by Anthony Ryan
Her bright blue eyes regarded him with a moment’s wariness before she went to the table, pouring a greenish liquid into a cup and mixing in a pale white powder. “Five days,” she said without turning. “You lost a lot of blood. More than I thought a man could lose and still live, in fact.” She gave a wry chuckle, the inevitable bright smile on her lips when she turned back, holding the cup to his lips. “Drink this.”
The mixture had a bitter but not unpleasant taste and he felt his weariness receding almost immediately. Five days. He had no sense of it, no lingering memory of dreams or delusions. Five days lost. To what? The voice, the other blood-song, he could still hear it, a faint but persistent call. His own song answering, the vision of the marble block and chisel vivid in his mind. Sella’s words in the Fallen City becoming clearer. There are others, older and wiser with the same gift. They can guide you.
“I have to…” He raised himself up, trying to draw back the covers.
“No!” Gilma’s tone brooked no argument, her plump hand pushing him back into the softness of the bed. He found he didn’t have the strength to resist. “Absolutely not. You will lie there and rest, brother.” She pulled the covers up and secured them firmly under his chin. “The city is quiet. Brother Caenis has things well in hand. There is nothing requiring your attention.”
She drew back, for once her face was entirely serious. “Brother, do you have any idea what happened to you?”
“Never seen the like, eh?”
She shook her head. “No, I never have. When someone bleeds there has to be an injury, a cut, a lesion, something. You show no sign of any injury. A swelling in your brain that could cause you to bleed like that would have killed you, yet here you are. There was some wild talk amongst the men about Governor Aruan trying to kill you with a Dark curse or some such. Caenis had to put a guard on his mansion and hand out a few floggings before they calmed down.”
Floggings? he thought. I never have to flog them. “I don’t know, sister,” he told her honestly. “I don’t know why it happened.” I just know what caused it.
It was another two days before Sister Gilma released him, albeit with stern warnings about over-exerting himself and making sure he drank at least two pints of water a day. He convened a council of captains atop the gatehouse from where they could observe the progress of the defences. A thick pall of dust was rising from the workings as men toiled to deepen the ditch surrounding the city and make good the decades long neglect of the walls.
“It’ll be fifteen feet deep when completed,” Caenis said of the ditch. “We’re down to nine feet so far. Work on the walls is slower, not too many skilled masons in this little army.”
Vaelin spat dust from his parched throat and took a gulp of water from his canteen. “How long?” he asked, hating the croak in his voice. He knew his appearance was not one to inspire great confidence, his eyes deeply shadowed with fatigue and his pallor pale and clammy. He could see the concern in the eyes of his brothers and the uncertainty of Count Marven and the other captains. They wonder if I’m fit to command, he decided. Perhaps with good reason.
“At least two more weeks,” Caenis replied. “It would go quicker if we could conscript labour from the town.”
“No.” Vaelin’s tone was emphatic. “We have to win the confidence of these people if we are to rule this place. Pushing a shovel into their hands and forcing them to back-breaking toil will hardly do that.”
“My men came here to fight, my lord,” Count Marven said, his tone light but Vaelin could see the calculation in his gaze. “Digging is hardly a soldier’s work.”
“I’d say it’s most certainly a soldier’s work, my lord,” Vaelin replied. “As for fighting, they’ll get plenty of that before long. Tell any grumblers they have my leave to depart, it’s only sixty miles of desert to Untesh. Perhaps they’ll find a ship home from there.”
A wave of weariness swept through him and he rested against a battlement to disguise the unsteadiness of his legs. He was finding the burden of command, with all the petty concerns of both allies and subordinates, increasingly irksome. His irritation was made more acute by the insistence of the blood-song calling him to the voice and the marble block he knew lay somewhere in the city.
“Are you unwell, my lord?” Count Marven asked pointedly.
