.”
A flash of anger flickered across her face but she mastered it quickly before forcing a smile. “Of course.” Turning, she held out the silk scarf, beckoning Lord Darnel forward. “Well fought, my lord.”
Lord Darnel gave a rigidly formal bow, reaching up to take the scarf in his gauntleted hand, flinching visibly as the princess withdrew her hand before he could kiss it. Stepping back he fixed his furious gaze on Vaelin once again. “I understand, Lord Vaelin,” he said, anger making his voice quiver, “that brothers of the Sixth Order are forbidden to accept challenges.”
“That is correct, my lord.”
“A great pity.” The knight bowed once again to Lyrna and the King and strode from the field without a backward glance.
“You seem to have aroused the shiny boy’s dislike,” the King observed.
Vaelin met the King’s gaze, seeing that same owlish calculation he remembered from their first hateful bargain. “I am used to being disliked, Highness.”
“Well we like you, don’t we daughter?” the King asked Lyrna.
Her face was expressionless as she nodded, saying nothing.
“Possibly too much, it seems. When she was little I worried that her heart would prove too icy to allow attachment to any man. Now, I find myself wishing it would freeze again.”
Vaelin was unused to embarrassment and found it hard to bear. “You sent for me, Highness.”
“Yes.” The King held Lyrna in his gaze for a second longer. “Yes I did.” He turned and gestured to the pavilion door. “There is someone I should like you to meet. Daughter, please stay and try to remind the assembled commons that, despite appearances, we are in fact their betters.”
The princess’s voice was devoid of emotion as she said, “Of course, father.”
Vaelin went to one knee, accepting her hand when she offered it, pressing another kiss to the warmth of her skin. Even the untrustworthy can be useful. “Highness,” he addressed her rising, all too aware of the King’s presence, “I’m not sure you are correct.”
“Correct?”
It was wrong in many ways, an appalling breach of etiquette, but he stepped closer and planted a kiss on her cheek, whispering in her ear. “The Dark is not superstition. Look in the western quarter for the tale of the One Eyed Man.”
“Do you seek to test me, Young Hawk?”
They were walking from the rear of the pavilion, alone but for two guards. The king trudged through the mud, the hem of his ermine robes heavily stained. He seemed shorter somehow, stunted by age, his head barely reaching Vaelin’s shoulder.
“Test you, Highness?” Vaelin asked.
The King rounded on him. “Do not play with me, boy!” His eyes bore into him. “Do not!”
Vaelin met his gaze squarely. The King may still be an owl but he was no longer a mouse. “My friendship with Princess Lyrna offends you, Highness?”
“You have no friendship with her. You cannot stand the sight of her, with good reason.” The King angled his head, eyes narrowed in contemplation. “She wanted to show you the shiny boy, arouse your jealousy. Yes?”
Keschet, Vaelin recalled her words in Al Hestian’s garden. The Liar’s Attack. Hide one stratagem within another. Lord Darnel was a distraction, something her father expected. You must refuse to do what my father asks of you this day.
He shrugged. “I expect so.”
“What did you say to her? I know you weren’t stealing a kiss.”
He gave a tight, sheepish smile. “I told her that beauty fades, along with opportunity.”
The king grunted, resuming his stooped trudge through the mud. “You shouldn’t bait her so. It’s necessary that you don’t become enemies. For the Realm, you understand?”
“I understand, Highness.”
“She’s not going to marry him, is she?”
“I very much doubt it.”
“Knew she wouldn’t.” The king sighed in weary frustration. “If only the fellow wasn’t such a dolt. What a burden it is to have an intelligent daughter. It goes against nature for wit to be bound up in so much beauty. It’s my experience that truly beautiful women are either bestowed with great charm or mountainous spite. Her mother, my dear departed queen, was a renowned beauty and had all the spite you could ever need, but mercifully little brain.”
This isn’t candour, Vaelin surmised. Just another mask. He makes a lie of honesty to trap me in another design.
They came to an ornately decorated carriage, intricately carved wood shining with gold leaf, its windows curtained in black velvet. A team of four dappled greys waited at the tethers. The king gestured for him to ope
n the door and climbed inside, groaning with the effort, beckoning him to follow. The king settled himself into a soft leather couch and rapped his bony fist against the wall behind. “Palace! Not too fast.”
From outside came the snap of a whip, the carriage jerking into motion as the four greys took the strain. “It was a gift,” the king explained. “The carriage, the horses. From Lord Al Telnar, you remember him?”
