by Anthony Ryan
“My apologies,” she said, still not looking at Alornis. “This is not my house.” She glanced at Vaelin. “This night is for you and your sister. I’ll find a room to bed down in.” Her tone became harder. “We’ll conclude our business in the morning.” With that she went into the hallway. There were only faint scuffs as she moved through the house, she had a knack for stealth.
“Your travelling companion?” Alornis asked.
“You meet all kinds on the road.” He returned to the table. “My father really left you with nothing?”
“It wasn’t his fault.” Her tone had an edge to it. “Whatever coin we had went fast when the sickness came. Any lands he held, or rights to pension, disappeared when he stopped being Battle Lord. His friends, men he had been to war with, no longer knew him. It was not an easy time, brother.”
He could see the reproach in her gaze, knowing he had earned it. “There was no place for me here,” he said. “Or so I thought. You knew him, grew up under his eyes. I did not. If he wasn’t at war, he was training his horses or his men, and when he was here . . .” The tall black-eyed man stared down at the boy with the wooden sword and no smile came to his lips as the boy lunged at him, laughing but also pleading. “Teach me, Father! Teach me! Teach me!” The black-eyed man batted the sword away and commanded a steward to take the boy to the house, turning back to continue grooming his horse . . .
“He loved you,” Alornis told him. “He never lied to me, I always knew who you were, who I was, that we did not share a mother. That every hour of every day he wished with all his heart he hadn’t followed your mother’s wish. He wanted you to know that. As the sickness grew worse and he couldn’t leave his bed, it was all he could talk of.”
There was a sudden thump of something heavy hitting the floor above, a man’s voice raised in alarm then a snarl. Reva.
“Oh no,” Alornis groaned. “He doesn’t usually wake up until well past the tenth hour.”
Vaelin rushed upstairs, finding Reva astride a tall, handsome but unshaven young man, knife held rock-still at his throat. “An outlaw, Darkblade!” she said. “An outlaw in your sister’s house.”
“Merely a poet, I assure you,” the young man said.
Reva loomed over him. “Quiet you! Come into a young maid’s house, would you? Itch in your breeches is there?”
“Reva!” Vaelin said. He was wary of touching her. The scene in the kitchen had left her wound tight and in need of release, any touch like to make her snap like a drawn bowstring. He kept his voice calm. “This man is a friend. Let him up, please.”
Reva’s nostrils flared and she gave a final snarl before rolling away, coming smoothly to her feet as her knife disappeared into its sheath.
“You always did have dangerous pets, my lord,” the young man said from the floor.
Reva started forward again but Vaelin put himself between them, offering the young man a hand and hauling him upright in a haze of cheap wine. “You shouldn’t bait her, Alucius,” he said. “She’s a better student than you ever were.”
◆ ◆ ◆
Alucius Al Hestian sat on the red-brick well in the yard, blinking in the morning sun, eyes dark and red, sipping from a flask as Vaelin joined him. The practice with Reva had been more vigorous than usual. She had plenty of anger left over from the night before and seemed more determined than ever to land at least one blow with the ash rod. Defeating her had not been easy and his shirt was damp with sweat.
“Brother’s Friend?” he asked, nodding at the flask as he hauled the bucket from the well.
“It’s called Wolf’s Blood these days,” Alucius replied, raising the flask in salute. “Some enterprising former soldiers of yours set themselves up in a distillery with their pensions, started churning out bottles of the regiment’s favourite tipple by the thousand. I hear they’re rich as Far West Merchants these days.”
“Good for them.” He settled the bucket on the rim of the well, scooping water to his mouth with the wooden ladle. “Your father is well?”
“Still hates you with a fiery passion, if that’s what you mean.” Alucius’s grin faded. “But he’s . . . a quieter man these days. The King has a new Battle Lord now.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Indeed, Varius Al Trendil. Hero of the Bloody Hill and the taking of Linesh.”
Vaelin remembered a taciturn man biting down angry words born of frustrated greed. “Many victories to his name?”
