“Teacher,” she replied, returning the bow.
“There was talk of the Horde,” Nortah said. “My fellow townsfolk were concerned.”
“It wasn’t the Horde,” she replied. “Just starving people in search of refuge. Which the Tower Lord provided.”
“Cheated of battle, brother?” Nortah enquired, a small glint in his eye. “That must have been a bitter pill.”
“One I swallowed happily.”
Nortah’s gaze went to the canvas bundle hanging from Vaelin’s saddle. His eyes narrowed but he didn’t press the matter. “Come, come.” He turned, beckoning them to follow, taking Artis’s hand. “Sella will be anxious to see you.”
They found Sella hanging freshly washed sheets on a rope fixed to the side of a single-storey house. Nearby a girl of about four sat astride a huge cat which padded back and forth, the girl giggling as she bounced on its back. The horses began to fidget in alarm as the cat bared its daggerlike fangs. Vaelin and Dahrena dismounted and he ordered Orven to make camp a good distance away.
Sella came to him with a bright smile, gloved hands touching his in welcome. She was as lovely as he remembered, though considerably more pregnant, her dress billowing in the wind around the bulge of her belly. Twins, her hands said as she tracked his gaze. Boy and girl. The boy will be named Vaelin.
“Oh, don’t curse him with that,” he said, squeezing her hand.
Never a curse. Always blessing. She extended a hand to Dahrena who came forward to take it. “It’s been far too long.”
Snowdance came padding up, grown to full size since the fallen city, pressing her great head against Vaelin’s side, purring like distant thunder as he played a hand through her fur. The little girl on her back stared up at Vaelin in wide-eyed curiosity. The blood-song stirred in recognition and he felt a sudden tumble of images in his head, toys and sweets and laughter and tears . . . He grunted, blinking in discomfort.
Sella clapped her hands and the images faded. The little girl pouting a little as her mother wagged a finger at her. Apologies, her hands said to Vaelin. Her way of saying hello. Doesn’t realise not everyone can do what she can.
Vaelin crouched down, coming level with the girl’s gaze. “I’m your uncle Vaelin,” he said. “Who are you?”
A murmur in his mind, soft and shy. Lohren.
Sella clapped her hands again and the girl frowned and spoke in a sullen voice, “Lohren.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Lohren.”
“I had a dream once,” she said, smiling broadly. “I saw you on a beach, it was nighttime and you were killing a man with an axe.”
Sella took her hand and tugged her from Snowdance’s back, her free hand making the sign for food as she pulled her daughter towards the house.
“Don’t worry,” Nortah said. “You should hear the dreams she has about me.”
◆ ◆ ◆
Sella gave them fish pie and potatoes cooked in an onion broth whilst Nortah related the tale of their journey from the fallen city to the Reaches. “Took us the best part of four months, and not all made it.”
“The Lonak?” Vaelin asked.
“No, curiously they never troubled us. It was the cold, the winter came early, caught us on the plains. If not for the Eorhil we’d surely have starved. Gifted folk can do many things, but they can’t conjure food from thin air. The Eorhil fed us and guided us to the tower where Fief Lord Al Myrna, thanks to the Lady Dahrena’s kind influence, saw fit to grant us tenancy of the long-unused settlement at Nehrin’s Point.”
“Your mother and your sisters?” Vaelin asked.
Nortah’s face clouded. “Mother had passed the year before we arrived, my sisters . . .” He trailed off and Sella clasped his hand. “Well, not everyone is able to master their fear of the Dark. Hearing your niece’s voice in your head before she’s old enough to talk can be a little disconcerting. Hulla is married to a North Guard sergeant, Kerran a merchant. They live in North Tower and don’t feel obliged to visit.”
Vaelin finished his meal before broaching another subject. “Is Harlick still with you?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Nortah replied. “Lives by himself in a hut on the beach, scribbling away from dawn to dusk. Never lets anyone read whatever it is he writes though. Most are content to leave him be, except for Weaver. Trades the baskets he makes for food to keep them both fed.”