Vaelin recalled the finely dressed man from the Council Chamber. “The Minister of Works.”
“Yes, snide little bastard wasn’t he? Wanted me to seize a quarter of the Cumbraelin Fief Lord’s lands, punishment for his brother’s rebellion. Of course, he would generously take on the burden of stewardship, together with all the attendant rents. I thanked him for his carriage and seized a quarter of his own lands, gave the rents to Fief Lord Mustor. Should keep him in wine and whores for a while. A reminder to Lord Al Telnar that a true king cannot be bought.”
The king fished inside his cloak, coming out with a leather pouch about the size of an apple. “Here.” He tossed the pouch to Vaelin. “Know what this is?”
Vaelin tugged the pouch open to find a large stone of blue, veined with grey. “Bluestone. A big one.”
“Yes, the largest ever found, dug out of the mines in the Northern Reaches seventy-odd years ago when my grandfather, the twentieth Lord of Asrael, built the tower and established the first colony. Know what it’s worth?”
Vaelin glanced at the stone again, the lamp-light gleamed on its smooth surface. “A large amount of money, Highness.” He closed the bag and held it out to the king.
The old man kept his hands within his cloak. “Keep it. A King’s gift to his most valued sword.”
“I have no need of riches, Highness.” I can’t be bought either.
“Even a brother of the Sixth Order may one day find himself in need of riches. Please, think of it as a talisman.”
Vaelin returned the stone to the bag and hooked it to his belt.
“Bluestone,” the king went on, “is the most precious mineral in the world, highly prized by peoples of all nations, Alpirans, Volarians, the merchant kings of the Far West. It commands a better price than silver, gold or diamonds, and most of it is to be found in the Northern Reaches. The Realm has other riches of course, Cumbraelin wine, Asraelin steel and so on, but it was with bluestone that I built my fleet and with bluestone that I forged the Realm Guard, the two pins that hold this Realm in unity. And Tower Lord Al Myrna tells me the bluestone seams are beginning to thin. Within twenty years there wont be enough left to pay the miners to dig it out. And then what will we do, Young Hawk?”
Vaelin shrugged, commerce not being a familiar subject. “As you say, Highness, the Realm has other riches.”
“But not enough, not without taxing nobles and commons to such an extent that they’d both happily see me and my children hung from the palace walls. You’ve seen how troubled this land can be, even with the Realm Guard to hold it together, imagine the blood that will flow when it’s gone. No, we need more, we need spices and silk.”
“Spices and silk, Highness?”
“The main trade route for spices and silk runs through the Erinean sea, spices from the southern provinces of the Alpiran Empire, silk from the Far West, they come together at the Alpiran ports on the northern coast of the empire. Every ship that docks must pay the emperor for the privilege and a share in the value of their cargo. Alpiran merchants have grown wealthy off this trade, some more wealthy than even the Merchant Kings of the West, and they all pay tribute to the emperor.”
Vaelin’s unease deepened. He can’t be thinking it. “You wish to lure this trade to our ports?” he ventured.
The old man shook his head. “Our ports are too few, our harbours too small. Too many storms lash our coast and we are too far north to capture so much trade. If we want it, we’ll have to take it.”
“Highness, I know little of history but I cannot recall any occasion when this Realm or any of the fiefs was threatened by Alpiran invasion or even raid. There is no blood between our peoples. The Catechisms tell us that war is only justified in defence of land, life or Faith.”
“Alpirans are god-worshippers are they not? A whole empire in denial of the Faith.”
“The Faith can only be accepted, not forced, especially not on an empire.”
“But they scheme to bring their gods here, to undermine our Faith. Their spies are everywhere, disguised as merchants, whispering denial, defiling our youth in Dark rites. And all the time their army grows and the Emperor builds more ships.”
“Is any of this true?”
The king gave a small smile, owl eyes glittering. “It will be.”
“You expect the whole Realm to believe this nonsense?”
“People always believe what they want to, true or not. Remember the Aspect massacre, all those deniers and suspected deniers slaughtered in the riots on the basis of mere rumour. Give them the right lie and they’ll believe it.”
Vaelin regarded the king in silence as the carriage rattled over the cobbled streets of the northern quarter, the certainty of his realisation was chilling. There’s no lie here, he actually means to do it. “What do you want of me, Highness? Why share this with me?”
The king spread his bony hands. “I need your sword, of course. Could hardly go to war without the Realm’s most famous warrior now can I? What would the commons think if you were to refuse to bring the sword of the Faith to the Empire of Deniers?”