“There’s not been a real battle in the Realm since the Usurper’s Revolt. But he was singularly efficient in quelling all those riots and rebellions.”
“I see.” He took another drink and rested himself next to Alucius. “I find myself compelled to ask an indelicate question.”
“Why is a drunken poet sleeping in your sister’s house?”
“Quite.”
“He thinks he’s protecting me,” Alornis said from the kitchen doorway. “Breakfast’s ready.”
Breakfast was a sparse serving of ham and eggs which disappeared almost as soon as it touched Reva’s plate. He could see her resisting the impulse to ask for more, but her stomach felt no need to restrain a loud rumble. “Here.” Alucius pushed his own untouched plate towards her, his unstoppered flask still in his hand. “Peace offering. Wouldn’t want you cutting my throat for a meal.”
Reva favoured him with a curled lip but accepted the food readily enough.
“Our father died three years ago,” Vaelin said to Alornis. “Why has it taken so long for the King to claim his property?”
She shrugged. “Who can say? The slow wheels of bureaucracy perhaps.”
The ship that carried him from the Meldenean Islands had called in at South Tower little over a month ago. Plenty of time for a fast horse to ride to the capital. A man as hated as you shouldn’t expect to avoid recognition. He suspected the wheels of bureaucracy had ground much faster than she knew.
“I’m glad you’re alive by the way, Alucius,” he told the poet. “If I didn’t say it before.”
“You didn’t, and thank you.”
“You were amongst the party that fought its way to the docks, I assume?”
Alucius looked down at the table, taking another sip of Wolf’s Blood. “Stay close to my father, you said. It was good advice.”
From the dullness of his tone and the shadow in his eyes, Vaelin judged it best to let the matter drop. “So, what exactly are you protecting my sister from?”
He brightened a little. “Oh the usual, outlaws, vagabonds”—he gave Reva a pointed glance—“wayward Deniers with sharp knives, Ardents seeking to pester the kin of the great Brother Vaelin for words of support.”
Vaelin frowned. “Ardents? What’s that?”
“Those that are ardent in their Faith. They started appearing after the King’s Edict of Toleration. They hold meetings, wave banners, sometimes attack people they suspect of Denier practices. They call themselves the true followers of the Faith, given public support by Aspect Tendris. The rest of the Orders are less enthusiastic.” His expression became more serious. “Your return will be a great joy to them. The Faith’s greatest champion, betrayed to a Denier dungeon by the Al Nieren dynasty. I’m afraid they will have unrealistic expectations, my lord.”
Reva’s head rose from her plate, head angled to the broken window in the south-facing wall. “Horse coming.”
Vaelin looked at the open door hearing the clatter of hooves on cobble. The blood-song’s note was strong with recognition, but also had a faint trill of warning. He suppressed it as well he could and went outside.
Brother Caenis Al Nysa reined his horse to a halt and dismounted in the yard. He stood regarding Vaelin in silence for a moment, then came forward with his arms wide, a bright smile on his lips. They embraced with all the warmth expected of reunited brothers, Caenis’s grip fierce, a small shudder escaping his chest. But still t
he blood-song trilled its warning . . .
◆ ◆ ◆
His face was leaner, more lines at the corner of his eyes, even some grey in the close-cropped hair on his temples. Life in the Order did not make for a prolonged youth. He seemed as strong as ever though, even a little broader across the shoulders. Never an imposing figure, Caenis was now possessed of a palpable air of authority, perhaps brought on by the red diamond sewn onto the dark blue of his cloak.
“Brother Commander no less?” Vaelin asked. They were strolling on the grass by the riverbank. The Brinewash was in full spate after the night’s rain, the water threatening to spill over the earthen dike his father had built to ward against floods.
“I command the regiment now,” Caenis replied.
“Which would mean I have the honour of addressing Lord Caenis Al Nysa, Sword of the Realm, would it not?”
