by Anthony Ryan
“A great blasphemy punishable by death, for this was a rite as well as a custom, ordained by the gods. All shattered and lost when the Volarians came of course, but Queen Lyrna found it interesting. From a historical perspective.”
“Do you truly hold her memories?”
Weaver gave a small laugh and shook his head. “Her knowledge, her insight you might say. They are not always the same as memory.” He turned to Frentis, his humour fading quickly. “You dreamt again.”
“More than a dream. We spoke. She wants me to bring you to the arena in Volar. For what purpose I can’t imagine. But I doubt she means you well.”
“And if you don’t?”
“She holds Lady Reva, makes her fight in the arena. I’m certain she’ll face worse if we do not come.”
“You care for her?”
“I barely know her. But my brother sees her as his sister, which makes her my sister. I do not wish to tell him I turned my back on a chance to save her. But I can’t command you in this, nor would I wish to.”
For a time Weaver said nothing, his face gradually clouding into an expression so troubled it seemed his youth had vanished. “When I was a child,” he said, “I didn’t understand the nature of my gift. If I saw a wounded creature, a bird with a broken wing or a dog hobbling on a twisted leg, it seemed such a wondrous and simple thing to restore them with a touch. But for a long time everything I healed became a shadow of what it had been, an empty-eyed husk plodding through life and often shunned by its own kind. I didn’t know why until I came to understand that my gift doesn’t just give, it takes. Those I heal are opened to me by the touch, everything they have is laid bare and there for the taking. Their memories, their compassion, their malice … And their gifts. Although I try to stop it, something always comes back, bringing with it the temptation to take more, to take it all.
“I first met your brother years ago, when my mind was … less clear than it is today. I had occasion to heal him, Snowdance being so hard to restrain.” Weaver looked down at his hands, spreading the nimble fingers. “His gift was great, brother, and the temptation stronger than ever. So I took, just a little. If I had taken it all…” Weaver shook his head, shame and fear mingling on his face. “The song is faint,” he continued, “but if I listen hard enough, I can hear it, and it guides me, tells me where I need to be. It led me to follow him to Alltor, guided me to the queen when she needed healing, and to the ship that brought us to this land. And now, brother, it tells me to go to Volar, and its tune is far from faint.”
He patted Frentis’s knee and got to his feet, casting a final glance around the council chamber. “They also killed children here,” he said. “To seal the people’s choice with a blood offering to the gods. The sacrifice would be chosen by lot, their parents considering it a great honour.”
He turned and started up the steps. “I should speak to the Politai, they’re becoming ever more insistent on explanations.”
CHAPTER SIX
Vaelin
The red man’s lips had been part seared away, exposing teeth and gums in an obscene grin. Vaelin couldn’t escape the sense of being laughed at, the Witch’s Bastard enjoying his final triumph.
A series of gurgles came from the ruined face, spittle and blood spraying as the red man’s lidless eyes stared up at him. Was he begging? Taunting? Vaelin crouched, leaning close to try to discern some meaning amongst the choking babble. The red man jerked and convulsed, tongue sliding over his teeth as he attempted to shape the words. “O?one … left. Stiiillll … one … moooore … leeeeft.”
“Where?”
“K?kuhhhh … killlll … meeee…”
Vaelin stared into the thing’s bloodshot eyes, unable to read any expression as the surrounding flesh had been seared to the bone. “I will.”
The thing choked, tongue twisting behind the teeth as it fought to shape an answer. “Alpiraaah…”
Vaelin rose and went to Wise Bear and Erlin. “He says there’s another,” he told the shaman. “Far from here. Will it matter?”
“Matter to what?” Erlin asked.
Vaelin gave no response, keeping his gaze on Wise Bear, who glanced uncertainly at the ancient man before replying. “Other one stay in body it stole, won’t matter.”