Vaelin pushed back from the table. “I and the lady must speak with him, if you’ll excuse us.”
You’ll stay with us tonight, Sella signed. We have room.
The house was certainly large enough to accommodate several visitors. Nortah had described how it had been built by an exile from the Alpiran Empire who saw fit to continue his tribal tradition of keeping multiple wives.
“He hit one of them,” Lohren chipped in. “Hit her hard, and made the other ladies angry. They all stabbed him.” She took a firm grip of her fork and began to thrust it into a bread roll. “Stab! Stab! Stab!” She stopped with an annoyed grimace when Sella clapped her hands again.
“I should be glad to stay,” Vaelin told Sella, turning to Dahrena. “If my lady would care for a walk on the beach?”
◆ ◆ ◆
“I’ve seen war, inferno and the souls of murderous men,” Dahrena commented as they strolled along the sand to Harlick’s hut. Night was coming on and the surf was high, her hair an inky tumble in the wind. “But that little girl scares me more than all of it combined.”
“Such power is bound to breed fear,” Vaelin assented. “Her gift will be hard to bear as she grows older.”
“At least now she has a gifted uncle to help protect her.”
“That she does.”
“How many years since you last saw the teacher?”
“Why do you call him that?”
“It’s the only name he gives himself, and it’s what he does. Every day save one, the children gather in his school. Some of the adults too, those that have trouble with numbers or letters. He teaches them all, and well. In his own way he’s gifted too.”
He recalled Nortah’s patience with Dentos before the Test of Knowledge, his ability to get Frentis to sit still for instruction and the rapidity with which he had trained the Wolfrunners’ company of archers. All those years a teacher at heart. Had he stayed with the Order no doubt he would have been Master of the Bow in time. “It must be over eight years,” he said. “Since the fallen city. It’s good to see them settled here.”
“There were those who counselled my father to send them on their way,” she said. “The Eorhil had been free in describing their abilities, arousing the fears of the Realm folk.”
“But he listened to you.”
“In truth I think he would have granted them sanctuary in any case. He had the kind of heart that couldn’t pass up a generous deed.”
Her words brought unwelcome memories of Sherin and he was pleased to find them nearing the hut. It was a ramshackle structure of driftwood with a slate roof and a stove-pipe chimney. There were no windows but a glow of candlelight emanated from the half-open door. A broad-shouldered man in a sleeveless jerkin sat on the sand outside, his curly blond hair ruffled by the wind as he worked, muscular arms flexing as his deft hands intertwined broad-bladed sea grass. A pile of completed baskets lay in the lee of the hut.
“Weaver,” Vaelin greeted him. “Good to see you again, sir.”
The broad, handsome face looked up, a faint smile curling the lips. The blue eyes tracked from Vaelin to Dahrena, blinked and returned to the work in hand. “Not hurt,” he said.
The door creaked, opening to reveal a slightly built man with long ash-grey hair, and a less-than-welcoming expression. “What do you want?” he asked Vaelin. His voice was hard with resentment, possibly at their intrusion or perhaps the fear Vaelin had induced at their last meeting.
“Same as
before, brother,” Vaelin told him. “Answers to difficult questions.”
Harlick shook his head, turning back inside. “I have no answers for you. Just let me be . . .”
“Your Aspect would disagree, I think.” Harlick paused and Vaelin continued, “I met him recently. Your name came up. Would you like to know the context?”
The librarian sighed through gritted teeth and went back inside, leaving the door open. Vaelin bowed to Dahrena, “My lady, shall we?”
Harlick’s hut was furnished with a simple table, chair and narrow cot. An iron stove stood in the corner, a recently boiled kettle steaming atop the hob. The table was piled high with parchment, several quills scattered about the pages amongst inkpots, most empty. By far the most salient feature of the hut, however, was the scrolls, stacked against the far wall, twenty high from floor to ceiling.
“Do you forget them?” Vaelin asked. “Once you’ve written them down?”
Harlick made a harsh grating noise that might have been a laugh as he moved towards the stove.
