Queen of Fire

Verniers’ Account

He was waiting on the wharf when I arrived with my prisoner in tow. Standing tall as always, angular features turned towards the horizon, his cloak wrapped tight against the seaward chill. My initial puzzlement at finding him here faded as I caught sight of the ship leaving the harbour, a narrow-hulled vessel of Meldenean design, sent to the Northern Reaches with an important passenger, one I knew he would miss greatly.

He turned to regard my approach, a tight, wary smile on his lips, and I realised he had lingered to witness my own departure. Our interactions since the relief of Alltor had been brief, somewhat terse in truth, distracted as he was by the ceaseless tumult of war and whatever malady had plagued him in the aftermath of his already legendary charge. The fatigue that turned his once-strong features into a sagging mask of red-eyed lethargy and his strident if coarse voice into a droning rasp. It had faded now, I could see. Recent battle seemed to have restored him somehow, making me wonder if he found some form of sustenance in blood and horror.

“My lord,” he greeted me with a sketch of a formal bow then nodded at my prisoner. “My lady.”

Fornella returned the nod but gave no response, regarding him without expression as the salt-tinged wind tossed her hair, a single streak of grey visible amidst the reddish brown tumult.

“I have already received ample instruction…” I began but Al Sorna waved a hand.

“I come to offer no instruction, my lord,” he said. “Merely a farewell and my best wishes for your endeavour.”

I watched his expression as he waited for a response, the wary smile smaller now, his black eyes guarded. Can it be? I wondered. Is he seeking forgiveness?

“Thank you, my lord,” I replied, hefting the heavy canvas bag to my shoulder. “But we have a ship to board before the morning tide.”

“Of course. I’ll accompany you.”

“We don’t need a guard,” Fornella said, her tone harsh. “I’ve given my word, tested by your truth-teller.” It was true, we walked alone this morning without escort or formality. The reborn court of the Unified Realm had little time or inclination for ceremony.

“Indeed, Honoured Citizen,” Al Sorna replied in clumsy and heavily accented Volarian. “But I have… words for this grey-clad.”

“Free man,” I corrected before switching to Realm Tongue. “Grey-clad denotes financial rather than social status.”

“Ah, quite so, my lord.” He stepped aside and gestured for me to continue along the wharf to the quay where the ships waited, a long line of Meldenean war galleys and traders. Naturally, our vessel was moored at the farthest end of the line.

“Brother Harlick’s gift?” he enquired, nodding at the bag I carried.

“Yes,” I said. “Fifteen of the oldest books in the Great Library, those I could identify as useful in the small time allowed in his archives.” In truth I had expected some argument from the brother librarian when I made my request, but the man had simply given an affable nod and barked an imperious order at one of his attendants to gather the requisite scrolls from the wagons that served as his movable library. I knew his apparent indifference to this theft was at least partly derived from his gift; he could always simply pen fresh copies, and openly since the need to keep such things hidden had disappeared. The Dark, as they called it, now revealed and discussed openly, the Gifted free to practice their talents without fear of swift torment and execution, at least in theory. I could see the lingering fear on the faces of those not so talented, and the envy, making me wonder if perhaps the wisest course would have been to keep the Gifted in the shadows. But could shadows ever linger in the fires of war?

“You really think he’s in there somewhere?” Al Sorna asked as we walked towards the ship. “The Ally?”

“An influence so malign and powerful is bound to leave traces,” I said. “A historian is a hunter, my lord. Seeking out signs in the undergrowth of correspondence and memoir, tracking prey via the spoor of memory. I don’t expect to find a complete and unbiased history of this thing, be it beast or man or neither. But it will have left traces, and I intend to hunt it down.”

“Then you should have a care, for I suspect it will not be blind to your attentions.”

“Nor yours.” I paused, glancing at his profile, seeing a troubled brow. Where is your certainty? I thought. It had been one of his most aggravating traits during our previous association; the implacable, unshakeable surety. Now there was just a grim and troubled man weighed down by the prospect of trials to come.

“Taking the capital will not be easy,” I said. “The wisest course would be to wait here, gathering strength until the spring.”

“Wisdom and war are rare bedfellows, my lord. And you’re right, the Ally will most likely see it all.”

“Then why…?”

“We cannot simply linger here and wait for the next blow to fall. Any more than your Emperor can expect to remain immune from the Ally’s attentions.”

“I am fully aware of what message to deliver to the Emperor.” The leather satchel bearing the sealed scroll was heavy about my neck, heavier even than my bag of books, though only a fraction of its weight. Just ink, paper and wax, I thought. Yet it could send millions to war.

We halted as we came to the ship, a broad-beamed Meldenean trader, her planking still scorched from the Battle of the Teeth, rails bearing the scars of blades and arrowheads, patches on the sails furled to the rigging. My eyes were also drawn to the serpentine figurehead which, despite having lost much of its lower jaw, retained a certain familiarity. My gaze found the captain at the head of the gangplank, thick arms crossed, his face set in a glower, a face I recalled all too well.

“Did you, perhaps, have a hand in choosing this vessel, my lord?” I asked Al Sorna.

There was a faint glimmer of amusement in his gaze as he shrugged. “Merely a coincidence, I assure you.”

I sighed, finding I had scant room in my heart for yet more resentment, turning to Fornella and extending a hand to the ship. “Honoured Citizen. I’ll join you in a moment.”

I saw Al Sorna’s eyes track her as she walked the plank to the ship, moving with her customary grace born of centuries-long practice. “Despite what the truth-teller said,” he told me, “I caution you, don’t trust her.”

“I was her slave long enough to learn that lesson myself.” I hefted my bag once again and nodded a farewell. “By your leave, my lord. I look forward to hearing the tale of your campaign…”

“You were right,” he broke in, his wary smile returned once more. “The story I told you. There were some… omissions.”

“I think you mean lies.”

“Yes.” His smile faded. “But I believe you have earned the truth. I have scant notion of how this war will end, or even if either of us will live to see its end. But if we do, find me again and I promise you’ll have nothing but truth from me.”

I should have been grateful, I know. For what scholar does not hunger for truth from one such as he? But there was no gratitude as I looked into his gaze, no thought save a name. Seliesen.

“I used to wonder,” I said, “how a man who had taken so many lives could walk the earth unburdened by guilt. How does a killer bear the weight of killing and still call himself human? But we are both killers now, and I find it burdens my soul not at all. But then, I killed an evil man, and you a good one.”

I turned away and strode up the gangplank without a backward glance.

CHAPTER ONE Lyrna

She was woken by the snow. Soft, icy caresses on her skin, tingling and not unpleasant, calling her from the darkness. It took a moment for memory to return and when it did she found it a fractured thing, fear and confusion reigning amidst a welter of image and sensation. Iltis roaring as he charged, sword bared… The ring of steel… A hard fist across her mouth… And the man… The man who burned her.

She opened her mouth to scream but could issue no more than a whimper, her subsequent gasp dragging chilled air into her lungs. It seemed as if she would freeze from the inside out and she felt it strange she should die from cold after being burned so fiercely.

Iltis! The name was a sudden shout in her mind. Iltis is wounded! Perhaps dead!

She willed herself to move, to get up, call for a healer with all the power her queen’s voice could muster. Instead she barely managed to groan and flutter her hands a little as the snow continued its frosty caress. Rage burned in her, banishing the chill from her lungs. I need to move! I will not die in the snow like a forgotten dog! Drawing jagged air into her lungs again she screamed, putting every ounce of strength and rage into the sound. A fierce scream, a queen’s scream… but no more than a rattle of air through teeth when it reached her ears, along with something else.

“… better be a good reason for this, Sergeant,” a hard voice was saying, strong, clipped and precise. A soldier’s voice, accompanied by the crunch of boots in snow.

“Tower Lord said he was to be minded well, Captain,” another voice, coloured by a Nilsaelin accent, older and not quite so strong. “Treated with respect, he said. Like the other folk from the Point. And he seems fairly insistent, much as I can gather from a fellow that don’t talk above two words at a time.”

“Folk from the Point,” the captain said in a softer tone. “To whom we have to thank for a snowfall at summer’s end…” His voice faded and the crunch of boots became the tumult of running men.

“Highness!” Hands on her shoulders, soft but insistent. “Highness! Are you hurt? Do you hear me?”

Lyrna could only groan, feeling her hands flutter once more.

“Captain Adal,” the sergeant’s voice, choked and broken by fear. “Her face…”

“I have eyes, Sergeant! Fetch the Tower Lord to Brother Kehlan’s tent! And bring men to carry his lordship. Say nothing of the queen. You understand me?”

More boots on the snow then she felt something warm and soft cover her from head to foot, her benumbed back and legs tingling as hands lifted her. She fell into darkness, untroubled by the jolting run of the captain as he bore her away.

He was there when she awoke the second time, her eyes tracking over a canvas roof to find him sitting beside the cot where they had placed her. Although his eyes were tinged with the same red haze she had seen the day before, his gaze was brighter now, focused, the black eyes seeming to bore into the skin of her face as he leaned forward. He burned me… She closed her eyes and turned away from him, stilling the sob in her chest, swallowing and composing herself before she turned back, finding him kneeling beside the cot, head lowered.

“Highness,” he said.

She swallowed and tried to speak, expecting only a faint croak to emerge but surprising herself with a somewhat strident response. “My lord Al Sorna. I trust the morning finds you well.”

His head came up, the expression sharp, the black eyes still fierce. She wanted to tell him it was rude to stare, at a queen no less, but knew it would sound churlish. Every word must be chosen, her father had said once. Each word spoken by the one who wears the crown will be remembered, often misremembered. So, my daughter, if ever you find this band of gold weighing upon your brow, never utter a single word that should not be heard from the mouth of a queen.

“Quite… well, Highness,” Vaelin responded, remaining on one knee as she stirred herself. To her surprise she found she could move easily. Someone had removed the dress and cloak she wore the night before, replacing the finery with a simple cotton shift that covered her from neck to ankle, the fabric pleasing on her skin as she sat and swung her legs off the cot to sit up. “Please rise,” she told Vaelin. “I find ceremony tedious at the best of times, and of scant use when we’re alone.”

He stood, eyes never leaving her face. There was a hesitancy to his movements, a slight tremble to his hands as he reached for his chair, pulling it closer to sit opposite her, his face no more than an arm’s length away, the closest they had been since that day at the Summertide Fair.

“Lord Iltis?” she asked.

“Wounded but alive,” he said. “Also frostbitten in the small finger of his left hand. Brother Kehlan was obliged to take it off. He barely seemed to notice and it was quite the struggle to stop him charging forth to look for you.”

“I was fortunate in the friends fate contrived to place in my path.” She paused, drawing breath and courage for what she had to say next. “We had little chance to talk yesterday. I know you must have many questions.”

“One in particular. There are many wild tales abroad regarding your… injuries. They say it happened when Malcius died.”

“Malcius was murdered, by Brother Frentis of the Sixth Order. I killed him for it.”

She saw the shock hit home as if she had slashed him with an ice-cold blade. His gaze became distant as he slumped forward, speaking in a whisper. “Wanna be a brother… Wanna be like you.”

“There was a woman with him,” Lyrna went on. “Like your brother, playing the role of an escaped slave, come all the way across the ocean with a grand tale of adventure. From her reaction when I killed him, I suspect their bond was close. Love can drive us to extremes.”

He closed his eyes, controlling his grief with a shudder. “Killing him would not have been easy.”

“My time with the Lonak left me skilled in certain areas. I saw him fall. After that…” The fire raked across her skin like the claws of a wildcat, filling her throat with the stench of her own flesh burning… “It seems my memory has some limits after all.”

Vaelin sat in silence for what seemed an age, lost in thought, his face even more gaunt than before. “It told me he was coming back,” he murmured finally. “But not for this.”

“I had expected you to request a different explanation,” she said, keen to draw him back from whatever memories clouded his mind. “For the way you were treated at Linesh.”

“No, Highness.” He shook his head. “I assure you I require no explanation at all.”

“The war was a grievous error. They had Malcius… My father’s judgement was… impaired.”

“I doubt King Janus’s judgement was capable of impairment, Highness. And as for the war, you did try to warn me, as I recall.”

She nodded, pausing to quiet her racing heart. I was so sure he would hate me. “That man…” she said. “The man with the rope.”

“His name is Weaver, Highness.”

“Weaver,” she repeated. “I assume he was an agent of whatever malignancy is behind our current difficulties. Hidden in your army, awaiting the time to strike.”

Vaelin moved back a little, puzzlement replacing his grief. “Strike, Highness?”

“He saved me,” she said. “From that thing. Then he burned me. I confess I find it curious. Though I’m learning these creatures have very strange ways.” She faltered over a catch in her throat, recalling the fire that raged as the muscular young man pulled her close, the heat of it more intense even than that dreadful day in the throne room. She raised her head, forcing herself to meet his unwavering gaze. “Is it… Is it worse?”

A faint sigh escaped him and he reached across the divide to grasp her hands, rough callused palms against hers. She had expected some comforting clasp before he voiced the inevitable and terrible news, but instead he gripped her wrists and raised her hands, spreading the fingers to touch them to her face.

“Don’t!” she said, trying to jerk away.

“Trust me, Lyrna,” he breathed, pressing her fingers to the flesh… the smooth, undamaged flesh. Her fingers began to explore of their own volition as he took his hands away, touching every inch of skin, from her brow to her chin, her neck. Where is it? she thought wildly, finding no rough, mottled scarring, provoking none of the searing pain that had continued to plague her despite the healing balms her ladies applied to the burns every day. Where is my face?

“I knew Weaver had a great gift,” Vaelin said. “But this…”

Lyrna sat clutching her face, caging the sobs in her breast. Every word must be chosen. “I…” she began, faltered then tried again. “I should… like you to convene a council of captains as soon… as soon as…”

Then there was only the tears and the feel of his arms around her shoulders as she rested her head on his chest and wept like a child.

The woman in the mirror ran a hand over the pale stubble covering her head, a frown creasing her smooth brow. It’ll grow back, she knew. Maybe not keep it so long this time. Lyrna turned her attention to the skin where the burns had been most severe, finding the healing hadn’t left her completely unmarked after all. There were faint pale lines visible in the flesh around her eyes, thin and irregular tracks from her brow into her hairline. She recalled something the Mahlessa’s poor, confused vessel had said that day beneath the mountain. Not there yet… The marks of your greatness.

Lyrna stood back from the mirror a little, angling her head to study how the marks looked in the light from the tent opening, finding they faded somewhat in direct sunlight. Something shifted in the mirror and she noticed Iltis over her shoulder, quickly averting his gaze, clutching the bandaged hand that protruded from the sleeve of his sling. He had shambled into the tent an hour ago, pushing Benten aside and collapsing to his knees before her. He had been stumbling through a plea for forgiveness when he glanced up and saw her face, falling to instant silence.

“You should be abed, my lord,” she told him.

“I…” Iltis had blinked, tears shining in his eyes. “I will never leave your side, Highness. I gave my word.”

Am I his new Faith? she wondered now, watching him in the mirror as he swayed a little, shaking his head and stiffening his back. The old one proved a disappointment, so now he finds devotion in me.

The tent opening parted and Vaelin entered with a bow. “The army stands ready, Highness.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She held out a hand to Orena, who stood holding the hooded fox-trimmed cloak she had chosen from the mountain of clothing Lady Reva had been overly pleased to provide. Orena came forward and draped the cloak over her shoulders whilst Murel knelt to proffer the impractical but elegant shoes for her royal feet. “Well,” she said, stepping into the shoes and pulling the hood over her face. “Let’s be about it.”

Vaelin had placed a tall uncovered wagon outside the tent, moving to it and holding out a hand as she approached. She clasped the hand and climbed onto the wagon, the cloak bunched in her free hand so as to prevent her tripping over it. The prospect of falling flat on her face at such a moment provoked a girlish giggle, suppressed before it could reach her lips. Every word must be chosen.

She kept hold of Vaelin’s hand as she stood surveying her new army. The plump brother from the Reaches had informed her, between stealing wide-eyed glances at her face, that the current complement of the Army of the North consisted of sixty thousand men and women, plus somewhere in the region of thirty thousand Seordah and Eorhil warriors. The regiments were arrayed in ranks, mostly untidy and lacking the polished cohesion displayed by the Realm Guard during those interminable parades in Varinshold. In truth the few Realm Guard present made a distinct contrast to their comrades, a tight, disciplined knot of denuded companies arrayed behind Brother Caenis in the centre of the line. But the majority of her new army consisted of Count Marven’s Nilsaelins, the conscripts Vaelin had marched from the Reaches, and the recruits gathered along the way. She saw little uniformity in their ranks; mismatched armour and weapons, much of it looted from the copious Volarian dead, makeshift flags lacking the colour and clarity of the Realm Guard’s regimental banners.

The Seordah had placed themselves on the right flank, a great throng of warriors standing in silence, curiosity the only apparent emotion. Behind them the Eorhil waited, most mounted on their fine tall horses, equally silent. Lady Reva had responded to Lyrna’s polite request for attendance with the full complement of her House Guard, reduced to no more than thirty men, and seemingly all of her surviving archers. They stood in two long rows behind their Lady Governess, stocky hard-eyed men with longbows slung across their backs. Lady Reva herself was flanked by her Lady Counsellor, Lord Archer Antesh and the old bewhiskered guard commander, none of whom betrayed the slightest awe at Lyrna’s presence. Off to the left, the Shield had brought the captains of the Meldenean Fleet, Ship Lord Ell-Nurin deliberately standing a few feet in front of the Shield, who stood with his arms crossed, inclining his head at her, habitual smile blazing as bright as ever. It was a pity, as she expected it to fade before long.

Behind them all the still-smoking city of Alltor rose from its island, the twin spires of the cathedral partly obscured by the dusty snow that continued to fall.

Lyrna paused atop the wagon, her eyes picking out the diminutive but distinct form of Lady Dahrena, standing in the front rank alongside Captain Adal and the North Guard. Unlike every other pair of eyes on this field, Lady Dahrena’s were fixed not on Lyrna, but Vaelin. Her gaze unblinking and unnerving in its intensity, making Lyrna conscious of the warmth of his hand in hers. She released it and faced the army, reaching up to draw back her hood.

It rippled through them like a cresting wave, a mingling of awed gasps, oaths, prayers, and outright shock, the already untidy ranks losing yet more cohesion as soldiers turned to their comrades in disbelief or amazement. However, she noted that the Seordah and the Eorhil remained silent, although their stance was now profoundly more alert. Lyrna allowed the army’s babble to build into a cacophony before holding up her hand. For a moment it continued unabated and she worried she might have to ask Vaelin to quiet them, but Captain Adal barked a command to his men which was soon taken up by the officers and sergeants, silence descending on the ranks on swift wings.

Lyrna surveyed them, picking out faces, meeting their eyes, finding some unable to match her gaze, stirring in discomfort and lowering their heads, others staring back in blank astonishment.