“You expect me to make war on a people with whom this Realm has no quarrel on the basis of lies?”
“I most certainly do.”
“And why would I?”
“Loyalty is your strength.”
Linden Al Hestian’s face, turning marble white as the blood drained from the gash in his neck… “Loyalty is another lie you use to trap the unwary in your designs.”
The king frowned, at first he seemed angry then barked a laugh. “Of course it is. What do you think kingship is for?” His mirth faded quickly. “You forget the bargain we made. I command and you follow. You remember?”
“I’ve already broken our bargain, Highness. I didn’t do what you commanded of me in the Martishe.”
“And yet Linden Al Hestian still resides in the Beyond, taken by your knife.”
“He was suffering. I had to end his pain.”
“Yes, very convenient.” The king waved a hand in irritation, apparently bored with this subject. “It matters not, you made a bargain. You’re mine, Young Hawk. This attachment to the Order is a fiction, you know it as well as I do. I command, you follow.”
“Not to the Alpiran Empire. Not without a better reason than a shortage of bluestone.”
“You refuse me?”
“I do. Execute me if you must. I will make no declamation in my defence. But I’m tired of your schemes.”
“Execute you?” Janus barked another laugh, even louder than the first. “How noble, especially since you are fully aware I can do no such thing without arousing rebellion amongst the commons and war with the Faith. And I think my daughter hates me enough as it is.”
Abruptly the King pulled aside the velvet curtain covering the window, his face suddenly lighting up. “Ah, the widow Norna’s bakery.” He rapped on the carriage roof again, raising his king’s voice “STOP!”
Climbing out of the carriage he waved away the assistance of the two soldiers of the Mounted Guard who had ridden in escort, grinning at Vaelin, almost like an overgrown child. “Come join me, Young Hawk. Finest pastries in the city, possibly the fief. Indulge an old man’s weakness.”
Widow Norna’s bakery was warm and thick with the smell of oven-fresh bread. On seeing the king she hurried from behind her counter, a tall, thickset woman with heat-reddened cheeks and flour speckled hair. “Highness! Sire! You bless my humble enterprise again!” she gushed, bowing awkwardly and shouldering shocked customers aside. “Move! Move for the king!”
“My lady,” the took her hand a
nd kissed it, the redness of her cheeks deepening. “A chance to enjoy your pastries can never be ignored. Besides Lord Vaelin here is curious. He has scant opportunity for cakes, do you brother?”
Vaelin saw the way her eyes roamed his face, drinking in the sight of him, the way her customers, now bowed to one knee, stole furtive glances, almost hating them for their adulation. “My knowledge of cakes is scant indeed, Highness,” he replied, hoping his annoyance didn’t colour his tone.
“Do you perhaps have a back room where we can enjoy your wares?” the king enquired of the widow. “I should hate to disturb your business further.”
“Of course, Highness. Of course.”
She led them to the rear of the bakery, ushering them into what appeared to be a storage room, shelves laden with jars and sacks of flour lining the walls, furnished with a table and chairs. Seated at the table was a buxom young woman wearing a gaudy dress of cheap material, her hair dyed red, lips painted scarlet and her blouse open at the neck to reveal ample cleavage. She rose as the king entered, executing a perfect bow. “Highness,” her voice was coarse, the vowels clipped. A voice from the streets.
“Derla,” the king greeted her before turning to the baker. “The apple snaps I think, mistress Nornah. And some tea if you could.”
The widow bowed and retreated from the room, the door closing firmly behind her. The king lowered himself into a chair and gestured for the buxom woman to rise. “Derla this is Lord Vaelin Al Sorna, renowned brother of the Sixth Order and Sword of the Realm. Vaelin this is Derla, unrenowned whore and highly distinguished spy in my service.”
The woman gave Vaelin a long look of appraisal, a half-smile playing on her lips. “An honour, my lord.”
Vaelin nodded back. “Lady.”
Her smiled widened. “Hardly.”
“Don’t waste your wiles on him, Derla,” the king advised. “Brother Vaelin is a true servant of the Faith.”
She arched a painted eyebrow and pouted. “Pity. Do some of my best trade with Order folk. Specially the Third, randy lot those bookish types.”
“Delightful isn’t she?” the king asked. “A woman of keen mind but no moral scruple whatever. And an occasionally violent temper. Just how many times did you stab that merchant, Derla? I forget.”