Vaelin resisted the urge to punch the Nilsaelin squarely in the face and turned to Bren Antesh, the stocky archer who commanded the Cumbraelin bowmen. He was the most taciturn of the captains, barely speaking in meetings and the first to leave when Vaelin called a halt. His expression was perpetually guarded and it was plain he neither wanted or needed their approval or acceptance, although any resentment he may have felt over serving under a man the Cumbraelins still referred to as the Darkblade was kept well hidden. “And your men, Captain?” he asked him. “Any complaints about the workload?”
Antesh’s expression remained unchanged as he replied with what Vaelin suspected was a quote from the Ten Books, “Honest labour brings us closer to the love of the World Father.”
Vaelin grunted and turned to Frentis. “Anything from the patrols?”
Frentis shook his head. “Nothing, brother. All approaches remain clear. No scouts or spies in the hills.”
“Perhaps they’re making for Marbellis after all,” offered Lord Al Cordlin, commander of the Thirteenth Regiment of Foot, known as the Blue Jays for the azure feathers painted on their breastplates. He was a sturdily built but somewhat nervous man, his arm still rested in a sling after being broken at the Bloody Hill where he had lost a third of his men in the fierce fighting on the right flank. Vaelin suspected he had little appetite for the coming battle and was unable to blame him.
He turned to Caenis. “How goes it with the governor?”
“He’s cooperative, but hardly pleased about it. He’s kept the people quiet so far, made speeches to the merchant’s guild and the civic council pleading with them to stay calm. He tells me the courts and the tax collectors are operating as well as can be expected in the circumstances. Trade is down, of course. Most of the Alpiran ships put to sea when news spread we had taken the city, the remainder refuse to sail and threaten to fire their ships if we try to seize them. The Volarians and Meldeneans seem to keen to take advantage of the opportunity though. Prices for spice and silk have risen considerably, which means they’ve probably doubled back in the Realm.”
Lord Al Trendil, commander of the Sixteenth Regiment, gave a suppressed huff of annoyance. Vaelin had forbidden the army to have any part in the local trade for fear of accusations of corruption, severely disappointing the few nobles in his command with money to spend and an eye for profit.
“What about the food stores?” Vaelin asked, choosing to ignore Al Trendil.
“Full to the brim,” Caenis assured him. “Enough for two months of siege at least, more if it’s carefully rationed. The city’s water supply comes primarily from wells and springs within the walls so we’re unlikely to run short.”
“Provided the city folk don’t poison them,” Bren Antesh said.
“A good point, captain.” Vaelin nodded at Caenis. “Put a guard on the main wells.” He straightened, finding his dizziness had subsided. “We’ll meet again in three days. Thank you for your attention.”
The captains departed leaving Caenis and Vaelin alone the battlements. “Are you all right, brother?” Caenis asked.
“A little tired is all.” He gazed out at the trackless desert, the horizon wavering in the midday haze. He knew he would one day look out at this scene and behold the spectacle of an Alpiran host. The only question was how long it would take them to arrive. Would they leave him enough time to accomplish his task?
“Do you think Al Cordlin could be right?” Caenis ventured. “The Battle Lord will have Marbellis under siege by now, it is the largest city on the northern coast.”
“The Hope Killer isn’t in Marbellis,” Vaelin said. “The Battle Lord drew his plans well, he’ll have a free hand at Marbellis whi
lst the emperor’s army deals with us. We should have no illusions.”
“We’ll hold them,” Caenis said with flat certainty.
“Your optimism does you credit, brother.”
“The King requires this city to fulfil his plans. We are taking but the first step on a glorious journey towards a Greater Unified Realm. In time the lands we have secured will become the fifth fief of the Realm, united under the protection and guidance of King Janus and his descendants, free from the ignorance of their superstitions and the oppression of lives lived at the whim of an emperor. We have to hold.”
Vaelin tried to discern some irony in Caenis’s words but could detect only the familiar blind loyalty to the king. Not for the first time he was tempted to give his brother a full account of his meetings with Janus, wondering whether his devotion to the old man would survive knowledge of his true nature, but he held back as always. Caenis was defined by his loyalty, he cloaked himself in it as protection against the many uncertainties and lies that abounded in their service to the Faith. Quite why Caenis was so devoted Vaelin had never been able to divine but was loath to rob him of his cloak, delusion though it may be.