“I have not yet had chance to address you,” she called to them, her voice strong and carrying well in the cold air. “For those that may be ignorant of my name, my list of titles is long and I’ll not bore you with it. Suffice to say that I am your queen, hailed as such by Tower Lord Al Sorna and Lady Governess Reva of Cumbrael. Many of you saw me yesterday, and you will have seen a woman with a burnt face. Now you see a woman healed. I make you this promise as your queen, I will never lie to you. And so I tell you honestly that my face was healed by use of the Dark. I claim no blessing from the Departed, no favour from any god. I stand before you restored by the hand of a man with a gift I do not pretend to understand. This was done without my bidding or contrivance. However, I see no cause to regret it or punish the man who did me this service. Many of you will no doubt be aware that there are others within the ranks of this army with similar abilities, good and brave people who, by the strictures of our laws, are condemned to death for the gifts bestowed upon them by nature alone. Accordingly, all laws prohibiting use of the gifts once known as the Dark are hereby rescinded under the Queen’s Word.”

She paused, expecting some upsurge of murmuring, some voices raised in discontent. Instead there was only silence, each and every face now rapt, those that had shunned her gaze seemingly unable to look away. Something stirs here, she realised. Something… useful.

“There are none here who have not suffered,” she spoke on. “There are none here who cannot lay claim to a murdered wife, husband, child, friend, or parent. Many of you have tasted the whip, as I have. Many of you have suffered the mauling of filthy hands, as I have. Many of you have burned, as I have.”

There was a growl building in the ranks now, a low rumble of stoked fury. She saw one woman in the middle of Captain Nortah’s company of freed slaves, slight and small but festooned with multiple daggers, her teeth bared in a burgeoning grimace of rage. “This land was named in honour of its unity,” Lyrna continued. “But only a fool would claim we have ever been truly united, always we have shed our own blood in senseless feud after senseless feud. As of now that ends. Our enemy came to these shores bringing slavery, torment, and death, but they also brought us a gift, one they’ll regret for an eternity. They forged us into the unity that has eluded us for so long. They made us a single blade of unbreakable steel aimed straight for their black heart and with you at my side I’ll see it bleed!”

The growl erupted into a fierce shout, faces distorted in hate and anger, fists, swords, and halberds raised, the tumult washing over her, intoxicating in its power… Power. You have to hate it as much as you love it.

She raised a hand and they fell quiet once more, though there remained the low hum of simmering heat. “I promise no easy victories,” she told them. “Our enemy is fierce and full of cunning. They will not die easily. So I can promise only three things: toil, blood and justice. None who follow me on this path should imagine there will be any other reward.”

It was the small woman with the daggers who began the chant, stabbing the air with a blade in each hand, head thrown back. “Toil, blood and justice!” It spread in an instant, the shout rising from one end of the army to the other. “Toil, blood and justice! Toil, blood and justice!”

“In five days we march for Varinshold!” Lyrna called as the chant continued, the pitch of its volume increasing yet further. She pointed towards the north. Never be afraid of a little theatre, the old schemer had said during one of the ceremonies where he handed out swords to ever-less-deserving recipients. Royalty is always a performance, daughter. The tumult doubled as she called again, her words lost in the rage-filled cheers. “TO VARINSHOLD!”

She stood for a few moments, arms spread wide in the centre of their adoring rage. Did you ever have this, Father? Did they ever love you?

The noise continued as she descended from the wagon, reaching for Vaelin’s hand again, but pausing at the sight of the Shield. As expected his smile was gone, replaced by a sombre frown making her wonder if he still intended to follow her anywhere.

“Varinshold lies over two hundred miles distant, Highness,” Count Marven told her. “And we have barely enough grain to sustain the horses for fifty. Our Cumbraelin friends were most efficient in denuding this land of supplies.”

“Better burnt than in the belly of our enemies,” Lady Reva pointed out from across the table.

They were arrayed around a large map table in Vaelin’s tent, all the principal captains of the army along with Lady Reva and the war chiefs from the Eorhil and Seordah. The Eorhil was a wiry rider somewhere past his fiftieth year by her reckoning. The Seordah was slightly younger, taller than most of his people, lean as a wolf with a hawk face. They seemed to understand every word spoken but said little themselves, and she noted how their gaze flitted constantly between her and Vaelin. Is it suspicion? she thought. Or just wonder?

Count Marven had spent the better part of an hour explaining their strategic situation. Never having had much use for the tedium of military history she was obliged to pick out the pertinent details from the morass of jargon. From what she could gather it seemed their position was not as favourable as a queen might expect after winning so great a victory.

“Quite so, my lady,” the count told Reva. “But it does leave us perilously short of supplies, with winter only two months away into the bargain.”

“Am I to understand, my lord,” Lyrna said. “We have a mighty army but no means to move it anywhere?”

The count ran a hand over his shaven head, the stitched scar on his cheek seeming to glow a little more red as he sighed his frustration and sought to formulate the correct response.

“Yes,” Vaelin told her from the opposite end of the table. “And it’s not just a matter of moving it. If we don’t find sufficient forage for the winter, this army could well starve.”

“Surely we have captured Volarian supplies,” Lyrna said.

“Indeed, Highness,” plump Brother Hollun spoke up. Like most present he seemed to have difficulty in not staring at her face. “Twelve tons of grain, four of corn and six of beef.”

“Without which my people will starve this winter,” Lady Reva stated. “I’ve had to start rationing again already… Highness,” she added, clearly still having trouble with etiquette.

Lyrna looked at the map, tracing the route to Varinshold, finding many towns and villages along the way but knowing most would now be little more than scorched ruins, devoid of any supplies. Two hundred miles to Varinshold, she mused, studying the map more closely. Half that to the coast… and the sea.

She looked up, finding the Shield standing outside the circle of captains towards the rear of the tent, his face half in shadow. “My lord Ell-Nestra,” she said. “Your counsel please.”

He came forward after a moment’s hesitation, Fief Lord Dravus’s twin grandsons making room for him with courteous bows he failed to acknowledge. “Highness,” he said in a neutral tone.

“There are many ships in your fleet,” she said. “Enough to carry an army to Varinshold?”

He shook his head. “Half the fleet was obliged to return to the Isles for repairs after the Teeth. We could perhaps carry a third of the number gathered here, and even then we would have to leave the horses behind.”

“Varinshold won’t fall to so few,” Count Marven said. “Not if the Volarian woman is to be believed. They are well garrisoned and supplied from across the sea and from Renfael.”

Lyrna switched her gaze to Varinshold. The capital and principal port of the entire realm, much of its wealth in fact drawn from trade with Volaria. She pointed to the sea-lanes off Varinshold and looked up at the Shield. “Ever take a ship in these waters, my lord?”

He considered the map for a moment then nodded. “A few. Not such easy pickings as in the southern trade routes. The King’s fleet was always a watchful shepherd for Varinshold’s trade.”

“Now there is no fleet,” Lyrna pointed out. “And the pickings are likely to be rich, are they not, given the enemy’s losses at the Teeth?”

He nodded again. “Rich indeed, Highness.”

“You gave me a ship yesterday. Today I give her back to you with a request you take your fleet and seize or burn any Volarian ship you find journeying to or from Varinshold. Will you do this for me?”

She felt the other captains stirring, hard gazes turning on the pirate. Don’t like to see a queen bargain, she decided. I’ll speak to him in private in future.

“My men may take some persuasion,” he responded after a moment. “We sailed to defend the Isles. And that task is done.”

Ship Lord Ell-Nurin stepped forward, bowing to her with accomplished grace. “I can’t speak for the Shield’s men, Highness. But my men are ready to follow you to Udonor’s Halls if you ask. As I’m sure will many more. After the Battle of the Teeth and… your healing, many wouldn’t dare refuse.” He turned to the Shield with an expectant expression.

“As the Ship Lord says,” the Shield grated after a moment. “How could we refuse?”

“Very well.” Lyrna scanned the map once more. “Preparations must be complete within the week. Whereupon the army will march not north but east, to the coast. We will proceed to Varinshold via the coastal ports where our Meldenean allies will resupply us with whatever riches the Volarian Ruling Council deems fit to send its garrison. Also, ports mean fishing folk, who I’m sure will be glad of the custom.”

“If there are any left,” Reva said softly.

“I hereby make the following appointments,” Lyrna went on, choosing to ignore the Lady Governess. “Please forgive the lack of ceremony but we have no time for such pettiness now. I name Lord Vaelin Al Sorna as Battle Lord of the Queen’s Host. Count Marven is named Sword of the Realm and Adjutant General. Brother Hollun, I name you Keeper of the Queen’s Purse. Captains Adal, Orven and Nortah are hereby made Swords of the Realm and elevated to the rank of Lord Marshal. Lord Atheran Ell-Nestra.” She met the Shield’s gaze once more. “I name you Fleet Lord of the Unified Realm and captain of its flagship.” She cast her gaze around the assembly. “These appointments include all due rights and privileges set down by Realm Law with grants and lands to be allotted at the close of hostilities. I ask you formally, do you accept these honours?”

She noted Vaelin was the last to voice his assent, and then only after the Shield had taken a seeming age to bow in agreement, a ghost of his usual smile on his lips.

“Other business, Lords and good sirs?” she asked the Council.

“There is the matter of the prisoners, Highness,” Lord Marshal Orven said. “Keeping them safe is proving a trial. Especially given the bow skills of our Cumbraelin hosts,” he added with a glance in Reva’s direction.

“They have been screened for useful intelligence, I assume?” Lyrna asked.

Harlick, the thin older brother, raised a bony hand. “That task was given to me, Highness. There are a few officers among them I’ve yet to question. Though, my experience to date indicates their usefulness is likely to be limited.”

“They can work,” Vaelin said, meeting her gaze with red-rimmed but steady eyes. “Rebuild what they destroyed.”

“I can’t have them in the city,” Reva put in, shaking her head. “The people will tear them apart.”

“Then we take them with us,” Vaelin responded. “They can act as porters.”

“And more mouths to feed,” Lyrna said, turning to Brother Harlick. “Complete your questioning, brother. Lord Marshal Orven will hang them when you’re done. My lords and sirs, to your duties if you please.”

She found him sitting by the river, seemingly no more than a well-built soldier plaiting rope with unusually nimble fingers. Vaelin had warned her not to expect much from him so it was a surprise when he scrambled to his feet as she approached, performing a bow of such perfection it would have shamed the most accomplished courtier.

“Cara said I should bow,” he told her, his broad handsome face lit by an open smile. “Showed me how.”

Lyrna glanced off to the right where the three other Gifted from the Reaches looked on. The girl, Cara, still pale and tired by her exertions the day before, regarded Lyrna with a suspicious frown, matched by the skinny young man who held her hand and the hulking fellow with copious hair who stood behind them both. Do they think I come to punish?

Benten put a hand on his sword as Weaver came closer, reaching out to touch her face. “It’s all right, my lord,” she told the former fisherman, standing still and allowing the healer’s hand to play over her features. It burned before, but now it’s cold.

“I came to offer my thanks, sir,” she told Weaver. “I would name you a lord…”

“Your reward is already given,” he said, withdrawing his hand. His face lost its smile, his brow creased with confusion as he tapped a finger to it. “Always the way, something comes back.” His gaze widened a little as he stared into her eyes. “You gave more. More than any other.”

Lyrna experienced a bout of the same near panic that had gripped her at the Mahlessa’s mountain, the desire to run from something unknowable but undeniably dangerous. She exhaled slowly and forced herself to meet his gaze. “What did I give?”

He smiled again, turning away to sit once more, reaching for his rope. “Yourself,” he said in a faint voice as his hands resumed their work.

“My Queen.” She turned to find Iltis marching towards her, his face paler than she would have liked but he still refused to rest. Beyond him she could see Brother Caenis standing with four common folk, two young women from the city, a Nilsaelin soldier and one of Lord Nortah’s free fighters. Lyrna saw the three Gifted from the Reaches stiffen at the sight of them, exchanging worried glances, the big one even hefting the quarterstaff he carried and stepping protectively in front of the girl.

“Lord Marshal Caenis requests a private audience, Highness,” Iltis told her with a bow.

She nodded and beckoned Caenis forward, moving a short distance away from Weaver. She paused a moment to view the frozen waters of the Cold Iron, then glanced over at Cara, now glaring in naked animosity at Brother Caenis as he fell to one knee before her. The power to freeze a river in summer, but she fears this man.

“Highness, I crave your attention…”

“Yes, yes, brother.” She waved him to his feet, gesturing at Cara and the other Gifted. “You seem to be making my subjects nervous.”

Brother Caenis turned to the Gifted, grimacing a little. “They… fear what I have to tell you.” He faced her, straightening his back. “My Queen, I come to offer the services of my Order in this conflict. We subject ourselves to your commands and shirk no duty in pursuit of victory.”

“I have never doubted the loyalty of the Sixth Order, brother. Though I wish I had more of you…” Lyrna trailed off as she looked again at the group of common folk, seeing how they shifted under her scrutiny, every face tense and wary. “These folk do not strike me as likely recruits for the Sixth.”

“No, Highness,” he said and she had a sense of a man forcing himself to a long-feared duty. “We belong to another Order entirely.”

CHAPTER TWO Alucius

The Kuritai’s name was Twenty-Seven, though Alucius had yet to hear him say it. In fact he had yet to hear the slave-elite say anything. He reacted to instruction with instant obedience and was the perfect servant, fetching, carrying and cleaning with no sign of fatigue or even the faintest expression of complaint.

“My gift to you,” Lord Darnel had said that day they had dragged Alucius from the depths of the Blackhold, expecting death and gasping in astonishment when they removed his shackles and he found his own father’s hands helping him to his feet. “A servant of peerless perfectitude,” Darnel went on, gesturing at the Kuritai. “You know, I think I’m growing fond of your wordsmithing ways, little poet.”

“Yes, I’m very well this fine morning,” Alucius told Twenty-Seven as he laid out the breakfast. “How nice of you to ask.”

They were on the veranda overlooking the harbour, the sun rising over the horizon to paint the ships a golden hue he knew would have sent Alornis scurrying to fetch her canvas and brushes. He had chosen the house for the view, a merchant’s domicile no doubt, its owner presumably dead or enslaved along with his family. Varinshold was full of empty houses now, more to choose from should he grow tired of this one, but he found himself too fond of the view, especially as it covered the entirety of the harbour.

Fewer and fewer ships, he thought, counting the vessels with accustomed precision. Ten slavers, five traders, four warships. The slavers sat highest in the water, their copious holds empty, as they had been for weeks, ever since the great column of smoke had risen to blot the sun from the sky for days on end. Alucius had been trying to write something about it, but found the words failed to flow every time he put pen to paper. How does one write a eulogy for a forest?

Twenty-Seven placed the last plate on the table and stood back as Alucius reached for his cutlery, tasting the mushrooms first, finding them cooked to perfection with a little garlic and butter. “Excellent as always, my deadly friend.”

Twenty-Seven stared out of the window and said nothing.

“Ah yes, it’s visiting day,” Alucius went on around a mouthful of bacon. “Thank you for reminding me. Pack the salve and the new books, if you would.”

Twenty-Seven instantly turned away and went about his instructions, moving to the bookcase first. The house’s owner had maintained a reasonable library, largely, Alucius assumed, for appearance’s sake as few of the volumes showed much sign of having ever been read. They were mostly popular romances and a few of the more well-known histories, none suited to his purposes, which obliged him to spend hours ransacking the larger houses for more interesting material. There was much to choose from; the Volarians were boundlessly enthusiastic looters but had little interest in books, save as kindling. Yesterday had been particularly fruitful, netting a complete set of Marial’s Astronomical Observations and an inscribed volume he hoped would arouse the interest of one of his charges in particular.

Ten slavers, five traders, four warships, he counted again, turning to the harbour. Two less than yesterday… He paused as another vessel came into view, a warship rounding the headland to the south. It seemed to be struggling to make headway through the water, only one sail raised and that, he saw as it came closer, was a ragged thing of soot-blackened canvas. The ship trailed sagging rope through the placid morning swell as it neared the harbour mouth, blocks and shattered beams hanging from her rigging, sparse crew moving about the deck with the stoop of exhausted men. As she weighed anchor Alucius’s eyes picked out numerous scorch marks blackening her hull and many dark brown stains on her untidy deck.

Five warships, he corrected himself. One with an interesting tale to tell, it seems.

They stopped off at the pigeon coop on the way, finding his sole remaining bird in typically hungry mood. “Don’t bolt it,” he cautioned Blue Feather with a wagging finger but she ignored him, head bobbing as she pecked at the seeds. The coop was situated atop the house of the Blocker’s Guild, the roof spared the fires that had gutted the building thanks to its iron-beamed construction. The surrounding houses hadn’t been so fortunate and the once-busy building where he had come to have his poems printed now rose from streets of rubble and ash. Seen from this vantage point the city resembled a grimy patchwork, islands of intact buildings in a sea of grey-black ruins.

“Sorry if you’re finding it lonely these days,” he told Blue Feather, stroking her fluffy breast. There had been ten of them to begin with, a year ago. Young birds each with a tiny wire clasp about their right leg, strong enough to hold a message.

This had been the first place he had hurried to on release from the Blackhold, finding only three birds still alive. He fed them and disposed of the corpses as Twenty-Seven looked on impassively. It had been a risk leading the slave here to witness his greatest secret, but there was little choice. In truth, he had expected the Kuritai to either cut him down on the spot or shackle him once more for immediate return to captivity. Instead he just stood and watched as Alucius scribbled the coded message on a tiny scrap of parchment before rolling it up and sliding it into the small metal cylinder that would fit onto the bird’s leg clasp.

Varinshold fallen, he had written though he knew it was probably old news to the recipients. Darnel rules. 500 knights & one V division. Twenty-Seven didn’t even turn to watch the bird fly away when Alucius cast it from the rooftop and the expected deathblow had never fallen, not then and not when he released the next bird the night the Volarian fleet set sail for the Meldenean Isles. Twenty-Seven, it appeared, was neither his gaoler nor Darnel’s spy; he was simply his waiting executioner. In any case his worries over what the Kuritai saw had long since faded, along with the hope he might live to see this city liberated… and watch Alornis draw again.

He briefly considered sending Blue Feather with his final message — those he reported to would no doubt find the news of the ragged warship interesting — but decided against it. The ship portended a great deal, and it would be better to await discovery of the full story before expending his last link to the outside world.

They climbed down from the rooftop via the ladder on the back wall, making for the only building in Varinshold that seemed to have suffered no damage at all, the squat fortress of black stone sitting in the centre of the city. There had been a bloody battle here, he knew. The Blackhold’s garrison of Fourth Order thugs putting up a surprisingly good fight as they beat back successive waves of Varitai, Aspect Tendris in the thick of the fight, spurring them on to ever-greater feats of courage with unwavering Faith. At least that’s how the story went if you believed the mutterings of the Realm-born slaves. It had finally fallen when the Kuritai were sent in, Aspect Tendris cutting down four of the slave-elite before a dastardly knife in the back laid him low, something Alucius found extremely unlikely, though he did concede the mad bastard had probably gone down fighting.

The Varitai at the gate stepped aside as he approached, Twenty-Seven in tow with his books and various medicines in a sack over his broad shoulder. The interior of the Blackhold was even less edifying than its exterior, a narrow courtyard within grim black walls, Varitai archers posted on the parapet above. Alucius went to the door at the rear of the courtyard, the Varitai guard unlocking it and stepping aside. Inside he followed the damp winding steps down into the vaults. The smell provoked unwelcome memories of his time here, musty rot mingling with the sharp tang of rat piss. The steps ended some twenty feet down, opening out into a torchlit corridor lined by ten cells, each sealed with a heavy iron door. The cells had all been occupied when he was first brought here, now all but two stood empty.

“No,” Alucius replied to Twenty-Seven’s unvoiced question. “I can’t say it is good to be back, my friend.”