“It would.” Caenis didn’t appear especially proud of his elevation which was at odds with the man he remembered. The younger Caenis had been the most loyal subject the Al Nieren line could ever have desired. But then came Janus’s betrayal at Linesh and Vaelin recalled the mystification that shrouded his brother when it became clear the old schemer’s dream of a Greater Unified Realm was a broken vision. He never makes mistakes . . .
They paused, Caenis regarding the fast-flowing river in silence for a moment. “Barkus,” he said eventually. “The captain of the ship taking him home had a tall tale to tell, about how the big brother threatened to hack his head off with an axe if he didn’t sail his vessel back to the Alpiran shore. When they got to the shallows he jumped over the side and swam for the beach.”
“How much have they told you?”
Caenis turned back from the river, eyes meeting his. “The One Who Waits. It truly was Barkus?”
So they told him. How much more does he know? “No, it was something that lived in his skin. Barkus died during the Test of the Wild.”
Caenis closed his eyes, head downcast, voicing a sigh of deep sorrow. After a while he looked up, forcing a smile. “That just leaves the two of us, brother.”
Vaelin returned the smile, but it was a small one. “In truth it leaves just the one, brother.”
Caenis clasped his hands together, speaking in earnest tones. “Sister Sherin is gone, Vaelin. I have said nothing to the Aspect . . .”
“Sister Sherin and I were in love.” He spread his arms wide and shouted it out, the words carrying across the river: “I was in love with Sister Sherin!”
“Brother!” Caenis hissed, looking around in alarm.
“And it was not a transgression,” Vaelin went on, voice dropping to an angry rasp. “It was not wrong! It was glorious, brother. And I gave her up. I lost her forever in my final service to the Order. And I’m done. Tell the Aspect, tell the whole Realm if you like. I am no longer part of your Order and I no longer follow the Faith.”
Caenis became very still, his voice a whisper. “I know the years of imprisonment must have taken a toll on your spirit, but surely it was the guidance of the Departed that brought you back to us.”
“It’s all a lie, Caenis. All of it. As much a lie as any god. Do you want to know what that thing inside Barkus said before I killed it?”
“Enough!”
“It said a soul without a body is a wretched, wasted thing . . .”
“I said enough!” Caenis was white with fury, stepping back as if disbelief were catching. “You hear bile from a creature of the Dark and take it as truth. My brother was never so trusting, never so easily gulled.”
“I can always hear truth, brother. It’s my curse.”
Caenis turned away, mastering himself with some effort. When he turned back there was a new hardness in his gaze. “Do not call me brother. If you shun the Order and the Faith, you shun me.”
“You are my brother, Caenis. You always will be. It was never the Faith that bound us, you know that.”
Caenis stared at him, fury and hurt shining in his eyes, then turned to walk away. He halted after a few steps, speaking over his shoulder in a strained tone, “The Aspect wishes to see you. He said to make it clear it was a request, not a command.” He resumed walking.
“Frentis!” Vaelin called after him. “Do you have news of him? I know he still lives.”
Caenis didn’t turn around. “Talk to the Aspect!”
CHAPTER FOUR
Lyrna
Princess Lyrna Al Nieren had never liked riding. She found horses dull company and the hardness of the saddle like to leave her with bruises she couldn’t ask her maid to salve. In consequence the many miles her party had covered on its journey north had done nothing to improve her temper. But then that was true of the last five years.
Does the rain ever cease here? she wondered, peering out from the hood of her ermine-trimmed robe at the rain sheeting onto the slate-grey landscape. Five days out from Cardurin and the rain hadn’t stopped once.
Lord Marshal Nirka Al Smolen reined in alongside and saluted, rain streaming over his breastplate in a matrix of ever-changing rivulets. “Only five more miles, Highness.” His voice had a wariness to it. This endless journey was making her less restrained in voicing rebuke, and she knew her tongue could carry all the sting of an angry wasp when it chose to. Seeing the caution in his face she sighed. Oh, give the man some respite, you hateful witch. “Thank you, Lord Marshal.”