“Of course we’ll hold,” he assured Caenis with a grim smile, thinking, Whether it makes a thimble-worth of difference to anything is another matter.
He moved to the stairway at the rear of the battlement. “I think I’ll take a tour of the town, barely seen it yet.”
“I’ll fetch some guards, you shouldn’t walk the streets alone.”
Vaelin shook his head. “Worry not, brother. Not so weakened that I can’t defend myself.”
Caenis was still unsure but gave a reluctant nod. “As you wish. Oh,” he said as Vaelin began to descend the stairs. “The governor requested we send a healer to his house. Apparently his daughter’s taken ill and the local physicians lack the skills to help her. I sent Sister Gilma this morning. Perhaps she can foster some good will.”
“Well if anyone can, it’s her. Assure the governor of my best wishes for his daughter will you?”
“Of course brother.”
The woman who answered the door to the stonemason’s shop regarded him with naked hostility, her smooth brow set in a frown and her dark eyes narrowed as she listened to his greeting. She seemed a year or so shy of thirty, with long dark hair tied back in a ponytail and a dust stained leather apron covering her slender form. From behind her came the rhythmic thud of metal on stone.
“Good day, madam,” he said. “Please forgive the intrusion.”
She folded her arms and gave a curt reply in Alpiran. From her tone he assumed she wasn’t welcoming him inside with an offer of iced tea.
“I… was told to come here,” he went on, her stern gaze giving no insight as to her understanding, her mouth fixed in a hard line, offering nothing.
Vaelin glanced around at the mostly empty street, wondering if he could have misread the vision somehow. But the blood-song had been so implacable, its tone so certain, compelling his course through the streets, only subsiding when he happened upon this door beneath the sign of a chisel and hammer. He resisted an impulse to push his way inside and forced a smile. “I have business to discuss.”
Her frown deepened and she spoke in heavily accented but unmistakable words, “No business here for northmen.”
Vaelin felt a faint murmur from the blood-song and the hammering from the interior of the shop fell silent. A male voice called out in Alpiran and the woman gave a grimace of annoyance before glaring at Vaelin and stepping aside. “Sacred things here,” she said as he entered. “Gods curse you if you steal.”
The interior of the shop was cavernous, the ceiling high and the marble-tile floor covering thirty paces square. Sunlight streamed through opened skylights, illuminating a space filled with statuary. Their size varied, some a foot or two in height, others life sized, one was at least ten feet tall of an impossibly well-muscled man wrestling a lion. Vaelin was struck by the vitality of the form, the precision with which it had been carved, seemingly freezing the giant and the lion at the moment of greatest violence. There was another smaller statue nearby, a life size woman of arresting beauty, her arms outstretched in supplication and her fine features frozen in an expression of depthless sorrow.
“Herlia, goddess of justice, weeping as she passes her first judgement.” On hearing the voice, the blood-song rose in pitch, not in warning but in welcome. The man stood with his hands on his hips, a chisel and hammer hanging from the pockets of his apron. He was short but well built, his bare arms knotted with muscle. His face was angular with high cheekbones, almond shaped eyes, and the parts of his skin not covered in dust had a faint golden sheen.
“You are not Alpiran,” Vaelin said.
“Neither are you,” the man replied with a laugh. “Yet here we both are.” He turned to the woman and said something in Alpiran. She gave Vaelin a parting glare and disappeared into the rear of the shop.
Vaelin nodded at the statue. “Why is she so sad?”
“She fell in love with a mortal man, but his passion for her drove him to commit a terrible crime and so she judged him, consigning him to the depths of the earth, chained to a rock where his flesh is eternally eaten by vermin.”
“It must have been quite a crime.”
“Indeed, he stole a magic sword and with it slew a god thinking him a rival for her affections. In fact he was her brother, Ixtus, god of dreams. Now, whenever we suffer nightmares it is the shade of the fallen god taking his revenge on mortal kind.”