He went to the Free Sword seated on a stool at the end of the corridor. It was always the same man, a sour-faced fellow of brawny build who spoke Realm Tongue with all the finesse of a blind mason attempting to carve a masterpiece.

“Which ’un?” he grunted, getting to his feet and putting aside a wine-skin.

“Aspect Dendrish I think,” Alucius replied. “Irksome duties first, I always say.” He concealed a sigh of frustration at the Free Sword’s baffled frown. “The fat man,” he added slowly.

The Free Sword shrugged and moved to the door at the far end of the corridor, keys jangling as he worked the lock. Alucius thanked him with a bow and went inside.

Aspect Dendrish Hendrahl had lost perhaps half his famous weight during captivity, but that still made him considerably fatter than most men. He greeted Alucius with the customary scowl and lack of formality, small eyes narrowed and gleaming in the light from the single candle in the alcove above his bed. “I trust you’ve brought me something more interesting than last time.”

“I believe so, Aspect.” Alucius took the sack from Twenty-Seven and rummaged inside, coming out with a large volume, the title embossed in gold on the leather binding.

“‘Fallacy and Belief,’” the Aspect read as he took the volume. “‘The Nature of God Worship.’ You bring me my own book?”

“Not quite, Aspect. I suggest you look inside.”

Dendrish opened the book, his small eyes peering at the text scribbled on the title page which Alucius knew read: Or “Pomposity and Arrogance — The Nature of Aspect Hendrahl’s Scholarship.”

“What is this?” the Aspect demanded.

“I found it at Lord Al Avern’s house,” Alucius told him. “You remember him, no doubt. They called him the Lord of Ink and Scroll, on account of his scholarly accomplishments.”

“Accomplishments? The man was an amateur, a mere copier of greater talents.”

“Well, he has much to say on your talents, Aspect. His critique of your treatise on the origin of the Alpiran gods is particularly effusive, and quite elegantly phrased I must say.”

Hendrahl’s plump hands leafed through the book with expert precision, opening it out to reveal a chapter liberally adorned with the late Lord Al Avern’s graceful script. “‘Simply repeats Carvel’?” the Aspect read in a furious rasp. “This empty-brained ape accuses me of lacking originality.”

“I thought you might find it amusing.” Alucius bowed again and moved to the door.

“Wait!” Hendrahl cast a wary glance at the Free Sword standing outside and levered himself to his feet, not without difficulty. “You must have news, surely.”

“Alas, things have not changed since my last visit, Aspect. Lord Darnel hunts for his son through the ashes of his great crime, we await news of General Tokrev’s glorious victory at Alltor and Admiral Morok’s equally glorious seizure of the Meldenean Isles.”

Hendrahl moved closer, speaking in a barely heard whisper. “Master Grealin, still no word on him?”

It was the one question he always asked and Alucius had given up trying to extract the reason for this interest in the Sixth Order’s store-minder. “None, Aspect. Just like last time.” Oddly, this response always seemed to reassure the Aspect and he nodded, moving back to sit on his bed, his fingers resting on the book, not looking up as Alucius left the cell.

As ever, Aspect Elera proved a contrast to her brother in the Faith, smiling and standing as the door swung open, her slender hands extended in greeting. “Alucius!”

“Aspect.” He always found he had to force the catch from his voice when he saw her, clad in her filthy grey robe they wouldn’t let him replace, the flesh of her ankle red and raw from the shackle. But she always smiled and she was ever glad to see him.

“I brought more salve,” he said, placing the sack on the bed. “For your leg. There’s an apothecary shop on Drover’s Way. Burnt-out, naturally, but it seems the owner had the foresight to hide some stock in his basement.”

“Resourceful as ever, good sir. My thanks.” She sat and rummaged through the sack for a moment, coming out with the small ceramic pot of salve, removing the lid to sniff the contents. “Corr tree oil and honey. Excellent. This will do very well.” She rummaged further and found the books. “Marial!” she exclaimed in a delighted gasp. “I once had a full set. Must be near twenty years since my last reading. You are good to me, Alucius.”

“I endeavour to do my best, Aspect.”

She set the book aside and looked up at him, her face as clean as her meagre water ration allowed. Lord Darnel had been very particular in his instructions regarding her confinement, a consequence of her less-than-complimentary words during his first and only visit here. So, whilst Aspect Dendrish was treated to only the cruelty of indifference and a restricted diet, Aspect Elera was shackled to the wall with a length of chain that restricted her movements to no more than two square feet of her tiny cell. As yet, however, he had not heard her voice a single complaint.

“How goes the poem?” she asked him.

“Slowly, Aspect. I fear these tumultuous times deserve a better chronicler.”

“A pity. I was looking forward to reading it. And your father?”

“Sends his regards,” Alucius lied. “Though I see him rarely these days. Busy as he is with the Lord’s work.”

“Ah. Well, be sure to pass along my respects.”

At least she won’t call him traitor when this is done, he thought. Though she may be the only one.

“Tell me, Alucius,” she went on. “Do your explorations ever take you to the southern quarter?”

“Rarely, Aspect. The pickings are hardly rich, and in any case there’s little of it left to pick through.”

“Pity. There was an inn there, the Black Boar I believe it was called. If you’re in need of decent wine, I believe the owner kept a fine selection of Cumbraelin vintages in a secret place beneath the floorboards, so as not to trouble the King’s excise men, you understand.”

Decent wine. How long had it been since he’d tasted anything but the most acid vinegar? The Volarians may have had little interest in the city’s books but had scraped every shelf clean of wine in the first week of occupation, forcing him into an unwelcome period of sobriety.

“Very kind, Aspect,” he said. “Though I confess my surprise at your knowledge of such matters.”

“You hear all manner of things as a healer. People will spill their deepest secrets to those they hope can take their pain away.” She met his gaze and there was a new weight to her voice when she added, “I really wouldn’t linger too long in seeking out the wine, good sir.”

“I… shan’t, Aspect.”

The Free Sword rapped his keys against the door, voicing an impatient grunt. “I must go,” he told her, taking the empty sack.

“A pleasure, as always, Alucius.” She held out a hand and he knelt to kiss it, a courtly ritual they had adopted over the weeks. “Do you know,” she said as he rose and went to the door. “I believe if Lord Darnel were truly a courageous man, he would have killed us by now.”

“Raising his own fief against him in the process,” Alucius replied. “Even he is not so foolish.”

She nodded, smiling once again as the Free Sword closed the door, her final words faint but still audible, and insistent. “Be sure to enjoy the wine!”

Lord Darnel sent for him in the afternoon, forestalling an exploration of the southern quarter. The Fief Lord had taken over the only surviving wing of the palace, a gleaming collection of marble walls and towers rising from the shattered ruin that surrounded it. The walls were partly covered in scaffolding as masons strove to remould the remnants into a convincingly self-contained building, as if it had always been this way. Darnel was keen to wipe away as much of the inconvenient past as possible. A small army of slaves laboured continually in pursuit of the new owner’s vision, the ruined wings cleared to make room for an ornamental garden complete with looted statuary and as yet unblossomed flowerbeds.

Alucius was always surprised at his own lack of fear whenever he had the misfortune to find himself in the Fief Lord’s presence; the man’s temper was legendary and his fondness for the death warrant made old King Janus seem the model of indulgent rule. However, for all his evident scorn and contempt, Darnel needed him alive. At least until Father wins his war for him.

He was admitted to the new throne room by two of Darnel’s burlier knights, fully armoured and smelling quite dreadful despite all the lavender oil with which they slathered themselves. As yet it seemed no blacksmith had solved the perennial problem of the foul odours arising from prolonged wearing of armour. Darnel sat on his new throne, a finely carved symphony of oak and velvet, featuring an ornately decorated back that reached fully seven feet high. Though yet to formally name himself king, Darnel had been quick to attire himself with as many royal trappings as possible, King Malcius’s crown being chief among them, though Alucius fancied it sat a bit too loose on his head. It shifted on his brow now as the Fief Lord leaned forward to address the man standing before him, a wiry and somewhat bedraggled fellow in the garb of a Volarian sailor, a black cloak about his shoulders. Alucius’s fear reasserted itself at the sight of man standing behind the sailor. Division Commander Mirvek stood tall and straight in his black enamel breastplate, heavy, scarred features impassive as always when in the Fief Lord’s presence. Darnel might need him alive, but the Volarian certainly didn’t. He took some heart from the sight of his father, standing with his arms crossed at Darnel’s side.

“A shark?” Lord Darnel said to the sailor, his voice heavy with scorn. “You lost your fleet to a shark?”

The sailor stiffened, his face betraying a man suffering insult from one he considered little more than a favoured slave. “A red shark,” the sailor replied in good but accented Realm Tongue. “Commanded by an elverah.”

“Elverah?” Darnel asked. “I thought this fabled elverah was engaged in delaying General Tokrev at Alltor?”

“It is not a name, at least not these days,” Mirvek explained. “It means witch or sorceress, born of an old legend…”

“I could give a whore’s cunt hair for your legend!” Darnel snapped. “Why do you bring me this defeated dog with his wild tales of witches and sharks?”

“I am no liar!” the sailor retorted, face reddening. “I am witness to a thousand deaths or more at the hands of that bitch and her creature.”

“Control your dog,” Darnel told the Division Commander quietly. “Or he’ll get a whipping as a lesson.”

The sailor bridled again but said no more when Mirvek placed a restraining hand on his shoulder, murmuring something in his own language. Alucius’s Volarian was poor but he was sure he detected the word “patience” in the commander’s soothing tone.

“Ah, little poet,” Darnel said, noticing Alucius. “Here’s one worthy of a verse or two. The great Volarian fleet sunk by a Dark-blessed shark answering the whim of a witch.”

“Elverah,” the sailor said again before adding something in his own language.

“What did he say?” Darnel asked the Division Commander in a weary tone.

“Born of fire,” the commander translated. “The sailors say the witch was born of fire, because of her burns.”

“Burns?”

“Her face.” The sailor played a hand over his own features. “Burned, vile to look upon. A creature not a woman.”

“And I thought you people were absent all superstition,” Darnel said before turning back to Alucius. “What do you imagine this means for our great enterprise, little poet?”

“It would seem the Meldenean Islands did not fall so easily after all, my lord,” Alucius replied in a flat tone. He saw his father shift at Darnel’s side, catching his eye with a warning glare, however Darnel seemed untroubled by the observation.

“Quite so. Despite the many promises made by our allies, they fail to secure me the Isles and instead bring dogs into my home barking nonsense.” He pointed a steady finger at the sailor. “Get him out of here,” he told Mirvek.

“Come forward, little poet.” Darnel beckoned him with a languid wave when the Volarians had made their exit. “I’d have your views on another tall tale.”

Alucius strode forward and went to one knee before the throne. He was continually tempted to abandon all pretence of respect but knew the Lord’s tolerance had its limits, regardless of his usefulness.

“Here.” Darnel picked up a spherical object lying at the foot of his throne and tossed it to Alucius. “Familiar, is it not?”

Alucius caught the item and turned it over in his hands. A Renfaelin knight’s helmet, enamelled in blue with several dents and a broken visor. “Lord Wenders,” he said, recalling that Darnel had made his chief lapdog a gift of an unwanted suit of armour.

“Indeed,” Darnel said. “Found four days ago with a crossbow bolt through his eye. I assume you have little trouble guessing the origin of his demise.”

“The Red Brother.” Alucius concealed his grin. Burned the Urlish to nothing and still you couldn’t get him.

“Yes,” Darnel said. “Curious thing, they tended his wounds before they killed him. What’s even more curious is the tale told by the only survivor of his company. He didn’t last very long, I’m afraid, victim of a crushed and festered arm. But he swore to the Departed that the entire company had been buried in a rock-slide called forth by the Red Brother’s fat master.”

Grealin. Alucius kept all expression from his face as he asked, “Called forth, my lord?”

“Yes, with the Dark, if you can believe it. First the tale of the Dark-afflicted brother, now the ballad of the witch’s shark. All very strange, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would, my lord. Most certainly.”

Darnel reclined in his throne, regarding Alucius with arch scrutiny. “Tell me, in all your dealings with our cherished surviving Aspects, did they ever make mention of this fat master and his Dark gifts?”

“Aspect Dendrish asks for books, and food. Aspect Elera asks for nothing. They make no mention of this master…”

Darnel glanced at Alucius’s father. “Grealin, my lord,” Lakrhil Al Hestian said.

“Yes, Grealin.” Darnel returned his gaze to Alucius. “Grealin.”

“I recall the name, my lord. I believe Lord Al Sorna made mention of him during our time together in the Usurper’s Revolt. He minded the Sixth Order’s stores, I believe.”

Darnel’s face lost all expression, draining of colour, as it often did at mention of the name Al Sorna, something Alucius knew well and counted on to provide suitable distraction from further astute questioning. Today, however, the Fief Lord was not so easily diverted.

“Store-minder or no,” he grated after a moment. “It now seems he’s a pile of ash.” He pulled something from the pocket of his silk robe and tossed it to Alucius; a medallion on a chain of plain metal, charred but intact. The Blind Warrior. “Your father’s scouts found this amongst the ashes in a pyre near Wenders’s body. It’s either the fat master’s or the Red Brother’s, and I doubt we’d ever get that lucky.”

No, Alucius agreed silently. You never would.

“Our Volarian allies are extremely interested in any whisper of the Dark,” Darnel told him. “Paying huge sums for slaves rumoured to be afflicted with it. Imagine what they’ll do to your friends in the Blackhold if they suspect they have knowledge of more. The next time you visit them show them this medallion, tell them this tall tale, and report back to me every word they say.”

He got to his feet, walking towards Alucius with a slow gate, face quivering a little now, lips wet with spittle. They were roughly of equal height, but Darnel was considerably broader, and a seasoned killer. Somehow, though, Alucius still felt no fear as he loomed closer.

“This farce has dragged on long enough,” the Fief Lord rasped. “I ride forth tonight with every knight in my command to hunt down the Red Brother and secure my son. Whilst I am gone you will make sure those sanctimonious shits know I’ll happily hand them over to our allies to see them flayed skinless if it’ll drag their secrets forth, Aspects or no.”

CHAPTER THREE Frentis

She wakes, her eyes finding a dim yellow glow in a world of shadow. The glow resolves into the flame of a single candle, not so clear as it should be. For a moment she wonders if she has been reborn into a half-blind body, the Ally’s joke, or further punishment. But then she recalls that her sight, her first body’s sight, had always been unusually sharp. “Keener than any hawk,” her father had said centuries ago, a rare compliment that had brought tears to her eyes then but brings nothing to these now. These weaker, stolen eyes.

She lies on hard stone, cold and rough on her naked skin. She sits and something moves in the gloom, a man stepping from the shadow into the meagre light. He wears the uniform of the Council Guard and the lean face of a veteran but she sees his true face in the leer of his shaded eyes. “How do you find it?” he asks her.

She raises her hands, flexing the fingers and wrists. Strong, good. Her arms are lean, well sculpted, similarly her legs, lithe and supple.

“A dancer?” she asks the Council Guard.

“No. She was found when young. The northern hill tribes, richer in Gifted than elsewhere in the empire. The gift is powerful, an uncanny way with the wind. Something I’m sure you’ll find a use for. She was trained with knife, sword and bow from the age of six. Security against your inevitable fall.”

She feels a faint anger at this. It was not inevitable. Any more than love is inevitable. She is tempted to let the anger build, fuel her new body with rage and test its abilities on the leering Messenger, but is given pause by another sensation… The music flows, the tune is fierce and strong. Her song is returned!

She finds a laugh bubbling in her breast and lets it out, her head thrown back, the sound exultant as another thought comes to her, no less fierce in its joyful realisation: I know you see me, beloved!

He came awake with a start, raising a curious whine from Slasher who had been sleeping at his feet. Next to him Master Rensial slept on, an oddly serene smile on his face; a man content in slumber. Apart from battle it was the only time he appeared sane. Frentis sat up with a groan, shaking his head to clear the dream. Dream? Do you really believe that’s what it was?

He pushed the thought away and pulled on his boots, hefting his sword and exiting the small tent he shared with the master. The sky was still dark and he judged it no more than two hours into the new day by the moon’s height. Around him the company lay sleeping, the tents provided by Baron Banders a wondrous luxury after so many days of hardship. They were encamped on the southern slope of a tall hill, one of the downs that made the Renfaelin border country so distinct, campfires forbidden by the baron, who saw no reason to give Lord Darnel an indication of their numbers.

Six thousand men, Frentis thought, his eyes surveying the camp, recalling the intelligence provided by the unfortunate Lord Wenders. Enough to take a city held by Darnel’s knights and a full division of Volarians?

A soft sound drew his attention back to the tents where his company slept, a soft giggle rising from the tent Arendil shared with Lady Illian. He heard faint but urgent whispers followed by more giggles. I should stop this, he decided, starting forward, then paused as the words Illian had spoken the day before came back to him. I am not a child…

They lost their youth in my bloody crusade, he thought. With worse to come at Varinshold. He sighed and moved away until the sounds grew faint.

It was a half-moon tonight, but the sky was clear, providing enough light for a good view of the low country beyond the downs, so far free of any enemy. Will he wait? Frentis wondered. When Darnel hears that Banders has raised his fief against him and now harbours his son, will he come? His hand ached as he gripped his sword hilt, the bloodlust surging again, calling her voice as it always did. Not so free of its delights, after all, beloved?

“Leave me be,” he whispered in Volarian, teeth gritted, forcing his hand to release the sword.

“Learned a new language then, brother?”

Frentis turned to find a brother about his own age approaching from the shadows, tall with a narrow handsome face and a lopsided grin. It was the grin that stirred his memory. “Ivern,” he said after a moment.

The young brother halted a few feet away, eyes tracking Frentis from head to foot in blank wonder. “I thought Brother Sollis was playing a joke when he told me,” he said. “But when does he joke about anything?” He came forward, arms encircling Frentis in a warm embrace.

“The Order,” Frentis began when Ivern moved back. “The House has fallen. There are no others…”

“I know. He told me your tale. Little over a hundred of us, all that remains of the Sixth Order.”

“Aspect Arlyn lives. Darnel’s lick-spittle confirmed it, though he couldn’t tell us where in Varinshold they imprisoned him.”

“A mystery to be solved when we get there.” Ivern inclined his head at the cluster of tents nearby. “I’ve half a bottle of Brother’s Friend left if you’d care to share.”

Frentis had never been particularly partial to the Order’s favourite tipple, disliking the way it dulled his senses, so he confined himself to a polite sip before handing the flask back to Ivern who seemed to have no such concerns. “I tell the unvarnished and complete truth,” he insisted after a healthy gulp from the flask. “She kissed me, full on the lips.”

“Princess Lyrna kissed you?” Frentis enquired with a raised eyebrow.

“Indeed she did. After a perilous, and dare I say, now legendary quest through the Lonak Dominion. I was halfway through writing it all down for inclusion in Brother Caenis’s archive when news of the invasion came.” His grin became rueful. “My finest hour as a brother, lost to history thanks to larger concerns.” He met Frentis’s gaze. “We heard a lot about you on the way south. The tale of the Red Brother flew fast and wide. There’s even a version that says you saw her die.”