“I am remiss, my lady,” Vaelin said. “Allow me to present Brother Harlick of the Seventh Order, former scholar to the Great Library in Varinshold. Brother, this is the Lady Dahrena Al Myrna, First Counsel to the North Tower.”
Harlick offered Dahrena a shallow bow. “My lady. Please forgive the meanness of my home. I have freshly brewed tea if you would care for some.”
Dahrena returned the bow with a polite smile. “Another time, sir.”
“Just as well.” Harlick lifted the kettle from the hob. “I only have enough for one more cup.” He spooned some leaves from a clay pot into a small porcelain cup and poured in the water.
“Your Aspect had a story to tell,” Vaelin said. “About a forest and a dead boy.”
He was impressed by the absence of a tremble in Harlick’s hand as he stirred the tea leaves. He did, however, cast a guarded look at Dahrena.
“I hold no secrets from this lady,” Vaelin told him.
Harlick sighed and shook his head. “You are a liar, my lord. We all hold secrets. I expect the lady has a whole bushel of her own, and I’m certain you do.”
He’s different, Vaelin decided. Lost his fear somehow. His gaze wandered to the scrolls covering the far wall. Something he read perhaps?
“Tell me,” Harlick said, sitting on the only chair and sipping his tea. “Did my Aspect give you a message for me? A command to answer your questions?”
“No,” Vaelin replied. “But he did tell me your mission here was not some sacred trust. You do not enjoy his favour. You are lucky, in fact, to be alive, and this”—he cast his gaze around the hut—“is your punishment. You are in exile.”
“As are you.” Harlick sounded weary, putting his cup aside and reclining in his seat. “If you’re here for vengeance, just get it done. My actions may have been misguided but they were driven by honest and unselfish intent.”
For the first time in years Vaelin felt a true anger building in his breast. “Misguided? You set assassins to kill me in the Urlish. Instead they killed my brother. A boy of just twelve years. They cut his head from his shoulders. Were you there for that? Did you linger to see the results of your unselfish intent?”
“My lord,” Dahrena said in a quiet voice and Vaelin realised he was advancing on the scholar, fists clenched.
Harlick merely stared up at him, face impassive save for a mild curiosity.
Vaelin took a deep breath and stepped back, forcing his hands open. “You know of my gift?” he asked when his breathing had calmed enough to speak in an even voice.
“Manifestations Volume One,” Harlick recited in a flat tone. “Index Four, Column One. All known instances recorded amongst the Seordah, none concurrent. Seordah name translates as ‘Song of Blood’ or ‘Blood Song’ depending on inflection. Known manifestations in the Realm at the time of writing: none. All detected manifestations to be reported to the Aspect with extreme urgency.” He met Vaelin’s eyes then spoke on. “Addendum: known manifestations in the Realm: One.”
“When?” Vaelin asked. “When did you know?”
“Before you did, I expect. The prophecy was unusually unambiguous. ‘Born of the healer and the Lord of Battle.’ Who else could it be?”
“And what else did this prophecy tell you?”
“‘He will fall to the One Who Waits under a desert moon and his song be claimed by reborn malice.’” Harlick took another sip of tea. “I was not prepared to see that happen.”
“The Aspect told me there was another prophecy, one not quite so pessimistic. One you chose not to believe.”
“We all make choices. Some are harder than others.”
“So you hired assassins to prevent the prophecy’s ever coming true.”
“How would I go about hiring assassins? A scholar of the Grand Library is not so resourceful, especially since I knew my Aspect would be unsympathetic to my intent. But as it transpired, research revealed an interested party who had ample knowledge of such matters. A king’s First Minister is required to dirty his hands on numerous occasions, I expect.”
A king’s First Minister . . . “Artis Al Sendahl. Nortah’s father hired the men?”
“And required little persuasion, I assure you. He made a show of reluctance at first but a few whispers of my Dark knowledge and he was all enthusiasm, his duty to the Realm demanded it no less. Plus with the Battle Lord’s boy tragically taken from the Order, there would be no reason to keep his own son shackled to them.”