Vaelin glanced back at the wasted, blackened thing lying amongst the rocks, various tempting notions flickering through his head. Let it linger until the last second. Have Astorek set the wolves on it. Take a hot blade to its eyes …
Cara’s sobs drew his attention to the far end of the ridge where Orven’s guardsmen were constructing the pyre. She sagged in Lorkan’s arms, face buried in his chest. The Sentar stood nearby in respectful silence, their numbers halved in the struggle with the Kuritai, Kiral standing beside Alturk. The Tahlessa leaned heavily on a spear, sweating with the effort.
“Finish it,” Vaelin told Wise Bear, jerking his head at the blackened thing and moving towards the pyre. “I leave the manner of its passing to you.”
He sat on the cliff edge as the fire dwindled behind him and the sun dipped below the mountains. Out on the valley floor the tribesfolk were still picking over the Volarian dead. The aftermath of victory had seen them instantly revert to prior allegiances and the different groups squabbled over the spoils, threats and curses echoing across the valley, each chieftain no doubt stating a claim to the collected loot as leader of the army and architect of victory.
He hadn’t said any words as the fire blossomed, watching Dahrena and Marken’s fur-wrapped bodies wreathed in flame and smoke as the others said their peace. Even Alturk managed a few terse words of respect for those fallen in a common cause. They drifted away as evening fell, Cara still crying and making him wonder if she would ever stop.
“Why won’t it matter?”
He looked up at Erlin, seeing the cautious but determined set of his features. Vaelin returned his gaze to the valley and the dead, stripped and pale in the gathering gloom. They were spread out in a vague teardrop shape, bulging at the river and narrowing to the west where the survivors had attempted to flee. As far as he knew none had escaped, the victors having no tradition of offering quarter to the vanquished. The dead hadn’t been counted either, the Wolf People were content in the knowledge of a secure future and he doubted the tribesfolk could count past ten. Sixty thousand? he wondered. Seventy?
“What else did you see in the stone?” Erlin persisted.
“You have had centuries on this earth,” Vaelin said. “Gaining many lifetimes’ worth of knowledge. And yet you have never before made any effort to bring an end to the Ally. There must have been chances before now. You said others sought you out. Why take a stand now?”
“Before I always knew it would be hopeless, probably fatal.”
“Well now it is certainly fatal. That’s what the stone showed me.”
Erlin sank down at his side, turning to the valley, the tribesfolk’s squabbles still audible in the gathering dark. “My gift, it will draw him.”
“Yes.”
“How will you do it?”
“The choice is not mine to make.” He got to his feet, turning his back on the valley and moving to the pyre. The flames had died away, leaving only a fading pall of smoke rising from the ashes. He knew if he peered close enough, he would see her bones and closed his eyes against the temptation. She would never want you to torture yourself.
“You’re saying I can leave?” Erlin asked. “You will simply allow me to walk away from here?”
“In the morning I set out for Volar, where I believe we will find the ending we seek. I hope you will join me. If you do not, I will understand.”
“What awaits us in Volar?”
He watched the thinning tendrils of smoke rise into the night, twisting in the air until lost amongst the stars. Is she snared? he wondered. Did he catch her as he caught me? Does he torment her now, twisting her into the same thing that killed her?
“A box,” he told Erlin. “Full of everything, and nothing.”
There were more than enough horses for all, though the Sentar would have greatly preferred their stout ponies to the taller and more placid Volarian cavalry mounts. “At least they’ll make good eating when the snows come,” Alturk commented as he severed the stirrups from his horse’s saddle, casting them aside with a contemptuous grimace.
Vaelin had spent much of the morning dealing with the tribal chieftains who seemed to be labouring under the collective delusion they would now be obliged to fight the Wolf People for possession of lost territory.
“We don’t want your lands,” an exasperated Astorek told them, repeating the words in Realm Tongue for Vaelin’s benefit. “My people are already returning to the tundra.”
Hirkran said something, maintaining a rigid pose in an ornate Volarian breastplate, axe in one hand and looted short sword in another. “He wants to know what tribute we demand,” the shaman explained to Vaelin.
Vaelin found himself fast wearying of these folk; their endless feuds and unalloyed suspicion now seemed so unutterably petty. “Stay away from your people as they march north, and mine as we march south.”