The fire licked at her face as she screamed, her hair blackening as she beat the flames with her hands… “I didn’t see her die,” he said. I just killed her brother. He had given a full accounting to Brother Sollis the previous evening, whilst his company ate their first real meal in days, some so slumped in relief they couldn’t raise the food to their mouths. Sollis had absorbed every word without comment, his pale-eyed gaze betraying nothing as the epic of murder and pain ran its course. When it was done, like Aspect Grealin, he gave strict instructions not to repeat the tale to anyone and maintain the same fiction believed by the people who followed him. The same lie, the woman’s voice added in faint mockery.

“So there’s a chance,” Ivern pressed. “She could still be alive.”

“I ask the Departed every day to make it so.”

Ivern took another drink. “The Lonak didn’t understand what a princess was, so called her a queen. Turns out they were right. If I were a Volarian I’d be praying for her death. I wouldn’t want to be in the eye of that woman’s vengeance.”

Vengeance, Frentis thought, looking down at his hands, hands that had snapped the neck of a king. Or justice?

He returned to his company in the morning, finding Davoka in conversation with Illian, the young highborn sitting rigid and pale of face as the Lonak spoke in instructional tones. “You must be careful,” she cautioned, working a stone along her spear-blade. “Swollen belly no good in battle. Make sure he spends on your thigh.”

When Illian caught sight of Frentis, her face turned an immediate shade of scarlet. She stood up, walking away with a stiff but rapid gait, managing only a faint squeak in response to his greeting.

“Such things are not discussed openly among the Merim Her,” Frentis told a puzzled Davoka, sitting down beside her.

“Girl is foolish,” she muttered with a shrug. “Too quick to anger, too quick to part her legs. My first husband had to give three ponies before I lay a hand on him.”

Frentis was tempted to ask how many ponies Ermund would be required to hand over in due course, but decided it would be an unwise question. Bound as he was by his oath, the knight had been quickly reinstated at Baron Banders’s side and they would sorely miss his sword. Davoka, however, seemed unperturbed by his sudden absence from their company and Frentis wondered if he hadn’t been anything more than a welcome diversion during the infrequent quiet days in the Urlish.

“Things are different here,” he said, more to himself than her. Illian transformed from a pampered girl into a deadly huntress, Draker from an outlaw into a soldier, Grealin from a master to an Aspect. Everything is different. The Volarians have built us a new Realm.

Brother Commander Sollis arrived as they were eating breakfast, favouring Davoka with a respectful nod, pausing only slightly at the sight of Thirty-Four, who smiled back with a gracious bow. “Baron Banders holds council,” Sollis told Frentis. “Your words are wanted.”

“Five hundred knights and a piss-pot full of Volarians, eh?” Baron Banders raised a bushy eyebrow at Frentis, voicing a small laugh. “Hardly a mighty army, brother.”

“If this Wenders spoke truly,” Sollis commented.

The baron held his council in a field away from the main camp, the various captains and lords of his army standing in a circle with scant ceremony or formal introduction. It seemed Banders had little use for the often elaborate manners of the Renfaelin nobility.

“Wenders did not strike me as a man with enough wit for deception, brother,” Frentis told Sollis before turning to Banders. “There are upwards of eight thousand men in a Volarian Division, my lord. Plus they have the Free Sword mercenaries who guard the slavers and contingents of Kuritai. I caution you not to underestimate them.”

“Worse than the Alpirans are they?”

“In some ways.”

The baron grunted and raised an eyebrow at Ermund who gave a solemn nod. “We killed many in the forest, my lord, but it cost us dear. If they have more, taking the city will be a bloody business.”

“If Darnel is wise enough to stay behind his walls,” Banders mused. “And wisdom is not one of his virtues.”

“He has recruited wisdom,” Frentis said. “Wenders told us Lakrhil Al Hestian has been pressed into service as Darnel’s Battle Lord. He’ll know full well the value of not taking to open field against us.”

“Blood Rose,” Banders said softly. “Couldn’t abide the man, truth be told. But he never struck me as a traitor.”

“Darnel holds Al Hestian’s son as hostage to his loyalty. We should regard him an enemy, and not one given to misjudgements.”

“Couldn’t hold Marbellis though.” Banders glanced at Sollis. “Could he, brother?”

There was a slight pause before Sollis replied and Frentis wondered what horrors crowded his memory. “No one could have held Marbellis, my lord,” he said. “A pebble can’t stand against an ocean.”

Banders fell silent, his hand on his chin. “Was hoping the Urlish would mask our advance,” he said in a reflective tone. “At least for a time, providing timber for ladders and engines into the bargain. Now even that is taken from us.”

“There are other ways, Grandfather,” Arendil spoke up. His mother, the Lady Ulice, stood at his side with a tight grip on his arm. Her relief at finding him alive the day before had been a spectacle of tearful kisses, though she had plainly been chagrined by her son’s insistence on staying with Frentis’s company.

“The good brother,” Arendil said, gesturing to Frentis, “Davoka, and I made our escape via the city’s sewers. If we can get out, surely we can get in the same way.”

“The harbour pipe is too easily seen by their sailors,” Frentis said. “But there are alternatives, and one in our company who knows the sewers near as well as I.”

“I’ve four thousand knights who won’t fit so easily in a dung pipe, brother,” Banders pointed out. “Take their horses away and they’re as much use as a gelding in a whorehouse. The rest are men-at-arms and a few hundred peasants with grudges to settle against Darnel and his dogs.”

“I have over a hundred brothers,” Sollis said. “Plus Brother Frentis’s company. Surely sufficient strength to seize a gate and hold it long enough to allow your knights entry.”

“And then what?” Banders asked. “Street fighting is hardly within their experience, brother.”

“I’ll fight in a bog,” Ermund said, “if it’ll bring Darnel within reach of my sword. Do not mistake the temper of your knights, my lord. Their course was not chosen lightly and they’ll follow you to the Beyond and back if you command it.”

“I don’t doubt their temper, Ermund,” Banders assured him. “But our fief lost enough wars to learn the lesson that a charging wall of steel cannot win every battle. And supposing we do manage to take the city, the bulk of the enemy’s strength is still besieging Alltor. And when they’re finished, where do you suppose they’ll march next?”

“From what little intelligence we can gather,” Sollis said, “Fief Lord Mustor has held out far longer than expected. Winter will be closing in by the time the Volarians take his capital and subdue his fief. Long enough for us to entrench, gather strength from Nilsael and the Reaches.”

At mention of the Reaches Banders turned to one of his captains, a veteran knight in white-enamelled armour. “No word, I take it, Lord Furel?”

“It’s a long ride to Meanshall,” the knight replied. “And a longer voyage to the Reaches. Our messengers were sent only ten days ago.”

“I had hoped he’d be on the move by now,” Banders mused and Frentis had no need to hear the name in the forefront of his mind.

“He is,” he said. “I know it.” He looked at Brother Sollis who replied with a nod. “And having Varinshold in our hands by the time he arrives will make our task much easier.”

“You ask me to risk much on the basis of faith alone, brother,” Banders replied.

“Faith,” Frentis replied, “is my business, my lord.”

The baron’s army was well supplied with horses, most taken from the estates of knights who had sided with Darnel. They were all stallions, impressively tall at the shoulder with the restlessness of horses bred to the charge. Master Rensial wandered the temporary paddock where the horses were corralled, seemingly unaware of their snorts and whinnies as he played his hands over flanks and neck, his expression the concentrated stare of the expert.

“Not so…” Davoka fumbled for the right word as they watched the master go about his work. “Ara-kahmin. Head-sickness.”

“Mad,” Frentis said, seeing the surety with which Master Rensial moved. “Not so mad when he’s with horses. I know.”

“He looks on you and sees a son,” Davoka said. “You know this too?”

“He sees many things. Most of which are not there.”

The master chose a horse for each of them, leading a youthful grey to Frentis and a broad black charger to Davoka. “Too big,” she said, moving back a little as the great horse sniffed her. “No ponies here?”

“No,” Master Rensial told her simply and walked off to select more mounts.

“You’ll get used to him,” Frentis assured her, scratching the grey’s nose. “Wonder what name you’ll earn.”

“Merim Her,” Davoka muttered in derision. “People are named. Horses used and eaten.”

They rode south at midday, Brother Sollis scouting ahead with his brothers, the knights and retainers following in a tight column. At the baron’s order, every man was armoured and ready for battle. The peasant rebels followed behind on foot, mostly hardy-looking men with little armour but a rich variety of weapons. There was a grim uniformity to their expression that Frentis knew well, the faces of the wronged and the angry. From the stories Ivern had told him of the brother’s journey from the Pass it was clear that, shorn of the Crown’s authority, Darnel had lost little time in settling long-nurtured grievances, much of his ire falling on the common folk who worked the lands of his enemies. Frentis’s company, few of whom could be called expert riders, made up the rear-guard, strung out in a loose formation many had difficulty maintaining for long.

“I… fucking… hate… horses!” Draker huffed as he bounced along on the back of the russet-coated stallion Rensial had chosen for him.

“It’s easy!” Illian told him, spurring on ahead, moving in the saddle with accustomed ease. “Just raise yourself up a little at the right moment.”

She laughed as Draker made a less-than-perfect attempt to comply, thumping himself onto the saddle with a hard grunt. “Oh, my unborn children.”

Next to Frentis and Master Rensial, Arendil and Illian were easily his best riders. He sent Arendil west and Illian east with instructions to scout the flanks and strict orders to return on seeing any sign of friend or foe. Lady Ulice had betrayed a clear unhappiness at sending Arendil out of her sight once again but confined her objections to a stern scowl. She had joined them as they were forming up, offering few words beyond a statement that she would be travelling with her son by order of the baron, though she did seem heartened by the presence of Davoka.

“I know I owe you his life,” she told the Lonak woman. “Whatever you require by way of thanks…”

“Arendil is Gorin to me,” Davoka told her shortly, adding when the lady frowned in incomprehension, “Clan.” Davoka held her arm out and swept it around their company, from Frentis to Thirty-Four and Draker still wincing with every jolt of his saddle. “My clan. Burnt Forest Clan.” She barked a laugh. “Now yours.”

“You could go home now,” Ulice told her. “The north is clear all the way to the mountains.”

Davoka’s expression darkened as if she had been insulted, but softened when she saw the woman’s honest curiosity. “Queen is not found,” Davoka said. “No home for me until she is.”

They entered the rougher hill country by late evening, Banders acceding to Sollis’s choice of campsite; the north-facing slope of a promontory offering clear views in all directions and shielded on the southern side by a deep ravine. Fires were permitted now, Banders knowing full well further attempts at concealing such a large force would be redundant this far into Asraelin territory.

Frentis’s company were given the eastern flank to guard and he posted pickets in a tight line, pairs of fighters standing three-hour shifts. Illian returned as he was touring the perimeter. “You stayed out too long,” he told her. “Arendil got in an hour ago. Be back before nightfall in future.”

“Sorry, brother,” she replied, avoiding his gaze and he realised her embarrassment from this morning still lingered.

“Anything to report?” he asked in a less severe tone.

“Not another soul for miles around,” she replied, brightening a little. “Except for a wolf ten miles back. I’ve never seen one so big, I must say. Nor so bold, just sat there looking at me for what seemed an age.”

Probably smelling the blood to come, Frentis thought. “Good. Get some rest, my lady.”

He completed his tour of the pickets, finding the remaining fighters in a resilient mood. Now the terrors of their flight from the forest were over they were as combative as ever, many voicing an eagerness to get to Varinshold.

“The scales haven’t shifted yet, brother,” former City Guard Corporal Vinten told him, the slightly wild gleam in his eye provoking memories of Janril Norin. “Far too much blood weighing on our side. We’ll balance them at Varinshold or die trying.”

He returned to the main camp, sharing a meal with those still awake. Thirty-Four had taken on much of the cooking duties these days, producing a tasty stew of freshly caught partridge and wild mushrooms that put Arendil’s amateur efforts to shame.

“They teached you cooking as well as torturin’, then?” Draker asked him between mouthfuls, the grease beading his beard as he chewed.

“My last master’s cook-slave fell ill during the voyage here,” Thirty-Four replied in his now eerily accentless Realm Tongue. “He was required to teach me his skills before he died. I have always been able to learn quickly.”

Lady Ulice accepted a bowl of stew from the former slave, her expression cautious. “Torturing?” she asked.

“I was a numbered slave,” Thirty-Four replied in his precise, uncoloured tones. “A specialist. Schooled in the arts of torture from childhood.” He continued to ladle out the stew as the lady stared at him, her gaze slowly tracking across the faces around the fire. Frentis knew she was seeing them truly for the first time, the brutality that had shaped them now plain in the hard set of Draker’s eyes, Illian’s frowning concentration as she tightened the string on her crossbow, and the preoccupied cast in Arendil’s eyes as he stared into the fire, spooning stew into his mouth with automatic and unconscious regularity.

“It was a hard road, my lady,” Frentis told her. “Hard choices had to be made.”

She looked at her son, reaching over to smooth the hair back from his forehead, drawing a tired smile. “I’m not a lady,” she said. “If we are to be clan-mates, you should know that. I am the unacknowledged bastard daughter to Baron Banders, nothing more. My name is just Ulice.”

“No,” Arendil stated, casting a hard glare around the fire. “My mother’s name is Lady Ulice, and any calling her by a different name will answer to me.”

“Quite so, my lord,” Frentis told him. “Quite so.”

He busied himself with cleaning his weapons, long after the others had taken to their tents, the familiar drone of Draker’s snores drifting across the camp. When his sword and knife were gleaming, he cleaned his boots, then his saddle, then unstrung his bow and checked the stave for cracks. After that he sat and sharpened every arrowhead in his quiver. I do not need to sleep, he told himself continually though his hands were beginning to tingle with exhaustion and his head constantly slumped unbidden to his chest.

Just dreams. He tried to force conviction into the thought, casting a reluctant gaze at his tent. Just the stain of her company, the stink of her in my mind. Just dreams. She does not see me. He finally surrendered when his fatigued hands left him with a bleeding thumb, returning the arrows to his quiver and walking to the tent on weak legs. Just dreams.

She stands atop a tall tower, Volar spread out beneath her in all its ancient glory, street after street of tenements, marble mansions, gardens of wondrous construction and myriad towers rising from every quarter, though none so tall as this one: the Council Tower.

She raises her gaze to the sky seeking a target. The day is clear, the sky mostly unbroken blue, but she spies a small cloud some miles above, thin and wispy but sufficient for her purposes. She searches inside herself for the gift, finding she has to suppress her song to call it forth, but when it does the power of it staggers her, making her reach for the parapet as she sways. She feels a familiar trickle from her nose and understands the price for this one will be harder to bear even than the wonderful fire she stole from Revek, his words returning now with precise irony: Always the way with stolen gifts, don’t you find?

What did he know? she thinks, though the scorn is forced and hollow. He knew enough not to be blinded by love.

She forces unwelcome thoughts from her head and focuses on the cloud, the gift surging, more blood flowing from her nose as she releases it, the small cloud swirling into a tight vortex before flying apart, tendrils fading in the clear blue sky.

“Impressive.”

She turns to see a tall man in a red robe emerge from the stairway onto the tower roof. Two Kuritai follow him into the light, hands resting on their swords. She has yet to test the skill offered by this new shell and has to resist the urge to do so now. Hide an advantage and you double its value. One of her father’s axioms, though she suspects he may have stolen it from a long dead philosopher.

“Arklev,” she greets the tall man as he moves to her side. She can see a change in him, a new weariness around his eyes, an expression she knows well. He grieves.

“The Messenger did not linger,” he tells her. “Save to say that the Ally’s guidance will now be spoken only by you.”

The Ally’s guidance… As if he could comprehend the true meaning of those words, what it means to a soul in the Void to hear the Ally’s voice. She almost laughs at the ignorance of this ancient little man. Centuries of life and still he knows nothing.

He is staring at her in expectation, a faint concern on his brow, and she realises it has been several moments since he spoke. How long had she been standing here? How long since she climbed the tower?

She breathes deeply and allows the confusion to fade. “You’re grieving,” she tells him. “Who did you lose?”

He draws back a little, concern deepening into fear, no doubt wondering how much she already knew. She was learning the appearance of omniscience could offer as much power as omniscience itself.

“My son,” Arklev says. “His vessel never reached Varinshold. The scryers can no longer find a trace of him in times to come.”

She nods and waits for him to say more but the Council-man fixes a mask on his face and stays silent. “The Ally wishes you to elevate me to Council,” she tells him. “The Slaver’s Seat.”

“That is Council-man Lorvek’s seat,” he protests. “One he has discharged with care and diligence for near a century.”

“Lining his pockets and failing to breed enough Gifted in the process. The Ally feels his guidance has not been fully appreciated. And with our new assets coming to maturity, he feels I would offer a more trustworthy overseer for this very particular enterprise. If Lorvek won’t step down, I’m sure ample evidence of corruption will be found to justify a charge of treason. Unless you prefer a quieter method.”

He says more but she doesn’t hear him, feeling time slip away once more. How long has she stood here? When the confusion fades she is alone again and the sky is a darker shade of blue. She turns her sight to the west, tracking the broad estuary to the coast and the ocean beyond. Please hurry to me, beloved. I am so very lonely.

CHAPTER FOUR Reva

She had seen enough corpses to know the dead rarely retained expression. The rictus smiles and fear-filled grimaces merely the tightening of sinew and muscle as the body’s humours drained away. So it was a surprise to find the priest’s face such a picture of serenity; but for the deep narrow cut in his throat he could easily have been mistaken for a slumbering man, his features betraying a soul content with the world.

Content, she thought, moving back from the corpse to rest on her haunches. How fitting he should only find peace in death.

“This is him?” Vaelin asked.

She nodded and rose as Alornis came to her side, touching her hand in reassurance. Vaelin held up his sister’s sketch, eyes switching from the priest’s face to the rendering on the parchment. “What a talent you have,” he told her with a smile before turning to the hulking man standing near the tent wall. “And you¸ Master Marken. Quite the eye for detail.”

Marken’s beard constricted with a brief smile and Reva noted how tightly his hands were gripped together, and his staunch refusal even to look at the second corpse. It lay alongside the priest, the features more typical of Reva’s experience, the skin a pale blue, the lips drawn back and the tongue protruding from the bared teeth, part severed by his death rattle. However, as with the priest his features were sufficiently recognisable to match Alornis’s sketch.

“Uncle Sentes said his name was Lord Brahdor,” she told Vaelin. “Lady Veliss tells me he owned land a little east of here, good vines. More renowned for white than red.”

“That’s all?” Vaelin asked. “No suspicions? Tall tales of strange powers or unexplained events?”

“That’s all. Just a minor noble with a few hundred acres of grapes… and a barn.”

Vaelin looked expectantly at Marken. The big man gritted his teeth for a moment then pointed a thick finger at Lord Brahdor’s corpse, still refusing to look at it. “This one I’ll not touch, my lord. I can feel it, seeping out of him like poison. Forgive my cowardice. But…” He shook his shaggy head. “I can’t. I…”

“It’s all right, Marken,” Vaelin assured him, nodding at the priest. “And him?”

Marken huffed a relieved sigh and turned to crouch beside the priest, rolling up his sleeve and placing a meaty hand on the corpse’s forehead. After a moment he winced as if in pain, his mouth twisting in disgust as it seemed he was about to draw his hand away, but she saw him stiffen his resolve, closing his eyes and maintaining a statuelike stillness for several minutes. Eventually he exhaled a long slow breath, sweat shining through the mass of hair that hung over his heavy brow. He rose, his gaze resting on Reva, warm with sympathy and sorrow. “My lady…” he began.