“A god is a lie. But it’s a good story.” He held out his hand. “Vaelin Al Sorna…”
“Brother of the Sixth Order, Sword of the Unified Realm and now commander of the foreign army occupying our city. An interesting fellow indeed, but us Singers usually are. The song leads us down so many paths.” The man shook his hand. “Ahm-Lin, humble stonemason, at your service.”
“All your work?” Vaelin asked, gesturing at the array of statuary.
“In a manner of speaking.” Ahm-Lin turned and moved deeper into the workshop, Vaelin following, his gaze drinking in the carnival of fantastic shapes, the seemingly endless variety of form and tableaux. “Are they all gods?” he asked.
“Not all. Here,” Ahm-Lin paused next to a bust of a grave faced man with a hooknose and heavy, deeply furrowed brows. “Emperor Cammuran, the first man to sit on the throne of the Alpiran empire.”
“He seems troubled.”
“He had good reason. His son tried to kill him when he realised he wasn’t going to be the next emperor. The idea of choosing a successor from amongst the people, with the gods’ help of course, was a dramatic break with tradition.”
“What happened to the son?”
“The emperor stripped him of his wealth, had his tongue cut out and his eyes blinded, then sent him forth to live out his days as a beggar. Most Alpirans think he was being unduly lenient. They are a fine people, courteous and generous to a fault, but unforgiving when roused. You should remember that, brother.” He gave Vaelin a sidelong glance when he failed to reply. “I must say I’m surprised your song led you here. You must know this invasion is doomed.”
“My song has been… inconsistent of late. It has told me little for a long time. Until I heard your voice, it had been silent for over a year.”
“Silent.” Ahm-Lin seemed shocked, his gaze becoming curious. “What was it like?” He sounded almost envious.
“Like losing a limb,” Vaelin replied honestly, realising for the first time the depth of loss he had felt when his song fell silent. It was only now it had returned that he accepted the truth, the song was not an affliction. Sella had been right; it was a gift, and he had grown to cherish it.
“Here we are,” Ahm-Lin spread his arms wide as they arrived at the rear of the workshop where a large bench was covered in a bewildering array of neatly arranged tools, hammers, chisels and oddly shaped implements Vaelin couldn’t name. Nearby a ladder was propped against a large block of marble from which
a partly completed statue emerged from the stone. Vaelin drew up in shock at the sight of it. The snout, the ears, the finely carved fur, and the eyes, those unmistakable eyes. His song was singing a clear and warm note of recognition. The wolf. The wolf that had saved him in the Urlish. The wolf that had howled its warning outside the house of the Fifth Order when Sister Henna came to kill him. The wolf that had restrained him from murder in the Martishe.
“Ah…” Ahm-Lin’s rubbed at his temples, his expression pained. “Your song is strong indeed, brother.”
“Sorry.” Vaelin concentrated, trying to calm the song, but it was a few seconds before it subsided. “Is it a god?” he asked Ahm-Lin, gazing up at the wolf.
“Not quite. One of what the Alpirans call the Nameless, spirits of the mysteries. The wolf features in many of the named gods’ stories, as guide, protector, warrior or spirit of vengeance. But it is never named. It is only ever just the wolf, feared and respected in equal measure.” He regarded Vaelin with an intent gaze. “You’ve seen it before, haven’t you? And not captive in stone.”
Vaelin was momentarily wary of disclosing too much to this man, a stranger with a song that had nearly killed him after all. But the warmth of his own song’s welcome overcame his distrust. “It saved me. Twice from death, once from something worse.”
Ahm-Lin's expression showed a brief flicker of something close to fear but he quickly forced a smile. “Interesting seems an inadequate term for you, brother. This is for you.” He gestured to a nearby work bench where a block of marble rested, a chisel sitting atop it. The block was a perfect cube of white marble, the same block from his vision when Ahm-Lin’s song had laid him low, its surface smooth under Vaelin’s fingers.
“You obtained this for me?” he asked.
“Many years ago. My song was most emphatic. Whatever rests inside has been waiting a long time for you to set it free.”
Waiting… Vaelin flattened his palm against the stone, feeling a surge from the blood-song, the tune a mix of warning and certainty. The one who waits.