Hirkran narrowed his gaze and spoke again. “He says they garnered much in the way of gold and jewels from this field,” Astorek said. “And doesn’t believe you would simply ride away without trying to take it.”
“Then”—Vaelin’s hand went to his sword as his weariness turned to sudden anger—“he can fight me and I’ll prove it by piling all the gold on his corpse before I leave.”
Astorek’s translation was clearly unnecessary judging by the way Hirkran bridled, uncrossing his arms and adopting a crouched stance with a challenging growl.
“Enough!” Kiral stepped between them, surprising Vaelin by addressing the tribesman in a fluent but harsh torrent of Volarian. Hirkran’s aggression lessened in the face of her tirade though his eyes narrowed further, his face taking on an expression of grim understanding. He voiced a brief snarl as Kiral fell silent, his eyes flicking momentarily to Alturk before he backed away, still crouching, as if expecting an attack at any second. He uttered a soft, intent sentence at Kiral then abruptly turned and walked away, calling to his warriors.
“What did you tell him?” Vaelin asked her.
“That their weakness and disunity has been noted by my father.” She gestured at an oblivious Alturk. “A great warlord who will return with all our tribe to claim these mountains, for they are unworthy of the riches offered by the spirits.”
Astorek gave an appreciative chuckle. “If anything will unite them, it’s that.”
Kiral inclined her head with a smile, her humour fading as she looked at Vaelin. “My song indicated you would have killed him.”
“Your song was right.” Vaelin turned away and started towards Scar. “We ride within the hour. Astorek, please convey my thanks to your people and assure them of the continued friendship of the Unified Realm. I’ve little doubt my queen will send ambassadors to formalise our alliance in due course.”
“From what Wise Bear tells me,” Astorek called after him, “if your mission fails, our victory here will prove no more than a respite from greater dangers.”
Vaelin paused, turning to offer the shaman an impatient nod. “Hence my keenness to depart.”
Astorek glanced first at Kiral, then at the burgeoning dust cloud beyond the ridge where his people were breaking camp. “Then I will go with you. I … feel the wolf would want me to.”
Vaelin felt the faintest flutter of humour as he saw Kiral carefully avoid his gaze. Is he answering a wolf’s call? Or a cat’s?
“You will be welcome,” he told him, resuming his stride. “Please be brief in your farewells.”
The journey through the mountains was rich in grim sights testifying to the destruction wrought by the Witch’s Bastard. Murdered tribespeople littered the heather, burnt settlements became a common sight as did the bodies of Volarian soldiers lashed to wooden frames, the flesh of their backs flogged down to the spine. From the frequency of such sights it was clear the red men had led a reluctant army, displaying little imagination in maintaining discipline.
“Even Tokrev wasn’t so cruel,” Astorek said as they neared a row of a dozen flogged men, a cloud of crows rising from the frames as they approached.
“I found his cruelty more than sufficient,” Vaelin replied. He spied a settlement ahead, charred and mostly ruined but still possessing some intact roofs. “We’ll shelter there tonight. Lord Orven, scout the hills in a five-mile radius. Victory or no, this remains enemy territory.”
Erlin came to his fire when the night had grown fully dark. Vaelin had sat apart from the others since the march began. The Sentar were rich in new stories and, though he barely understood a word, their evident relish in recounting the battle roused him to unwise anger. This is what they came for, he chided himself. Another story, the Mahlessa’s gift to her bravest warriors is the chance for a richer tale.
“Astorek and Kiral are missing,” Erlin said, sinking down opposite him, hands spread to the warmth. “Haven’t seen either since nightfall.”
Vaelin glanced at the blackness beyond the part-tumbled walls of the dwelling he had chosen, a place he would have shared with Dahrena, as Kiral and Astorek now shared another. “I suspect they’re safe enough.”
“She told me of a compound she carries,” Erlin said, face tense as he stared into the fire. “Some ancient Lonak concoction that can instill pain, enough to bring a man to the point of death if used in sufficient quantity, or purge him of an unwanted soul.”
Vaelin nodded. Lyrna and Frentis had left him in no doubt of the power contained in the Mahlessa’s compound, though he had yet to see it for himself.