“I know,” she told him. “I was there. Master Marken, please tell Lord Al Sorna all you saw.”

“His early years are confused,” Marken said to Vaelin. “It appears he was raised in the Church of the World Father. There are no images of his parents so I judge him an orphan, apprenticed to a priest, a common fate for Cumbraelin orphans I believe. The priest who raised him was kind, a former soldier in the Lord’s guard, called to the church in later life, keen for his charges to acquire both his martial abilities and the fierceness of his devotion. The boy spent long years steeped both in study of the Ten Books and training for war. In manhood he endured long years of shame when he looked at women. The younger the woman, the greater the shame, and the more he looked. I sensed a compulsion to hide in the Ten Books, to find refuge from his desires in the church’s teachings.

“Alltor and the cathedral loom large in his memory and I believe he was sent there in preparation for priesthood. I saw him meet the Reader and receive his priestly name. They never met in public and I sensed the priest had been chosen for a secret role. I saw a journey away from Alltor halting when he finds a man with a scar, here.” Marken paused to touch his cheek. “The man is speaking before a large crowd and the young priest burns with new passion on hearing his voice. He returns to the Reader and is sent forth again. Then there are many months of meetings in dark rooms and secluded hollows, men clustering together and fearful of discovery as they pass letters and gather weapons in hidden caches. He never sees the scarred man again but the memory comes to him often. Then at another hidden meeting he finds this thing.” Marken nodded at the second body, grimacing as his gaze touched Brahdor’s dead face. “It talks, the words are lost to me as you know, my lord. But they make his passion burn even brighter. The thing leads him to a farmhouse at night, inside an old couple sit before a fire fussing over a little girl.” He looked again at Reva and swallows. “The priest’s shame is deeper than ever when he looks at her.”

“They killed my grandparents, didn’t they?” Reva asked. “They killed them and they stole me.”

He nodded. “They waited until you had been put to bed. The old couple were killed, the girl stolen from her bed, the farmhouse burned.”

“And then many happy years in a barn,” Reva muttered as Marken fumbled for the right words to say.

“Any names?” Vaelin asked the Gifted.

“A few, my lord. The priest would write them down to memorise. He would burn the paper but the memories remain.”

“Make a list and give it to Lady Reva.”

She moved back to the priest’s corpse, feeling a great temptation to smash her boot into his contented face, spoil his slumber forever. “Reva,” Alornis said, tugging at her sleeve. “There’s nothing more to learn here.”

“I…” Marken stammered. “I do have his name, my lady. The Reader wrote it down when he gave it to him.”

“No,” she said, turning to walk to the tent flap. “Burn it if you’re done,” she told Vaelin. “No words are to be spoken for him.”

“My lord,” Marken continued as they made to the leave. “If I may. About Brother Caenis…”

“I’m aware of the matter, Master Marken,” Vaelin told him.

“We didn’t follow you here to become servants of the Faith…”

“We’ll discuss it tonight,” Vaelin told him in a level voice. “With Lord Nortah. Your concerns are fully noted.”

They walked in silence back to the causeway, Reva preoccupied with the Gifted’s tale, Vaelin no doubt pondering Brother Caenis’s revelation to the queen. Alornis followed at a discreet distance, eyes scanning the city walls and her ever-present leather-bound bundle of sketches clutched to her chest, already filling up with renderings of the destruction behind the walls. She had cried the day she found Reva standing amidst the corpse-littered streets. Upon seeing her, Alornis had thrown her arms around Reva, convulsing with relief, provoking an old ache that Reva found didn’t pain her in quite the same way.

“The Seventh Order,” she said to Vaelin as they halted before the causeway. “Not a legend after all. But, I suppose you’ve known that a while.”

“Yes.” His face was sombre, not quite so fatigued as it had been recently, but still he seemed to have aged much in a few days. “Though there was something I should have known, but didn’t.”

“Brother Caenis?”

He nodded and changed the subject. “What will you do with the names Marken gives you?”

“Hunt them down and subject them to trial. If they are proved to be Sons, I’ll hang them.”

“My Lady Governess favours harsh justice.”

“They plotted the death of my uncle, with the full contrivance of the church that has compelled the people of this fief to servile respect for centuries. They conspired with foul creatures of the Dark to subject me to a lifetime of abuse before sending me after you in the hope I would die. And let’s not forget their attempt to kill our queen. Must I go on?”

He studied her face for a moment and she felt the harshness of her expression soften under the scrutiny. “I’m sorry for everything that happened to you here, Reva. If I had had any inkling…”

“I know.” She forced a smile. “Join us tonight. Veliss found a new cook, though we can offer only two courses, and no wine.”

“I can’t. There is much to do.” He glanced back at the camp where soldiers were busy packing gear and supplies in preparation for tomorrow’s march and the commencement of what was fast becoming known as the Queen’s Crusade.

“She wanted me to ask,” he said, turning back, “how many men you will send with us.”

“I’ll not be sending any. I’ll be leading them, the full House Guard plus five hundred archers.”

“Reva, you have done enough…”

Arken’s slack, lifeless face, the sword in his back… The archers flailing in the river as the arrows lashed down… Uncle Sentes dying on the cathedral steps… “No,” she said. “No I haven’t.”

Veliss came to her somewhere past midnight. They had reverted to keeping separate rooms in the aftermath of the siege, more at the Lady Counsellor’s insistence than hers. Their numerous indiscretions might have been overlooked in the storm of daily battle, but the city had begun to resume a strange normality now the corpses and the worst of the rubble had been cleared away, and the cathedral reopened.

“Are you sure you want to meet them alone?” Veliss asked. They lay side by side, covered in a faint sheen of sweat, Reva enjoying the feel of the Lady Counsellor’s unbound hair clinging to her skin.

“They need to know I speak with my own mind,” she replied. “Given what I have to tell them.”

“They won’t like it…”

“I should hope so.” She pulled Veliss closer, pressing a kiss to her lips to forestall further discussion.

“Lady Alornis,” Veliss said, a while later. “You care for her.”

“She is a friend to me, like her brother.”

“No more than that?”

“Jealous, Honoured Counsellor?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to see me jealous.” She raised herself up, hugging her knees. “I was always going to leave, you know. When the war was done, if your uncle had lived. Take the gold he offered and go. Never cared about all the names they called me, or the Reader’s sneering condescension. But I was getting tired of it all, the lies and the intrigue. Even for a former spy, it can grow wearisome.”

Reva reached out to stroke her naked back. “And now?”

“Now I can’t imagine being anywhere else.” Reva felt her tense in anticipation of her next words. “The Queen’s Crusade…”

“Is my crusade. And not a topic for discussion.”

“Do you think she would be so welcoming if she knew your true nature? If she knew about us?”

“Unless it proved an impediment to liberating this Realm, I doubt she would care one whit.” She recalled her first meeting with the queen, the fierce intelligence shining through the seared mask of her face, and the implacable determination, the singularity of purpose Reva recognised from infrequent youthful glances at her own reflection. But I was sent in search of a myth, she thought. Her quarry is all too real, and I doubt she’ll be satisfied with however many we find at Varinshold. “In truth,” she confessed to Veliss, “that woman scares me more than the Volarians ever did.”

“Then why follow her?”

“Because he does. He tells me this is necessary. I once failed to heed his words, I’ll not make the same mistake again.”

“He’s just a man,” Veliss murmured, although Reva could hear the uncertainty in her voice. The tale was on every set of lips, Cumbraelins as enraptured by it as all the others, flying far and wide with every telling. One man, cutting his way through an army to save a city, and living to tell the tale.

Living? Reva remembered how his features had sagged that day, her tears and the pounding rain washing the blood away as she screamed at him to stay with her. But he hadn’t, she had seen it plainly. For those few seconds, he had not been in his body.

“I’ll need you to take care of things while I’m gone,” she said. “Rebuild as best you can. I’ll leave Lord Arentes here as surety of my word, though no doubt he’ll hate me for it. How about a new title? Vice-Governess, maybe? I’m sure you can come up with something better.”

Veliss hugged her legs tighter. “I don’t want titles, I just want you.”

Lords Arentes and Antesh preceded her into the cathedral, striding through the cavernous interior towards the Reader’s chambers as she followed with twenty of the House Guard at her back. The two priests standing guard at the chamber door were subdued without particular difficulty, Lord Arentes thrusting the doors open and standing aside to allow her entry. Reva paused at the sight of the priest held to the wall by Lord Antesh, a sallow-faced man with a heavily bandaged hand and misshapen nose.

“I never learned your name,” she said.

The priest scowled and said nothing until Antesh gave him a none-too-gentle shake. “My name is for the Father alone.”

“And I believe he wants you to share it.” She beckoned two guards forward. “Take this one to Lady Veliss. Tell her I think he would benefit from some herbal medicine.”

She turned back to the open door as they hustled the priest away, entering at a sedate pace and offering a brisk greeting to the seven old men she found seated at a circular table. “Good bishops!” There were supposed to be ten but three had perished in the siege, not, she suspected, by virtue of any courageous act.

One of the bishops struggled to his feet as she walked to the only empty chair at the table, a wizened and bird-like man she recalled had objected when she gave the cathedral over to the care of the wounded. “This is the holy conclave of the ten bishops,” he sputtered. “You are not permitted…”

He fell silent as Lord Arentes brought a gauntleted fist down hard on the table. “The correct form of address for the Lady Governess,” he told the quailing cleric, “is ‘my lady.’ And no door in this city is barred to her.”

Reva paused at the empty chair, naturally the most ornate in the room with an ample cushion for the old bastard’s bony behind. She sighed and pushed it out of her way. Can’t kill him twice, more’s the pity.

“Now, now, my Lord Commander,” she told Arentes. “We should respect the good bishops’ privacy. Leave us, for we have much to discuss.”

They sat in dumb silence as the doors closed with an echoing boom. She waited for it to fade before speaking, all vestige of respect stripped from her tone. “So, have you chosen?”

Only one spoke up, a slight man with a prominent nose, a little younger than his colleagues. “We had not yet counted the ballots, my lady.” He indicated a plain wooden box in the centre of the table.

“Then do so now.”

Reva studied him closely as he reached for the box, finding she remembered his face from the day the Reader died, one who smiled when she charged the old man. A possible ally? She steeled her thoughts against the suggestion; Marken’s revelations left no room for accommodation. I have no friends in this room.

“The Bishop of the Southern Parish,” the thin bishop reported after counting the ballots. “By unanimous assent.”

Reva scanned the faces around the table, finding six scared old men and one sleeping ancient who hadn’t raised his head since her entry. “Who is?” she enquired.

The thin bishop cleared his throat in discomfort. “I am, my lady.”

She gave a short laugh and turned her back on him, her gaze drawn to a candlelit alcove at the rear of the chamber where ten large tomes sat on lecterns. The books were ancient, the bindings flaking and cracked with age. The first to be bound in the land of Cumbrael, she knew, finding it odd that she felt no upswelling of awe at the sight. Just a collection of old books in a room of old men.

“I have in my possession,” she said, turning back to the table, “what I believe to be a complete list of adherents to the heretical sect known as the Sons of the Trueblade. In due course each and every name on this list will be captured and put to the question. I am sure you will join me in rejoicing at this news, given the wealth of intelligence they are sure to provide.”

She scanned each face in turn, finding confusion on most, but fear on others. They knew, she realised. Not all, but some. She saw how the Bishop of the Southern Parish avoided her gaze, a few beads of sweat forming on his wrinkled brow. Him in particular. She was right; there were no allies here.

She walked slowly around the table, watching each stooped back flinch as she passed by. She wore no weapons today, having returned her grandfather’s sword to its place in the library, but had little doubt she could snap every neck in this room should she choose. She halted behind the chair occupied by the Reader-elect and pointed at the ballots neatly piled at his side. “Give me those.” His spotted, bony hands trembled as he complied, dropping the ballots and scrambling to retrieve them before managing to fumble them into her palm.

“‘Deception is both sin and blessing,’” she quoted as she took the ballots from him, the Fifth Book, the Book of Reason, fast becoming her favourite. She turned and walked slowly back to the alcove, ballots in hand. “‘The paths set for us by the Father are many and their course is ever winding. At every turn the Loved find themselves presented with a plethora of choices as their paths fork, split by war or famine, love and betrayal. To walk the varied paths of life without deception is impossible.’” She stopped before the alcove, holding the ballots to one of the candles, letting the flame consume half their length before tossing them onto the stone floor where they continued to burn, soon no more than a swirl of black cinders.

“‘But,’” she told the bishops with a smile, now staring in outrage or horror, “‘the Father forgives the lie spoken in kindness, or service to a greater purpose.’”

She stood, the smile fading from her lips, waiting for a single voice to be raised in dissent. But they all just sat and stared, stoking her anger with their dumb inaction. This venal church collaborated with murderers, she knew. Allied themselves with the servants of an enemy that brought slaughter and slavery to this land. The people of this city would hang you all from the towers of this cathedral if I wished it. I won their love, whilst you cowered here and prayed for miracles that never came. With sword and bow I won their love.

One word to Arentes and it would be done, the bishops dragged outside, charges read as the people looked on and she fired their rage with a few well-chosen truths. They were all killers now, save the children and even they were hardened to the sight of death. There would be no protest, no hand raised to stop her, and she would have what the priest once made her lust for, a new church to be moulded into her father’s vision.

My mad father’s vision. The thought dispelled her anger, replacing it with a weary realisation. They had lost so much, but the church had endured for centuries and this land would not heal if she ripped open yet more wounds.

The sleeping ancient stirred, snuffling awake with a bleary-eyed glance around the room. “Lunch!” he demanded, thumping his walking stick on the table.

Reva moved to the ancient, smiling down at his reproving scowl. “And who might you be, good bishop?”

“I,” he began, drawing himself up, “am the Holy Bishop of…” He frowned in confusion, his shoulders slumping a little, licking his lips. “The Bishop of…”

“The Riverland Parish,” the bishop at his side supplied in a tense whisper.

“Yes!” The ancient bishop brightened, fixing Reva with an imperious glare. “I am the Bishop of the Riverland Parish and I demand my lunch.”

“You shall have it,” Reva assured him with a bow. “And more besides.” She moved to the door, pausing to cast an expansive gesture at the other bishops. “For your colleagues have voted you Holy Reader to the Church of the World Father. Please accept my heartfelt congratulations, Reader, and be assured of House Mustor’s most pious loyalty. I await your first sermon with the keenest interest.”

The sword room was mostly bare now, the once-full racks empty of blades save a few too highly set on the wall to be easily reached. She spent an hour in practice with her grandfather’s sword, dancing her dance with the heavy blade whirling and slicing, her muscles straining.

“I could watch you do that for hours.”

Reva stopped in mid-pirouette, finding Alornis standing in the doorway, charcoal-stained fingers still clutching her leather case. “I doubt you’d have liked the view a few days ago,” Reva said, massaging her back.

Alornis’s gaze became sombre. “It was bad, I know. So much of the city destroyed. On the march here I saw things… Things I felt I had to draw.” She tapped her case. “I thought putting them on paper might get them out of my head. But still they linger.”

The severed heads raining down… The Volarian’s defiant glare as he was led to the block… “They should,” Reva told her. “Will you be coming to Varinshold? There are rooms aplenty here if you wish to stay. And I’m sure Lady Veliss would like the company.”

Alornis smiled but shook her head. “Alucius and Master Benril. I have to find them.” She hesitated then came into the room, eyes widening in appreciation at the paintings on the upper walls, the swordsmen in their various poses. “This was done by a skilled hand.”

“At the cost of my great-grandfather’s coin, no doubt. He seems to have been a little too free with it, according to Veliss’s records. Perhaps why he lost so many wars to the Asraelins. I find governing a fief to be mostly a matter of coin.”

Alornis’s brow creased as she looked at Reva, shaking her head in faint wonder. “So changed in such a short time.”

Reva found her scrutiny hard to bear and turned away, hefting the sword. “You,” she told it, “are just too heavy.”

“What happened to your old one?” Alornis asked. “That was a thing of beauty.”

Standing over Arken’s body, her arm moving in a ceaseless, deadly arc, the rage spilling from her lips in a meaningless torrent… “I broke it.” She raised her gaze to the few remaining blades on the higher racks, picking out an Asraelin sword somehow missed by the servants sent to ransack the place for arms. “You can help me find another.”

She cupped her hands to create a stirrup and Alornis placed a foot in it, reaching up as Reva hoisted her, snatching the sword from the rack before slipping from her grip and falling. Reva caught her, holding her tight as she laughed, drawing back to meet her gaze.

“My brother says Lady Veliss was once a spy in King Janus’s service,” Alornis told her.

“I know. She has been many things.”

“Well, I think she’s lovely.” She stood on tiptoe to press a kiss to Reva’s forehead. “I’m happy for you.”

She turned, retrieved her case of sketches and left. Reva closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of the kiss fade from her skin. Her gaze was always far too keen. Foolish to imagine she wouldn’t know.

She hefted the sword, drawing the blade free of the scabbard, finding it old but not rusted, the edge notched but not so bad it couldn’t be sharpened keen. “So,” she said, putting the scabbard aside and assuming a fighting stance. “Let’s see if you’re a better fit. We have much work to do.”

CHAPTER FIVE Lyrna

The horse was a gift from the Eorhil, fourteen hands at the shoulder and white from nose to tail save for a tuft of black hair between her ears. Lyrna had found the Eorhil woman they called Wisdom waiting with the horse when she emerged from her tent that morning. She proffered the reins with a surprisingly well-executed formal bow.

“She has a name?” Lyrna asked her.

“It translates as ‘An Unseen Arrow as She Runs through Snow and Wind,’ Highness,” Wisdom replied in her perfect Realm Tongue. “My people are not known for their brevity.”

“Arrow it is,” Lyrna said, scratching the mare’s nose and drawing forth a faint snort.

“She misses her rider,” Wisdom said. “He fell before the city. I feel you may be able to mend her heart.”

“My thanks.” Lyrna returned her bow. “Will you ride with me today? I greatly wish to know more of your people.”

There was a somewhat sardonic lilt to the woman’s voice as she replied, “Have you not already read every book in your library concerning the Eorhil, Highness?”

“I am increasingly aware that the sagacity of books is limited in comparison to experience.”

“As you wish.” Wisdom turned and vaulted onto the back of her own horse, looking down at Lyrna in expectation. “My people ride now.”

Iltis and Benten were obliged to scramble onto their own horses as Lyrna mounted up and trotted off with Wisdom. They rode to the eastern edge of the camp where the Eorhil host was already in motion, the various war bands galloping off seemingly at random. No neatly ordered ranks and columns here, although every rider seemed to move with a purpose and she noticed how the host took on a definite if loose formation as they crested the eastern hills and entered the low-lying fields beyond.

“Good country for horses,” Lyrna commented to Wisdom an hour or so shy of midday. The ride had been hard but not exhausting, her journey through the Lonak Dominion having left her well adapted to long hours in the saddle. Plus she found her new mount something of a delight, faster than poor old Sable and less fractious than Surefoot.

“Still too many hills for my people’s liking,” Wisdom replied, taking a long pull from her waterskin. “And not an elk to be had since we came here. Some of the young ones are chafing at it, for true adulthood only comes when you take your first elk.”