He saluted again, some small relief colouring his cheeks as he spurred on ahead to scout the route, a troop of five Mounted Guards in close escort. Another fifty closed in around her and the two ladies she had chosen to take north, hardy girls from country manors, of more middling rank than most of her attendants but not given to either giggles or complaints of discomfort. She gave Sable a nudge with her knee and they started forward, ascending the rocky path to the dark narrow slash of the Skellan Pass.
“Highness, if I may,” ventured Nersa, the taller of the two ladies. She was braver than Jullsa who was wont to lapse into prolonged silence after Lyrna’s more acid rebukes.
“What is it?” Lyrna said, feeling every jab of Sable’s hips despite the thickness of the saddle.
“Are we likely to see one today, Highness?”
Nersa had been fascinated by the prospect of laying eyes on a Lonak since leaving Varinshold. Lyrna put it down to the morbid curiosity of youth, like a child who prods at the guts of a dead dog. But so far the fabled wolfmen had been absent from their path, at least as far as they could tell. None can hide so well as a Lonak, Highness, the Brother Commander back at Cardurin had warned her, a husky man with bright shrewd eyes. You won’t see them, but by the Departed they’ll see you before you’re ten miles from this city.
Watching the pass grow in size as they approached, a shadowed cavern cleaving into the mountain, Lyrna saw the first sign of fortification, a squat tower covering the southern approach, a faint speck of blue on the battlements. Some lonely brother on the morning watch no doubt.
“If not here, then likely not at all,” she told Nersa. Despite her brother’s assurances she still harboured deep doubts about this whole enterprise. Can they really want peace after so many centuries?
◆ ◆ ◆
The Brother Commander waiting at the tower was somewhere past his fortieth year with cropped silver-grey hair and pale eyes beneath a scarred brow. He voiced his greeting in a harsh, battle-seasoned voice, bowing as low as formality required. “Highness.”
“Brother Commander Sollis is it not?” She climbed down from Sable, resisting the urge to rub some feeling into her benumbed rump.
“Yes, Highness.” He straightened, gesturing at two more brothers standing nearby. “Brothers Hervil and Ivern will also be accompanying us north.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Only three? Your Aspect assured the King of his full support for this mission.”
“There are only sixty brothers to hold this pass, Highne
ss. I can spare no more.” There was a finality to his tone that told her no amount of regal intimidation, or grace, would change his mind. She had heard of him of course, the famed sword-master of the Sixth Order, scourge of Lonak and outlaw, survivor of the fall of Marbellis . . . Master to Vaelin Al Sorna.
Father, I beg you . . .
“As you will, brother,” she said, smiling. It was one of her best, gracious, not overly dazzling, with just the right amount of admiration in her eyes for the dutiful brother. “I would, of course, never question your judgement in such matters.”
The dutiful brother stared back with his pale eyes, face betraying no emotion whatsoever.
This one’s different, at least. “The guide is here?”
“Yes, Highness.” He stepped aside, gesturing at the tower. “I’ve had food prepared.”
“Most kind of you.”
The tower interior had seen some recent and vigorous scrubbing but still retained the cloying, sweaty odour of men living in close proximity. She looked at the plain but copious array of food on the table before the fireplace, finding the seats bare of occupants, as was the rest of the chamber. “The guide?” she enquired of Sollis.
“This way, Highness.” He moved to a heavy door at the rear of the chamber, working a key in the large padlock on the handle. “We were obliged to quarter her downstairs.”
He hauled the door open, revealing a set of descending stone steps, lifting a torch from an iron brace on the wall. “If you would care to follow me.”
Lyrna turned back to Nersa and Jullsa. “Ladies, please remain here and partake of the meal the brothers have kindly provided. Lord Marshal, if you could attend me.”
She and Smolen followed Sollis down the winding steps to a small chamber, lit only by a narrow window inset with iron bars. A woman sat in shadow at the far end of the chamber, long legs clad in dark red leather protruding into the light, eyes glittering in the gloom. She stirred at the sight of Lyrna, shifting into a crouch, the chain around her ankle jangling on the stone floor.