“But when your scheme failed . . .”
“We had made great efforts to conceal our involvement, but your Order is persistent. It took them two years or more to ferret out the truth, and when they did . . . my Aspect was not pleased. I expect the matter was communicated to the King in due course, hence Lord Al Sendahl’s execution, supposedly on charges of corruption.”
Janus’s words, from years ago: He wasn’t a thief of coin, he was a thief of power. Nortah’s father was executed for exercising the power to kill, a power reserved to the King.
“There was someone else there that night,” he said to Harlick. “The assassins spoke of another one. One they feared. Who was it?”
The scholar sipped some more tea. “I know of no other.” For the first time there was some fear there, just a small flare to the nostrils, a slight twitch to the mouth . . . and a discordant note from the blood-song.
“You know my gift,” Vaelin reminded him.
Harlick put down his tea cup and said nothing. Vaelin felt his fists begin to curl again, knowing he could beat it out of Harlick if he chose to, for all his apparent unconcern the man remained a coward at heart. “There are others,” he said. “Others in the Seventh Order who shared your belief. You did not act alone.” The blood-song’s murmur confirmed it as Harlick maintained his silence. “Even now,” Vaelin went on. “All these years later, you cling to your delusion. That what you did was right.”
“No,” Harlick replied. “All prophecies are false. I see that now. Those with the gift for scrying are usually mad, driven so by the swirl of visions clouding their thoughts and dreams. It is not the future they see, just possibility. And possibility is infinite. Wouldn’t you agree? But for chance it could well have been some malign soul from the Beyond standing before me now, possessing your gift and made Tower Lord no less. Fortune may have proved me wrong, but only by the most slender margin.”
“Not fortune,” Vaelin said. “Blood, most of it innocent, much of it spilled by my hand.”
Harlick gave only a slight nod by way of acknowledgment, regarding Vaelin in resigned expectation. “Thank you for allowing me my tea, my lord.”
Vaelin gave a mirthless laugh. “Oh, I’m not going to kill you, brother. Arrogant wretch though you may be, I have too much use for you. And there is a great deal for you to balance. You are hereby appointed Archivist of the North Tower.”
He waved a hand at the hut’s contents, moving to the door. “Gather your things and be ready to leave by morning. We will have much to discuss at the tower. My lady?”
She paused to offer a stunned Harlick a bow of congratulation then followed him from the hut.
“I do not like that man,” she said as they walked back along the beach.
Vaelin glanced back at the hut, seeing the scholar’s wiry figure outlined in the doorway. “I doubt he likes himse—”
It hit him like a hammerblow, the screaming note of the song surging once more to an instant crescendo. He staggered, feeling blood flow from his nose, collapsing to the sand as the scream brought a vision . . . Flame, all is flame, all is pain and fury . . . A man dies, a woman dies, children die . . . And the scream never ends . . . The flames swirl, coalesce, two dark patches appear, forming into eye sockets as the flames shape themselves into a skull, then a face, perfect and beautiful . . . And familiar . . . Lyrna, formed of fire . . . Screaming.
CHAPTER TEN
Lyrna
The holdfast of Baron Hughlin Banders lay thirty some miles from the Asraelin border, a sprawling structure of varying architecture and mismatched brickwork, some new, some clearly ancient. It sat in the centre of a large estate of forest and rolling hills, well-stocked with deer. They arrived as evening was coming on, greeted a good distance from the main house by a company of knights, over fifty fully armoured men approaching in battle order. The company’s leader revealed a nose marked by a single horizontal scar as he raised his visor, his evident suspicion dissipating at sight of Lyrna. Despite his ruffian-like appearance he possessed the cultured vowels and manners of a blood-born knight.
“My most abject apologies, Highness,” he said, having dismounted to sink to one knee, head lowered. “Such a large party, we mistook your intent.”
“Do not concern yourself, my lord,” Lyrna replied. She had always found the elaborate manners of the Renfaelin knightly class somewhat tedious and was in scant mood to indulge them now. “I come in search of Baron Banders. Is he at home?”