Lyrna looked at the riders around them, noting how their eyes strayed constantly to her face but displayed none of the awe shown by the Realm folk. If anything she detected a discomfort in finding themselves in such proximity.

“You call it the Dark,” Wisdom said, somehow sensing the question she was about to ask. “We call it simply Exilla, ‘power’ in your tongue.”

“Not one I possess,” Lyrna pointed out.

“It doesn’t matter. We know of it but few of us are visited with such gifts.”

“Those that are find themselves shunned, I assume.”

Wisdom voiced a faint laugh. “Do not judge us by the standards of your people, Highness. Those with gifts are not shunned, but they are respected. The greater the power, the greater the respect, and respect can grow into fear if the power is great enough. As yet, there is not a story or a song in our history that tells of a power greater than that used to heal you. They worry what it might mean.”

“Do you?”

Wisdom’s age-cracked lips formed into a smile, small but rich in sympathy. “No, great and terrible queen, I know full well what it means.”

Sanesh Poltar came trotting up on his tall piebald stallion, offering Lyrna a cautious nod. “Scouts say many men to the south,” the war chief told Wisdom. “The queen stays here while we go look.”

“I think not,” Lyrna said, fixing the Eorhil with a bright smile.

“Tower Lord says to keep you safe above all others,” Sanesh Poltar replied. “And we are bound to him, not you.”

“And I am bound to neither.” She tugged on Arrow’s reins, pointing her nose southward and kicking her into a gallop.

The Eorhil soon overtook her, of course, though she was gratified by the hard glare Sanesh Poltar shot at her as he galloped past. Iltis and Benten closed in on either side as they trailed in the riders’ wake, Lyrna finding herself blinking away dust as the sun rose to dry the earth. They crested a low rise a half hour later, reining to a halt beside the war chief as he surveyed the shallow vale beyond. To the east and west his outriders galloped forth in a perfectly coordinated envelopment whilst the bulk of his riders stayed put on the low ridge. She noted most had notched an arrow to their horn bows.

Sanesh Poltar sat in silence, scanning the vale with a hawkish intent. Lyrna followed his gaze, seeing nothing beyond empty country. “How many men were seen?” she asked the war chief.

“Less than were at the city,” he replied without turning. “More than we have.”

Another Volarian force sent by Tokrev to raid the south? she wondered. Master Marken had searched through the dead general’s mind revealing what he described as a swamp of vain ambition and petty jealousy but no inkling of another large force nearby. Could they have landed early? she wondered. Tokrev sending for the second wave to speed the conquest.

Sanesh Poltar straightened in his saddle and pointed. It was another few seconds before Lyrna saw them, a small band of cavalry galloping into the vale then drawing up short at the sight of so many horsemen on the skyline ahead. They fanned out, still too distant to make out any details, one of their number galloping off to disappear over the lip of the valley. Next to Lyrna, Wisdom unhooked her bow from the saddle and notched an arrow. Old as she is, Lyrna thought, and she’s still expected to fight.

The horsemen in the valley sat waiting for several minutes, Lyrna thinking it odd that none had yet drawn a sword. Sanesh Poltar’s gaze shifted once more as a tall banner appeared over the rim of the valley, bobbing at the head of a column of infantry led by a man on horseback. They marched into the valley in close ranks, making no move to assume battle formation, Lyrna realising why as the motif on the banner became clear: a tower rising from a wave-tossed ocean.

She laughed and kicked Arrow forward, ignoring Iltis’s appalled protest as he galloped along behind. The marching column came to a halt as she approached, sergeants barking commands unheeded by men who stared at her in open wonder. She made for the rider at the head of the column, raising a hand and smiling warmly. He climbed down from his saddle, not without some difficulty, and slowly lowered himself to one knee.

“What a welcome sight you make, my lord!” Lyrna told him.

Tower Lord Al Bera looked up at her with a pale but intent expression, raising himself with effort as she leapt down from her saddle, coming to him with hands outstretched. “Highness,” he said, his voice hoarse and back stiff as he lowered his lips to her hands, eyes hardly leaving her face as he straightened. “We heard so many terrible stories. I’m greatly pleased to find one at least to be false.” He turned, raising an arm towards the men at his back as more came marching into sight. “I present the Army of the Southern Shore. Twenty thousand horse and foot ready to march and die at the Queen’s Word.”

“They sent about five thousand men into the southern counties,” the Tower Lord reported to the council of captains that evening. Lyrna had been obliged to order him to sit as the man’s exhaustion and evident pain threatened to tip him over at any moment. He sat on a camp-stool, both arms cradled in his lap, the left heavily bandaged and the right hanging loose from a drooping shoulder. Lyrna had offered to take him to Weaver but the Tower Lord’s shocked expression was enough for her to let the matter drop.

“The slave soldiers mostly,” Al Bera went on. Lyrna knew this to be a man promoted through merit rather than blood and his voice held the broad vowels singular to the common folk of southern Asrael. “Plus about a thousand cavalry. And slavers, of course. Laid waste to several villages before word reached the Tower. I marched out with the South Guard and what men I could levy from the coast, caught them as they were finishing up a slaughter at Draver’s Wharf on the lower reaches of the Cold Iron. Had a sense they were expecting a less speedy response. Unsurprising, since I should be dead by rights.” Al Bera paused to give a wan smile. “Made ’em pay for it. The numbers were about even so it was a bloody business, but we made ’em pay.”

“Prisoners?” Vaelin asked.

“The slave soldiers don’t surrender, but we took a few cavalry and slavers. I gave them to the people we freed. Probably should’ve just hung them, but blood pays for blood.”

“Quite so, my lord,” Lyrna told him. “Please continue.”

“Been gathering men and training ’em best I could since then. Word came two weeks ago telling of the Meldenean fleet sailing up the Cold Iron so I judged it time to move north.”

“You judged correctly,” Lyrna said. “However, you find us short of supplies.”

“Supplies I’ve got, Highness. My lady wife has family connections on both sides of the Erinean. Seems some Alpiran merchants were willing to trade with us. The terms were hardly favourable and the South Tower treasury stands just about empty, but since the Emperor lifted the embargo I s’pose they couldn’t pass up a chance at profit.”

Lyrna saw Lord Verniers raise his head at that. He was a deliberately obscure presence in the army, keen to avoid conversation with any save herself and Vaelin, though she made it plain he was welcome at all meetings and free to record all words spoken. The Shield had made something of a fuss of him in the aftermath of the battle, proclaiming him “The scribe who killed a general!” with a hearty laugh echoed by his crew. Verniers, however, seemed to shun any rewards his heroism might offer, though he had persisted in requests for a private interview.

“Your Emperor seems better disposed to our Realm, my lord,” she told him.

The chronicler squirmed a little as the captains turned to regard him, voicing only a short response. “So it seems, Highness.”

“Do you think he knows of the Volarians’ great scheme? Could that be the reason for this change of heart?”

“The Emperor’s mind is never easily gauged, Highness. But anything that might injure the Volarian Empire is likely to please him greatly. They have been our enemy far longer than yours.”

“We should send an ambassador,” Vaelin said. “Forge an alliance, if possible.”

“All in good time, my lord,” Lyrna said, turning again to Al Bera. “I’ll pen a letter for Lady Al Bera giving assurance that any debts incurred in purchasing more supplies will be settled in full at the close of hostilities, she is free to agree suitable terms of interest with any and all merchants. In the meantime, half her available supplies will be shipped to Alltor to succour the Cumbraelin people through the winter. The other half will come to us”—her finger traced across the map to a town on the Renfaelin coast—“at Warnsclave, where we rendezvous with our Meldenean allies in fifteen days. As for now, my lord, please get some rest.”

She spent the journey to Warnsclave travelling with a different contingent each day. One with Lady Reva’s Cumbraelins, the next with a regiment of miners from the Reaches, the third with the South Guard. Every face displayed either awe, fascination or, in the case of Lord Nortah’s Free Company, a fierce and unhesitant loyalty.

“The Departed have blessed you, my Queen!” one man called out to her as she drew up alongside Lord Nortah, the shout soon taken up by his fellow fighters.

“Silence in the ranks!” the company sergeant barked, an athletic young man with long hair and a sword strapped across his back in the manner of the Sixth Order.

“Apologies, Highness,” Lord Nortah offered as they set off. “They’re not easy to control at the best of times. And it’s not like I can flog any.”

“No, my lord,” Lyrna replied. “You certainly cannot.” She found it strange that they rode in silence for much of the morning; the boy she remembered as the son of her father’s First Minister had rarely been quiet, a braggart and sometimes a bully, quick to taunt and even quicker to cry when his taunts were returned. She saw none of that boy in the bearded warrior at her side, a small smile playing on his lips as he watched his great cat bounding alongside.

“I intended to offer you restoration of your father’s lands and titles,” she told him when the silence became trying. “However, Lord Vaelin advised you had no interest in such honours.”

“Never did my father much good, did they, Highness?” he replied, affably enough but with a slight edge to his tone.

“I was not privy to the King’s decision in that matter,” she said. “I believe it to have been… regrettable.”

“I harbour no bitterness, Highness. Time has dimmed my memory of a man I recall I loved almost as much as I hated. In any case, without his death I would not have been set on the course that led me to my wife, my children and the home I hunger for. And the Faith teaches us to accept the gifts brought by fate.”

“You still hold to the Faith?”

“I left the Order, Highness, not the Faith. My brother may have lost his in the desert somewhere but mine still lingers on. Though my wife longs for me to abandon it in favour of the sun and the moon.” He gave a soft laugh and she could hear his homesickness in it. “The only thing we ever quarrel about, in truth.”

They rested at midday, Lyrna climbing down from Arrow’s back and drawing up in alarm as a woman rushed from the ranks of the Free Company with a dagger in both hands. Iltis’s sword came free of its scabbard in a blur but, rather than launching herself at Lyrna, the woman sank to her knees, head bowed with her twin daggers raised high.

“My Queen!” she said in a tremulous gasp. “I beg you to bless these blades so they might do your work.”

The rest of the freed fighters immediately dropped to their knees, all drawing weapons and holding them aloft. This was clearly a ceremony planned on the march, one she judged Lord Nortah knew nothing of from his weary and slightly disgusted expression.

Never be afraid of a little theatre. Lyrna took a breath and placed a kindly smile on her lips as she moved to the kneeling woman, recognising her as the slight figure who had been first to take up the cry at Alltor. “What is your name?” she asked her.

“F-Furelah, my Queen,” the woman stammered, not looking up.

Lyrna gently took hold of the woman’s trembling hands. “Lower your blades, sister,” she told her. “Stand up, look at me.”

Furelah slowly looked up, eyes wide as they drank in the sight of her face, coming to her feet as Lyrna kept hold of her hands. “Who did you lose?” she asked her.

“M-my daughter,” the slight woman breathed, tears flowing from her eyes. “Born out of wedlock, shunned and called a bastard her whole life, but always so sweet. They d-dashed her brains out with a rock.” She sagged as the sobs took her, sinking to her knees. Lyrna pulled her close as she wept, her daggers still gripped tight.

“I cannot bless this woman’s blades,” she told the fighters, many now weeping openly. “For she blesses me. You all do. I am your blade, and you are mine.” She raised the still-sobbing Furelah to her feet, leading her back to the company’s ranks. “Accordingly I hereby name you as the Realm Guard’s Sixtieth Regiment of Foot, to be known hereafter as the Queen’s Daggers.” They parted before her as she released Furelah, the woman instantly falling to her knees once more, her comrades all reaching out to touch tentative hands to Lyrna’s gown as she moved among them, fierce devotion on every face. I cannot become drunk on this, she thought, smiling and touching her hands to heads lowered in supplication. The lure of it is too great.

“Toil, blood and justice!” the cry began unbidden, a spontaneous shout from a faceless voice in the kneeling ranks, repeated over and over as they stabbed the air with their assorted weapons. “Toil! Blood! And justice!”

Lyrna felt the seduction of it sweep through her, the power of it, the knowledge that these few hundred wounded souls would die for her in an instant. She was on the verge of surrendering to it completely when something gave her pause, a single face not stricken in adoration. Lord Nortah stood beside his horse, running a hand over the head of the great cat crouched at his side, his faint look of disgust now replaced with one of deep and obvious disapproval.

She met with Brother Caenis in the evening, alone since Vaelin seemed keen to avoid his former brother, an attitude shared by many in the army’s ranks. Even Orena, who struck Lyrna as a woman of great practicality, had begged leave for an early night rather than remain to greet the brother’s arrival. Fear of the Dark does not fade in an instant, Lyrna concluded.

The newly revealed brother of the Seventh Order sat at stiff attention on a camp-stool, refusing the offer of refreshment with a polite shake of his head. For all his evident hardiness and renown as a warrior there was a definite timidity to this compact, war-hardened man, a shift in his eyes as if wary of attack at any moment. So long living in the shadows, she thought. The light of day can be as frightening as the Dark.

“My brothers and sisters ask me to offer thanks, Highness,” he said. “For your consideration.”

“A queen has care for all her subjects, my lord.”

“If it please you, Highness. My preference is to be addressed as ‘brother.’ I am a man of the Faith in all things.”

“As you wish.” Lyrna reached for the scroll he had handed her on arrival, a complete list of his Order’s members and their various gifts. “You have a brother who can see the past?”

“Brother Lucin’s gift is limited, Highness. His vision confined only to whatever location he finds himself in.”

Lyrna nodded, frowning at the next description on the list. “And this Sister Merial can truly pull lightning from the air?”

“Not exactly, Highness. She can exude a power, an energy from her hands. In darkness or shadow it can seem like lightning. The gift is very draining, fatal if over-used.”

“Can she kill with it?”

He hesitated then gave a short nod.

“Then she and her gift are greatly welcome in this army.” Lyrna read through the rest of the list, glancing up at him with a raised eyebrow. “I find there is one name missing, brother.”

His discomfort visibly deepened but his gaze remained steady and his tone held no note of compromise. “My gift cannot be revealed, Highness. By strict order of my Aspect.”

She was tempted to remind him the Faith was subject to the Crown, but decided against it. There is too much of use in what he brings me. And this is not a good time for conflict with the Faith, especially when they continue to hide so much.

“I spent so many years in search of your kind,” she said, putting the list aside. “Even risking death in the mountains to seek evidence of your existence. And yet it seems all I had to do was await the tide of history and I would be deluged with more evidence than I could ever wish.”

Brother Caenis confined his reply to a cautious nod, his gaze averted as she continued, “It must have been difficult, living in concealment for so long. Lying to your brothers for years on end.”

“The Faith required it, Highness. I had no choice in the matter. But yes, it was a hard duty.”

“Lord Vaelin tells me you were the most loyal subject my father could ever wish for. That your enthusiasm for the desert war was great. So much so he thought your heart broken when it all came to naught.”

“Aspect Grealin was very precise in the role he wished me to play. My devotion to the Faith was so strong he felt it best masked as devotion to the King. But my brother was right, my enthusiasm for the war was true, inflamed by my Aspect who told me it was the key to securing the future of the Faith. For reasons of his own, he didn’t tell me how that security would be achieved, or my brother’s fate. I always thought Aspect Grealin’s reasoning to be infallible, he never steered me to the wrong course, he never made mistakes.”

“Have you heard from him, since the capital fell?”

“Sadly no, Highness.” Caenis lowered his head, his voice dulling with sorrow. “Brother Lernial has a facility for hearing the thoughts of those he has met, even over great distances. We know the Aspect had taken refuge in the Urlish with a band of free fighters, the details are vague since Lernial’s gift is limited. At Alltor he took a wound to the head, waking two days later with a great scream. I hoped his words no more than a symptom of a damaged mind, but he has healed much since and his gift tells him there are no more thoughts to be heard from Aspect Grealin.”

Seeing the brother’s evident grief, she reached out to clasp his hand. “My commiserations, brother.”

He stirred in discomfort, forcing a smile. Does he fear me? One of the names on his list apparently had some facility for peering into the future and she wondered what revelations Caenis might be privy to, recalling Lord Nortah’s grim visage and Wisdom’s words from the first day on the march. I know full well what it means.

“During Brother Harlick’s questioning,” she said, moving back. “The Volarian woman we took at Alltor spoke of an Ally. Lord Vaelin seems to think you may be able to elaborate on her meaning.”

“Brother Harlick has already told you all we know, Highness. It resides in the Beyond and plots our destruction. We know not why.”

“If it exists in the place beyond death, does not that suppose it was once alive? It was once a man, or a woman?”

“It does, Highness. But as yet no member of any Order has divined how it came to be what it is, nor what malign agency could have twisted it into such evil.”

“There must be records, ancient texts describing its origin.”

“The Third Order has spent centuries gathering the oldest words written by human hand, paying considerable sums for scraps of parchment or shards of clay. The Ally is there, but only ever as a shadow, unexplained catastrophe or murder committed at the behest of a dark and vengeful spirit. Sorting truth from myth is often a fruitless task.”

His words stirred her faultless memory, calling forth a line from Lord Verniers’ Cantos of Gold and Dust: Truth is the scholar’s greatest weapon, but often also his doom. She decided a private audience with the Alpiran chronicler was overdue.

“Am I to assume,” she said to Caenis, “that your Order now requires a new Aspect?”

“There are formalities to the choosing, as you know, Highness. Until such time as a conclave can be convened, my Order remains without an Aspect. However, my brothers and sisters have affirmed their willingness to accede to my leadership in the interim.” His gaze became steady again. “Which brings me to another matter.”

“The people from the Reaches.”

“Indeed, Highness. My Order has lost many brothers and sisters in this war. Our ranks grow thin.”

“And you would take these others into the Order, against their loud objections? Lord Vaelin has been very clear on their thoughts in this regard. They follow him, not you.”

“My Order is the shield of the Gifted. Without us they would all have perished generations ago.”

“And yet, you continued to hide yourselves for decades whilst they faced discovery and death at the hands of the Fourth Order.”

“A necessary subterfuge. Most of us are discovered at an early age, Gifted children born to Gifted parents and long-time members of the Order. Not all are so fortunate, or grow to be kind of heart or immune to greed. For all our power, we have human souls like any other. Before Aspect Tendris’s ascension those Gifted found by the Fourth Order would be judged to see if they were suitable for inclusion within our ranks. Whether they joined us or not was their choice.”

“Not, I assume, if they stood outside the Faith?”

“The Seventh Order is of the Faith, Highness. That cannot change.”

Do I have another Tendris here? she pondered, seeing the implacable belief in his gaze. She had often wondered why her father didn’t have the ever-troublesome Aspect of the Fourth Order quietly poisoned by one of his many hidden agents. But even the old schemer hadn’t been immune to the Faith, or ignorant of the power it wielded.

“This is a free Realm,” she told Caenis. “That also cannot change. You may speak to the Gifted from the Reaches and offer them a place in your Order. However, if they refuse, you will let the matter drop and I will not hear it raised again during my reign, which I expect to be of considerable duration. Unless your Sister”—she consulted the list again, for show since she had memorised the contents at the first glance—“Verlia scries a different future, of course.”

“My sister’s visions are… infrequent,” he replied. “And require considerable interpretation. When it comes to Your Highness, so far she sees little.”

“And what little does she see?”

He straightened, once more seemingly a warrior rather than an Aspect in waiting, face set in the knowledge of coming battle. “Fire,” he said. “She sees only fire.”