“The Ally had a gift,” Erlin went on. “The nature of which we do not understand, but it was powerful enough to bring down an entire civilisation. A gift he may well bring with him should he be drawn back from the Beyond.”
“I know,” Vaelin said. “But we have come to a point where I believe we have little option but to trust the words of the seer. You will touch the black stone in Volar, but it will not be you.”
“How do we know it will end this? How do we know it won’t simply make him stronger? You saw him in the memory stone, he wanted to touch it.”
“But he also feared it, enough to have it secreted away for centuries.”
Erlin’s hands trembled as he held them to the fire, Vaelin frowning at the grin that played over his lips. “I’m afraid, brother. All these years, so much seen and heard and tasted. And yet I still want more. My nameless wife was often heard to call me selfish, usually before she threw something.”
“You have saved many,” Vaelin reminded him. “Two of them children who grew into the brave people who ride with us now.”
“Just more selfishness, I’m afraid. If I saved enough, I imagined they would eventually fight the war for me, bring down the Ally, and spare me the trials of battle.” He gave Vaelin a sidelong glance. “What would your queen do, if she were presented with this particular dilemma?”
“She would act for the good of the Realm.”
Erlin grunted a laugh. “You mean she would have had me tied in a trice and force-fed the Mahlessa’s compound until the Ally was safely caged in my flesh. Should you prevail in this struggle, don’t you worry what she might become? I’ve seen many a monarch, brother, but none like her.”
“She is not the Ally. Nor will she ever be.”
“Are you so certain? You saw him in the city he built, the way his people loved him. And yet somehow his power grew to a point where it became absolute, and there was no one to stop him.”
“Lionen stopped him. He killed the Ally and sent him to the Beyond.”
Erlin lowered his hands, drawing them back to cross his arms. “We could wait, delay until we reach Volar…”
“His creature still has possession of a body in Alpira. If we delay, it might die, and the Ally could send it for you.”
Vaelin watched Erlin’s face for a momen
t, seeing the faint tic below his eye, the bulge of his jaw as he clenched his teeth. No notion of how many years he’s lived, witness to every wonder this world can offer, subject of myth and legend, now just a scared man shivering in a ruined hut.
“If it should come to pass that you can’t get him to the stone,” Erlin said, “I require your promise you will not kill this body. You will use the compound to return him to the Beyond.”
“You have it. I will preserve you.”
“Me?” Erlin bared his teeth in what might have been a smile. “I doubt there will be any me left when he’s done, brother.” He rose, still hugging himself tight and moving away with a stiff gait, his parting words little more than a whisper. “Give me tonight. We’ll see it done in the morning.”
He had Alturk see to the binding, the Lonak made strong rope and the Tahlessa’s knots were unlikely to loosen. “Room enough to breathe only,” Vaelin told him as he drew the rope tight around Erlin’s chest.
Kiral came forward as Alturk finished the final knot, Erlin wincing with the strain as he knelt, chest roped from shoulders to waist and his arms secured behind his back. Kiral took a deep breath as she undid the stopper on the flask. “I…” she began, crouched next to Erlin, her voice faltering. “This will … hurt. I’m sorry.”
He gave an impatient bob of his head. “So I’m told, my dear. Best get it done quickly then.”
She rose, placing a thin reed into the flask. “One drop to cast them out,” she said in a murmur, presumably reciting a lesson from the Mahlessa. “Two to draw them in.”
Erlin’s eyes flashed at Vaelin as she stepped closer. Words were irrelevant, the meaning clear in his moist gaze. Do not forget your promise.
Kiral drew the reed from the flask, the tip gleaming with something dark and viscous, then lowered it so two drops fell free to land on Erlin’s exposed skin. Vaelin had expected screams, but instead Erlin stiffened, teeth clenched together and neck bulging, his face transformed into a red mask of purest agony. After a second he collapsed, writhing on the ground as foam bubbled from his mouth, legs drumming the earth. The convulsions continued for a full minute until Erlin finally lay still, all animation seeming to seep from his limbs, his head lolling slack on his shoulders.