She travelled with the Seordah the next day, choosing to walk as they did. Lady Dahrena accompanied her to act as interpreter, a somewhat redundant role since few of the forest folk seemed inclined to speak to them, most in fact keen to avoid looking in their direction. She could see the lady’s grief at this, the way her smile faltered as the hawk-faced warriors looked away or grunted clipped responses to her approaches. In contrast, their attitude to Lyrna seemed more one of curious bafflement rather than fear.

“Healing touch very rare in the forest,” Hera Drakil told her, the only one of his people to stay at Dahrena’s side for more than a few steps, and even then she sensed a tense reluctance in the war chief, as if every step was a test of courage. “Not known for many generations.”

“Do your people have books?” Lyrna asked, her thoughts straying to the Mahlessa’s vast library under the Mountain. “Records of the time before the Marelim Sil?”

“Books?” the war chief frowned.

“Virosra san elosra dural,” Dahrena told him. Lyrna’s Seordah was markedly less accomplished than her Lonak, but she had enough for a rough translation. The words that cage the spirit.

“No,” the Seordah told Lyrna. “No books for the Seordah. Not now, not in the before times. All is spoken and remembered. Only the spoken word is true.”

Lyrna saw Dahrena hesitate then say something in the Seordah tongue, too fast to easily translate and rich in words beyond Lyrna’s knowledge. Whatever their meaning, the words were enough to darken Hera Drakil’s expression and he turned away, striding off through the disordered ranks of his people.

“Is he offended?” Lyrna asked Dahrena.

The lady’s face was drawn in sadness as she watched the war chief walk away. “Only the spoken word is true,” she said. “I told him the truth. He didn’t like it.”

The army swelled as it moved east, hidden bands of fugitives and escaped slaves emerging from forest and cave to join them or beg food. Lyrna made sure all were provided for, even those reluctant to join their ranks, though these were few in number. There were numerous Realm Guard stragglers among the new recruits, eager for a return to regiments that were now mostly extinct. At her request Brother Caenis had stepped down as Lord Marshal of the Realm Guard contingent, though his decision had caused some discord in the ranks. Regardless of any Dark affliction, many still saw him as a saviour, the fearless commander who led them to deliverance after calamitous defeat. Others were less accepting, mainly the men who had served under Lady Reva at Cumbrael and the fugitives found on the march, leading to a fair amount of loud quarrelling and even a few fist-fights. A formal delegation of sergeants had gone to Vaelin requesting Caenis’s reinstatement and the Battle Lord had been obliged to calm their anger by elevating one of their own in the brother’s place, a veteran sergeant of stocky build with a face like scarred leather.

“Sergeant Travick, Highness,” he said, going to one knee before her the day she joined them on the march. “Late of the Sixteenth Regiment of Foot.”

“Ah, the Black Bears as I recall,” Lyrna said, gesturing for Benten to bring her the item he had procured from Brother Hollun’s travelling armoury.

Travick blinked at her in surprise. “Yes, Highness. Your memory does you credit.”

“Thank you. However, I must advise you that your etiquette, by contrast, is sadly lacking.”

The veteran lowered his head, frowning in embarrassment. “Forgive me, Highness. Not used to such things.”

“Hardly an excuse,” Lyrna said, holding out her hand as Benten handed her the sword, an Asraelin blade, as befit the occasion. “For a Sword of the Realm to refer to himself as a sergeant. I profess myself shocked.”

His head snapped up in alarm, eyes widening at the sight of the sword. “Lord Marshal Al Travick,” she said, reversing the weapon to lay it across her forearm, handle first, “do you accept this sword offered by your queen?”

Behind Travick the Realm Guard were stirring in their ranks, less neat and well shaved as she remembered, but all uniformly hardened and possessed of the air of dangerous men. Dangerous I can use, she decided. Let them fight each other if they must, as long as they fight harder against the Volarians.

“I–I do, Highness,” Travick stammered.

“Then take it, my lord, and do get up.” His meaty, scarred hand closed on the sword-handle and he rose, holding it up with an expression of blank astonishment.

“It is my wish that the Realm Guard be reordered, Lord Marshal,” she went on, recapturing his attention and making him snap back into a soldierly posture, spine straight and eyes averted.

“Whatever my Queen commands.”

“A respect for the past is a good thing, but we cannot allow it to obstruct our purpose. Many proud regiments now retain mere fragments of their former complement or were wiped out completely. If I calculate correctly, there are little over six thousand Realm Guard under your command, many of them holding to regimental ties that no longer have meaning. Of those regiments still remaining only three can truly be called such, and even they are greatly reduced in number. You will bring these up to full complement and divide the remaining men into three new regiments, their names and banners to be determined by the men, subject to my approval. Also you will add Lord Nortah’s company to the Realm Guard roster as the Sixtieth Regiment of Foot.”

She turned her gaze on the ranks of the Realm Guard. The regimental loyalty of the Realm’s soldiery was legendary and she saw open dismay on many faces. “When this war is won,” she told them, raising her voice, “I give you my word the Realm Guard will be rebuilt and any wishing to rejoin their former regiments will be granted leave to do so. For now, we have a war to win and sentiment will not aid us in that endeavour.”

Lord Travick barked a command, his sergeant’s voice a thunderclap, sending every soldier to one knee, heads bowed. “The Realm Guard is yours, Highness,” he said. “To forge as you will, and,” he added, his voice loud and carrying to every soldier in his command, “if I hear any man say differently, I’ll flog him down to the bone.”

The walls of Warnsclave had been neglected for many years, the long period of peace heralded by her father’s ascension making them an expensive irrelevance to successive town factors. Vaelin opined they had been strong enough to repel one Volarian assault, but ultimately proved too weak to withstand another. They were rent in several places, great gashes torn into the stone from ground to parapet, offering an all-too-clear view of what lay beyond as Arrow brought Lyrna closer.

“Nothing remains, Highness,” Lord Adal had reported that morning, having returned from reconnaissance. “Not a house, and not a soul.”

Her faint hope the North Guard had exaggerated dwindled with every tread of Arrow’s hooves, the ash and rubble visible through the breaches told of utter destruction. She found Vaelin waiting at the ruined gate, expression grim. “The harbour, Highness,” he said.

The harbour waters were cloudy with silt and scummed by oil leaking from the scuttled boats of the town’s fishing fleet, but she could see them clearly enough, a great cluster of pale ovals, tinged green by the algae in the water so they resembled a mound of grapes after the harvest.

Lyrna swept her gaze around the remnants of what she recalled as a lively if somewhat smelly town, grimy in fact, the people speaking in a coarse accent, more ready to meet her gaze than in Varinshold, and less ready to bow. But they had been happy to see her, she remembered, cheering as she rode through, offering babies to kiss and tossing flower petals in her path. She had come to open an alms-house, paid for by the Crown and staffed by the Fifth Order. She had found no trace of it in the journey to the harbour, just street after street of piled brick and scorched timber.

“They chained them together,” Vaelin said. “Pushed the first in and the rest followed. Perhaps four hundred, the only survivors from when they took the town, I assume.”

“Didn’t want to be burdened with slaves on the march north,” Lord Adal commented. His voice had the clipped tones of well-controlled emotion, but Lyrna saw how the muscles of his jaw bunched as he stared down at the water.

“March north, my lord?” she asked him.

Lady Dahrena stepped forward with a bow, her face showing the kind of paleness that only came from the deepest chill. “I believe I may have useful intelligence, Highness.”

“It’s gone?” Lyrna asked her a short while later. She had ordered Murel to fetch the lady a hot beverage and she sat in her tent now, small hands clutching a bowl of warm milk. Vaelin stood by regarding Dahrena with evident concern, already having voiced his disquiet at her using her gift.

“Alltor cost you much,” he said. “Flying free again so soon was unwise.”

“I am a soldier in this army,” the lady replied with a shrug. “Like any other, and my gift is my weapon.”

Lyrna forced herself to stillness as the air seemed to thicken between them, knowing much was being left unsaid, but still they knew each other’s mind as if the words had been shouted. Whilst I know so little of what lies behind his eyes.

“Burnt to ash from end to end,” Dahrena confirmed. “The Urlish is dead, Highness.”

Lyrna remembered the day Lord Al Telnar had come begging her father to lift the strictures on harvesting timber from the Urlish, how he had been sent scurrying from the council chamber, face red with humiliation. “The Urlish is the birthplace of this Realm,” Janus had told a cringing Al Telnar as he signed another decree reallocating yet more land formerly owned by the Minister of Royal Works. “The cradle of my rule, not to be grubbed over by the likes of you.”

Al Telnar and the Urlish, she reflected. Now both nothing but ash. Strange he should sacrifice himself for me after so many years of Father’s torments. “And this army moving across the Renfaelin border towards Varinshold?” she asked Dahrena. “Could you gauge their number?”

“Somewhere over five thousand, Highness. Mostly on horseback.”

“Darnel calls his knights,” Lyrna mused. “He’ll certainly need them before long.”

“I don’t think so, Highness,” Dahrena said. “There’s a soul among them, burning bright but red. I’ve seen it before, when I flew over the Urlish. I’m certain it was fighting the Volarians there.”

Lyrna nodded, recalling a night spent in a Renfaelin holdfast, only months ago but it seemed like years now. There are many, Banders had said, who find the prospect of being ruled by that man a stain on their honour.

“And the filth who slaughtered the people in the harbour?” she asked. “Any trace of them in your flight, my lady?”

She sensed a certain resignation in Dahrena’s response, a grim acceptance of the consequences of the intelligence she provided. “Four thousand or so, Highness. Twenty miles north-west. Most on foot.”

Lyrna turned to Vaelin. “My lord, please ask Sanesh Poltar for the fastest horse the Eorhil can provide and an escort for a royal messenger. They will seek out this Renfaelin army and divine their identity and intentions.”

He gave a shallow bow. “Yes, Highness.”

“I will see to the recovery of the bodies from the harbour and ensure they are given to the fire with all due ceremony, whilst you will take every rider we have and hunt down their murderers. And I expect to hear no more word of prisoners.”

CHAPTER SIX Vaelin

We will make an ending, you and I.

“My lord?”

Vaelin snapped back to the present at Adal’s words, finding the North Guard commander mounted alongside, his eyes narrowed in shrewd appraisal. “My men found some stragglers two miles north,” Adal said. “Close to exhaustion and not having eaten for days. Seems likely the rest won’t be in much better shape.”

Vaelin nodded, turning away from the man’s scrutiny, looking to the west where the Eorhil were galloping off to perform the encircling manoeuvre he had ordered that morning. He experienced a moment’s disorientation as the plainsmen crested a rise and disappeared from view, an increasingly familiar sensation mingling frustration with disappointment. There was no song to accompany the ride of the Eorhil, as there had been no song to guide him when Lyrna was found healed in body if not, apparently, in spirit. Nor had there been any song to accompany Orven’s hanging of the Volarian prisoners at her command, nor any music now as he turned back to Adal and ordered him to take his men to cover the east.

He saw no reluctance in Adal’s demeanour before he turned his mount about and rode off, but there was uncertainty there, even a faint concern. He wondered if the North Guard’s animosity had worn thinner since Alltor, that if there wasn’t some actual regard for his Tower Lord these days. But, where once such things were so easily divined, now there was only continual uncertainty. Is this what it is to live without a gift?

He recalled those brief years when his song had fallen silent, his refusal to heed it leaving him bereft, without guidance. It had been hard to be so rudderless in a sea of chaos and war. This, however, was much worse, because now there was the chill, the bone-deep cold that had seeped into him in the Ally’s domain and lingered on here in this world of myriad paths, all seemingly so dark. And the words, of course, those words that hounded him from the Beyond.

We will make an ending, you and I.

Nortah trotted up beside him, Snowdance bounding on ahead, as ever enlivened by the prospect of blood.

“You belong with your regiment,” Vaelin told him.

“Davern has them well in hand,” his brother replied. “Truth be told, I’d be grateful if you’d ask the queen to promote him in my stead. Boundless hatred and bloodlust are not easily tolerated for long.”

“They’ll need firm leadership, and a restraining hand.”

Nortah raised an eyebrow. “Is that sentiment shared by the queen, brother? If so, I’d be greatly surprised.”

Vaelin didn’t respond, recalling his joy on seeing her that day at Alltor as the boat carried her across the river, the blossoming relief as she stepped ashore. The song’s absence was a physical pain and she seemed to offer an antidote, a single point of certainty, burned but glorious. How could I ever have imagined she might have fallen? he had thought, sinking to his knees before her.

But as the days passed, and the army’s evident love for their queen swelled by the mile, he had felt the song’s absence ever more keenly. She raises so many questions. And yet seems to ask none herself. He saw great differences from the girl he had met in that palace corridor so many years ago, the unbridled ambition forged into something new, and more troubling. She hungered for power, now what does she hunger for?

“My people met with our brother,” Nortah said. He always referred to the Gifted from Nehrin’s Point in this way, as if they were a nation unto themselves. “As per the queen’s request. They told him no, as expected.” He paused. “Have you spoken to him? Since his little revelation?”

Vaelin shook his head, keen to avoid discussion on this topic. The questions it raised were even more troubling than those surrounding the queen.

“Seventh Order or not,” Nortah went on. “Faith or not. He’s still our brother.”

He always knew more, Vaelin thought. More than he ever said. Knowledge that might have been useful, saved many, perhaps even Frentis… or Mikehl.

“I’ll talk to him,” he promised Nortah. For we have much to discuss.

“You’re not going to do anything… foolish today, are you?” Nortah asked.

“Foolish, brother?”

“Yes, brother.” Nortah’s face was stern. “Such as throwing yourself at an entire army. They can compose all the songs they like, it was still bloody silly. We have a home to return to, if you recall. The Order is behind us. There is something to live for now, someone to live for.”

There was an additional weight in his voice and Vaelin knew his meaning well enough. Dahrena had been at his side for most of the journey, except today as he begged her to rest after her efforts to find their quarry. It was strange but, for all the time spent together, they spoke little, conversation seemingly unnecessary. He knew she could feel the absence of his song and feared it would create a barrier between them, but she was more at ease with him now than ever before, and the reason was not hard to guess. Two souls meeting in the Beyond, not a bond to be easily broken.

For all the discomfort the realisation brought, he remained grateful for her company, for it was only in her presence that the chill seemed to abate. It lurched anew now, a sudden ache deep inside, often making itself known when he rode for a long while, or engaged in any serious exertion.

“No foolishness, brother,” he told Nortah, pulling his cloak tighter about his chest. “My word on it.”

His horse had belonged to a North Guard and, like most mounts bred in the Reaches, was of Eorhil stock: tall, fleet, and of placid nature when not called to battle. Captain Adal said his former owner had been a man of great practicality and little sentiment, referring to the animal simply as “Horse” and Vaelin had yet to think of anything better. He felt the beast tense as they neared a hilltop in late afternoon, his nostrils flaring as they caught a scent too faint for Vaelin’s nose, though he could guess its meaning: the sweat of many fearful men.

They came into view as he crested the rise, the Nilsaelin cavalry falling in on either side of him, spreading out as they reordered their ranks in preparation for the charge. Nilsaelin cavalry were lightly armoured and their horses bred for speed rather than strength, most riders armed with a seven-foot lance. They eyed the Volarians with set faces, devoid of mercy or fear. Word of the atrocity at Warnsclave had been quick to spread and these men had already witnessed horrors aplenty on the march to Alltor.

The Volarians had formed battalions arranged into a square, ragged and twitching on the left where Vaelin judged the Free Swords were placed, solid on the right where the Varitai stood awaiting their fate with rigid indifference. Beyond them the Eorhil had cut off their line of retreat and were drawn up on flat ground, clustered into their war bands and moving forward at a slow walk. Off to the east he could see the North Guard riding into position to seal any escape route whilst Orven’s mounted guard drew up on the western flank.

“At your command, my lord,” the Nilsaelin cavalry commander said, a wiry man with the typically villainous appearance of his fief’s soldiery, shaven-headed and sporting fresh scars no doubt earned at Alltor. In common with his men Vaelin could see the man’s eagerness to get at the enemy, the way his gloved hand clasped and unclasped the haft of his lance.

“Wait for the Eorhil,” Vaelin told him. He reached over his shoulder and drew his sword, finding it strange that there was no comfort to be found in the feel of the handle. Where once it had felt like holding a living thing, now it was just a length of steel and wood, heavier than he recalled.

A familiar hissing sound drew his attention back to the field, finding the air above the Volarians dark with arrows at the apogee of flight, the Eorhil now boiling across the flat ground at full pelt. Vaelin raised his sword as the Nilsaelin buglers sounded the signal to prepare for a charge, slashing down as the Eorhil volley struck home. He kicked at his horse’s flanks and they spurred to the gallop in unison, thunder rising from the earth.

The shock of impact left him reeling in the saddle, his horse’s manic whinny lost in the instant cacophony of rage and the clashing of metal and flesh. He hung on to the saddle by the pommel, feeling something hard scrape along the chain mail covering his back. A Volarian lunged at him from the throng, eyes wide and desperate though his short sword remained level and true. Vaelin released the pommel and tumbled to the earth, rolling into the Volarian with enough force to send him flying. Vaelin struggled to his knees, sword coming up to parry a thrust from a well-built Free Sword, a veteran judging by his age and the ease with which he danced out of reach as Vaelin replied with a slash at his legs, marvelling at his own sluggishness. The Free Sword brought his blade down on Vaelin’s with a practised efficiency, just above the hilt, jarring it from his grasp.

He stared at his empty hand, a thought repeating itself with a strange, calm detachment. I dropped my sword.

The Free Sword stepped closer, sword drawn back for a hard thrust to Vaelin’s neck, then twisting in an oddly elegant pirouette, blood gushing from his part-severed neck as Nortah dragged his horse to a halt a few feet away, Snowdance following in his wake, teeth and claws already bloody.

Vaelin stood, taking stock of their surroundings. The charge had carried them almost to the centre of the Volarian ranks, combat raging on all sides as the Nilsaelins stabbed with their lances and Orven’s guardsmen hacked with their swords. A fresh arrow storm was falling somewhere to the west, indicating the Eorhil had found a stubborn pocket of Varitai resistance.

Lord Orven’s voice sounded nearby and Vaelin saw him rallying his men for a charge at a dense knot of Free Swords, fighting with all the desperation of doomed men. A loud whinny sounded and he saw his riderless horse plough into the Volarians, rearing and stamping, teeth bared as he screamed. The Volarian knot soon broke apart as Orven’s men charged home, Nilsaelins spurring in to join the slaughter.

“No foolishness?” Nortah asked, looming above with a reproachful glare.

Vaelin looked down at his empty hand, flexing the fingers and feeling the chill rise again. Something nuzzled his shoulder and he turned to find his horse, snorting loudly and tossing his head, a fresh cut on his nose. “Scar,” Vaelin said, running a hand over his snout. “Your name is Scar.”

“Hold still,” Dahrena admonished as he winced from the sting of the ointment she applied to his back. His tumble from the saddle had left him with a spectacular bruise from hip to shoulder, not to mention the constantly repeated words that plagued him on the journey back to Warnsclave. I dropped my sword.

“Hasn’t your legend grown enough already?” Dahrena went on, working the ointment into his skin, her fingers moving in hard tense circles. “You have to charge into every army you find? Now, apparently, with a Dark-commanded horse.”

“Hardly,” he groaned, sighing in relief as she rose from his side, going to the small chest holding the various pots and boxes containing her curatives. “I suspect my new horse just likes to fight.”

He had taken a basement room in the one structure left standing in Warnsclave, the harbour-master’s fortresslike house rising from the base of the mole, entirely built of granite and too substantial to be easily torn down. The queen and her retinue occupied the upper floors whilst the army made camp amidst the ruins, the ranks swelling yet again as more people trailed in from the surrounding countryside.

“Like his master,” Dahrena muttered, making him wince again. This was the first cross word between them since Alltor, stirring fears their bond might not be so immune to injury after all. The battle had been brief, hardly surprising given the odds, the Volarians running after no more than a quarter hour of combat, the time it took to cut down the Varitai. The surviving Free Swords fled in all directions, soon hunted down by the Eorhil whilst the Nilsaelins finished off the wounded and engaged in the time-honoured soldier’s treat of looting the dead. To his surprise Vaelin was greeted with grave respect as he walked the field, soldiers offering bows and raised lances in salute. Do they choose not to see? he wondered. Preferring to believe in a man of foolish courage and a Dark-led horse rather than a weakened fool who can’t stay in the saddle and drops his sword.

“I came close to dying today,” he told her, his tone flat, reflective. She didn’t turn but her back stiffened. “You know I lost my song,” he went on. “When you brought me back. Without it… I dropped my sword, Dahrena.”

She turned, a frown of anger on her face. “Is that self-pity I hear, my lord?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Just honest words…”

“Well, I have some honest words for you.” She came to him, kneeling to clasp his hands, small slender fingers working to clasp his own. “I once saw a boy fight like a savage to win a banner in some dreadful game. I thought it cruel then, in truth I still do. But the boy I saw that day did not hear a note from his song, otherwise I would have felt it. You were always more than your gift.” She took a firmer grip on his hands. “A gift is not muscle, or bone, or a skill learned since boyhood, a skill I cannot believe has dulled in but a few weeks.”

She raised her gaze, the anger faded now as she stood, releasing his hands to enfold his head, pulling him close. “We both have much still to do, Vaelin. And I believe our queen’s purpose would be better served with you at her side.” She moved back, smiling down at him, her smooth, warm hand tracing from his brow to his chin before placing a kiss on his lips. “Did you happen to find a key for this door?”

Later she lay with her head resting on his chest, her small and perfect form pressed against him, dispelling any vestige of the chill. It had begun at Alltor with scarcely any word spoken that first night. There had been no preamble, just silent and unabashed need as they coiled together in the dark, drawn together by something neither felt any inclination to resist.

“The queen hates me,” she whispered now, her breath ruffling the hairs on his chest. “She strives to hide it, but I can feel it.”

Whereas I can only suspect it, he thought. “We break no law and offer no insult,” he said. “And even a queen is allowed her own feelings.”

“You and her, when you were young, did you…?”

He gave a faint chuckle. “No, such a thing could never have happened.” His smile faded as Linden Al Hestian’s face came to mind, so many years on and still the guilt of it cut him.

“She loves you,” Dahrena went on. “You must see it.”

“I see only the queen I am bound to follow.” Best for all if I see nothing more. “What do the Seordah say of her?”

He felt her tense, her head shifting on his chest. “Nothing, to me that is. What they say to each other, however, I cannot say.”

He knew the Seordah’s attitude to them both had undergone a severe transformation since Alltor, a deep wariness replacing the affection they held for her and the reluctant respect they had begun to show him. “What is it?” he asked her. “Why do they fear us so?”

She remained silent for a long time, eventually raising herself up to rest her chin on her hands, her face hidden in the dark but her eyes catching the light from the small opening in the basement wall. “Like the Faithful, the Seordah do not see death as a curse. But they believe when a soul takes leave of the body it goes not to a world beyond this, but to a hidden place, a world that exists in every shadow and dark corner, unseen and unknowable by living eyes. In this world you take every lesson learned when alive, every hunter’s trick or warrior’s skill, every scrap of lore, and you embark upon the great and endless hunt, but free of fear or uncertainty, every burden carried in life gone, leaving only the hunt. You may have seen them in the forest sometimes, reaching a hand into the shadowed hollow of a tree or the shade cast by a rock, hoping for a whispered message from a loved soul lost to the hunt.”

“When you brought me back,” he said. “You deprived me of a gift.”

“The greatest gift.”

“You should talk to them, tell them the truth of it.”

“I did. It didn’t help. In their eyes I am a transgressor and you should no longer be walking this earth. They are lost to me now.”

He held her as she lowered her gaze once more, playing his hands over her shoulders and feeling her sorrow. “Then why do they stay?” he asked.

Her reply was soft, sighed through tears, “They do what we do: heed the wolf’s call.”

Reva’s sword thumped against his bruised side drawing a pain-filled grunt. She hopped nimbly backwards as he answered with a clumsy upward slash, then lunged forward in a crouch, jabbing a thrust at his chest. He dodged away, flicking her wooden blade up and aiming a cut at her legs which struck home as she waited too long to form the parry.

“Better,” she said. “Don’t you think?”

Vaelin moved to the nearby tree stump where his canteen sat, drinking deep. The sky was overcast today and the air chilled, heralding the onset of autumn and the prospect of a less-than-easy march to Varinshold. They had lingered at Warnsclave for three days now as they waited for the Meldenean fleet to appear. The supply situation had been alleviated by Lord Al Bera’s provisions but they still lacked sufficient stocks to sustain the northward advance, especially in light of their ever-growing number of recruits. Over a thousand people had made their way to the ruined city since their arrival, forcing the addition of yet more companies to Nortah’s regiment. The Volarians, it seemed, hadn’t been quite so efficient as they imagined in gathering slaves, though scouts brought daily evidence of their proficiency in slaughter, telling tales of one ruined village after another, each well stocked with rotting corpses.

“No,” he told Reva. “If anything I’m worse today.” He tossed his canteen aside and charged at her, delivering a rapid series of thrusts and slashes, his wooden sword moving in a blur. She dodged and parried with a fluency that put her early lessons to shame; battle-honed skill always counted for more, he knew. He also knew she was going easy on him, allowing him to land strokes she could have easily blocked, making her replies just fractionally slower than they should have been.

“This won’t do,” he muttered, pulling up short from another lunge.

“Oh come now,” she mocked. “Not giving up, are you?”

You love me too much, he thought with an inward sigh. Scared to watch me die again. He cast his gaze at the field below the hill where they practised, the army labouring under the instruction of officers and sergeants, new recruits and old being honed into their queen’s deadly instrument of justice. He could see her cantering along on her white horse, black cloak trailing in the wind, raising salutes and exhortations wherever she rode.

“Do you…?” Reva had come to stand beside him, speaking in hesitant tones.

“What?” he prompted.

“The queen.” Reva’s eyes tracked Lyrna’s horse as she trotted towards Nortah’s new companies, people falling to the knees as she came to a halt. “What was done to her. Do you ever wonder what it might mean?”

“Her healing?”

“No. Not her healing. What was done before. To suffer what she suffered, healed or not the scars run deep.”

“As deep as yours, sister?”

“Perhaps deeper, that’s what worries me. My hands are red, as are yours. We have no claim to innocence and I’ll answer to the Father when my time comes. But she… Sometimes I think she would burn the whole world if it meant the death of the last Volarian. And even then she wouldn’t be sated.”

“Don’t you hunger for justice?”

“Justice, yes. And to make my people secure once more. To do that I’ll fight her war and free her city. But that won’t be enough will it? What will you tell her when she orders you to follow her across the ocean?”

No song. No guidance. Just ever-more-silent uncertainty.

“Thank you for the practice, my lady,” he said, turning to offer a bow. “But I think I need a less caring tutor.”

Davern’s ash sword batted Vaelin’s parry aside and cracked against his unarmoured ribs, leaving him winded and doubled over. Davern stepped back as Vaelin gasped for air, glaring up at him. “Who told you to stop, sergeant?”

The former shipwright gave a momentary frown, which quickly transformed into a bright-toothed grin, lunging forward to deliver a jab at Vaelin’s nose. He twisted, the ash blade missing by a whisker, grabbing the sergeant’s arm and throwing him over his shoulder. Davern was quick to recover, leaping to his feet and whirling to deliver a round-house slash at Vaelin’s legs. Wood cracked as Vaelin blocked the blow then replied with a series of two-handed strokes aimed at chest and head, the sergeant backing away and blocking every blow, deaf to the calls of the onlookers.

Three days now and Vaelin had yet to land a blow, drawing a larger crowd with each repeated bout of practice. Davern, as expected, had needed little persuasion to fight with the Battle Lord, his evident delight increasing further when Vaelin’s reduced skills became apparent. It would have been easy to do this away from the eyes of the army but Vaelin resisted the temptation, finding the scrutiny of so many critical eyes a useful impetus to greater effort.

He was improving, he could feel it, the chill not so deep now. But still the sword felt strange in his hand, the once-sublime artistry replaced with workmanlike efficiency. How much was the song? he wondered continually. How much do I need it?

Davern ducked under another stroke, jerking to the side then delivering a precise thrust that found its way past Vaelin’s guard to jab into his upper lip, drawing blood and making him reel backwards.

“Apologies, my lord,” Davern said, his sword smacking into Vaelin’s right leg and sending him to the ground, slapping his feeble counterstroke away and raising his weapon for a no-doubt-painful final blow. “But you did say to display no restraint.”

“That’s enough!” Alornis was striding forward, face red with fury. She shoved a smirking Davern aside and knelt by Vaelin, pressing a clean rag to his bleeding lip. “This is over,” she told the sergeant. “Go back to your regiment.”

“Does your lady sister command here now, my lord?” Davern asked Vaelin. “Perhaps she should.”

“Sergeant.” The voice was soft but Davern’s smirk disappeared in an instant. Nortah stood nearby, casting his eye about the onlooking soldiers, mostly free fighters from his own regiment, all quickly finding somewhere else to be. Snowdance moved from Nortah’s side to nudge at Vaelin’s shoulder, purring insistently until he got to his feet.

“Your man is a brute,” Alornis told Nortah, continuing to staunch the blood flowing from Vaelin’s lip.

“Merely following his lordship’s order, Teacher,” Davern said to Nortah. Whereas he showed a complete absence of fear in regard to Vaelin, his attitude to Nortah was always markedly more respectful.

“Indeed he was,” Vaelin said, pausing to hawk a red glob onto the ground. “And very well too, I might add.”

Nortah spared Davern a brief glance. “See to the pickets,” he ordered quietly.

The sergeant bowed and hurried off.

“A thousand things can happen in a battle,” Nortah said to Vaelin. “You put too much stock in one dropped sword.”

“Wars aren’t won with dropped swords, brother.” Vaelin took the rag from Alornis and walked towards the tree where he had tethered Scar.

“Brother Kehlan should see to that,” she called after him but he just waved and climbed into the saddle.

Finding Caenis wasn’t difficult. The Seventh Order contingent, now grown to some four brothers and two sisters, were housed in a canvas roofed ruin near the harbour, somewhat removed from the rest of the army, who continued to eye them with unabashed suspicion. Caenis sat with the others, talking in low but earnest tones, each of them listening with keen attention. They were all younger than his brother. The gift of youth provided a greater chance of surviving the Volarian onslaught, the young being better suited to the rigours of battle or more likely to catch the slavers’ eye. One young man had clearly endured some harsh treatment, sitting shirtless as he listened to Caenis, his back striped with recent whip-strokes, raw and red in the evening light.

“The province of war is no longer confined to the Sixth Order,” Caenis was saying. “Now all the Faithful are called to join this struggle. Now we are all warriors. Concealment is a luxury we can no longer afford.”

He fell silent as Vaelin stepped from the shadows, the others turning to regard him with a mixture of customary awe and grave respect.

“Brother,” Vaelin said. “I would speak with you.”

They walked the length of the mole as darkness fell, a three-quarters moon showing through intermittent cloud. Caenis said nothing, waiting for him to speak, perhaps fully aware of the first word he would say.

“Mikehl,” Vaelin said when they had come to the end of the mole. The evening tide had drawn the sea back from the mole so it seemed they stood atop a great height, assailed by a strong breeze, the gently lapping waves barely visible below. He searched Caenis’s face as his brother gave no response, seeing what he had expected to see. Guilt.

“Before I sailed to the Reaches Aspect Grealin assured me he had no part in it,” Vaelin went on. “Placing the blame squarely on Brother Harlick, who in truth has admitted his part, though not in the most fulsome terms. Is there perhaps something you would like to add to the story, brother?”

Caenis’s expression didn’t change and his voice was toneless as he replied, “My Aspect instructed me to keep you safe. I did as I was instructed.”

“The men who killed Mikehl told of another, someone I fancy they met in the forest that night. Someone they feared.”

“They were expecting a brother of Harlick’s acquaintance, someone complicit in his scheme. I found him, killed him, and took his place. The assassins hired by Nortah’s father were not so easily killed, so I sent them in the wrong direction, a direction I expected would lead them clear of any brothers. Mikehl, however, was always so slow, and so easily lost.”

Vaelin turned away from him, staring out to sea. The wind was rising and the wave-tops shone white in the dim moonlight. Farther out he could see a black shape on the horizon, soon joined by several more. “Our Fleet Lord makes good his promise,” he observed.

Caenis glanced at the approaching ships. “This war has garnered some strange allies.”

“And revealed much in the process.”

“That day you found us… My words were unfair. I had lost so many men, so much unforeseen death. It seemed the Departed had abandoned us, as if your Faithlessness had drawn their judgement. It was a foolish notion, brother.”

“Brother,” Vaelin repeated softly. “We’ve called each other that for so long I wonder if it still holds meaning. So much has been concealed, so many lies spoken. That first day, in the vaults, Grealin patted you on the shoulder and you flinched. I thought you feared his imaginary rats, but he was greeting you. You weren’t joining the Sixth Order, you were reporting to your Aspect.”

“It is how we persist, how we continue to serve the Faith. At least until now. With Aspect Grealin gone the burden of rebuilding this Order falls to me. It would sit easier with your help.”

“The Gifted from the Reaches want no part of your Order. Cara and Marken aren’t even of the Faith and I doubt Lorkan could summon the will to believe in anything.”

“Much like you, brother.” Caenis’s words were softly spoken but Vaelin heard the judgement in them clearly.

“I did not lose my faith,” he told Caenis. “It shrivelled and died in the face of truth.”

“And will this great truth win this war, brother? Look around you and see how many have suffered. Will your truth sustain them in the months and years ahead?”

“Will your gift? I’ve yet to learn what manner of power you hold, and if I am to command this army, I should greatly like to know.”

Caenis stood regarding him in silence, eyes intent and unblinking. Vaelin’s hand went to the hunting knife at his belt, gripping the handle tight, ready to draw it forth, stab it into his brother’s eye… He breathed out slowly, releasing the knife and finding his hand trembling.

“So now you know, brother,” Caenis said before turning and walking away.

CHAPTER SEVEN Alucius

Aspect Dendrish sagged on hearing the news, seeming to shrink as his bulk subsided onto his too-narrow bed. His jowls shimmered as he worked his slug-like lips, brow drawn in a frown of despair. “There…” He paused and swallowed, gazing up at Alucius with wide-eyed desperation. “There could be some error in this. Some misunderstanding…”

“I doubt that, Aspect,” Alucius said. “It seems Master Grealin has truly met his end, though in rather strange circumstances.” He went on to relate the tale Darnel had told him, complete with the Dark powers attributed to the fallen Master of the Sixth Order.

Dendrish’s response was swift, immediate and far too practised to be anything but a lie. “Utter nonsense. In fact I am appalled a man of learning could lend any credence to such lurid piffle.”

“Quite so, Aspect.” Alucius fished inside his sack and brought out a fresh volume, tossing it onto the bed. One of his more prized finds, Brother Killern’s The Voyage of the Swift Wing. He had intended to annoy the Aspect with an annotated copy of Lord Al Avern’s Complete and Unbiased History of the Church of the World Father, but felt the plump scholar’s spirits might be in need of a lift. Dendrish, however, didn’t even glance at the book, sitting and staring at nothing as Alucius begged leave and departed the cell.

Aspect Elera was more careful in her response, commenting briefly about her scant acquaintance with the late master before expressing her deep appreciation for the fresh medicine and new books. Her tone, however, became markedly more intent when she asked him, “And the wine, Alucius?”

“I have yet to seek it out, Aspect.”

She met his gaze, speaking in a surprisingly harsh whisper. “Then be sure to slake your thirst soon, good sir.”

With Darnel and much of the Renfaelin knights gone off to hunt down the elusive Red Brother, Varinshold was even more quiet than usual. Most of the Volarian garrison were Varitai, never particularly talkative, and the smaller contingent of Free Swords kept to themselves in the northern quarter mansion houses they had transformed into barracks. The streets, such as they were, remained unpatrolled for the most part since there was hardly a soul left to police. Most slaves had been shipped across the ocean weeks ago and those that remained were fully occupied fulfilling Darnel’s vision of his great palace, one in particular providing the most valued labour, so valued in fact that Darnel had threatened to sever the hand of any overseer who touched him with the slightest kiss of a whip.

Visiting Master Benril was not one of Alucius’s favourite obligations, a task to be undertaken as infrequently as his conscience allowed, usually when images of Alornis loomed largest in his mind. He found the old master hard at work on the western wall, a ragged and burnt eyesore in the aftermath of the city’s fall, marking the apex of the palace’s destruction, now covered in fresh marble from end to end. Benril was accompanied by a portly, balding slave, older than most but spared execution by virtue of his skill with stone, and his expert knowledge of where to find more. He rarely spoke more than a few words, the overseers having been given no injunction about applying the whip to his back, but revealed a highborn’s cultured vowels when he did. Alucius had yet to learn the man’s name, and in truth avoided doing so. Slaves could never be relied upon to live long enough to make any association worthwhile.

“Coming along rather nicely, Master,” he greeted Benril, calling up to the second tier of the scaffolding where the sculptor laboured to craft the great relief depicting Darnel’s glorious victory over the Realm Guard.

Benril left off hammering to glance over his shoulder. He offered no greeting but gave an irritated flick of his hand, granting leave for Alucius to ascend the ladder. Alucius always marvelled at the speed with which they worked, the portly slave guiding a rasp over recently completed carvings as Benril continued to birth more from virgin stone. Only one month into Darnel’s vainglorious project and it was a quarter complete, the finely carved figures emerging from the stone in accordance with the vast cartoon Benril had unrolled before the Fief Lord’s approving eye.

Perhaps his greatest work, Alucius mused, watching Benril chisel away at the heroic profile of a Renfaelin knight in combat with a cringing Realm Guard. And it’s all a lie.

“What is it?” Benril asked, leaving off from his carving for a moment, reaching for a nearby earthenware bottle.

“Merely my regular assurance that both Aspects remain alive and unmolested,” Alucius replied. It had been the master’s price that day they dragged him before the Fief Lord, merely raising an eyebrow at Darnel’s promises of torture or swift execution, only becoming compliant when his threats turned to the Aspects. For all his disdain for custom and propriety, Benril remained a man of the Faith.

The master nodded, drinking from the bottle and passing it to the slave. The man cast a cautious eye at Twenty-Seven before taking a swift drink, returning to his work with determined haste. Alucius retrieved the bottle, removing the stopper and sniffing the contents. Just water.

“I hear tell of a hidden stock of wine,” he told Benril. “If you would care for some.”

“Wine dulls the senses and makes the mediocre artist imagine himself a great one.” Benril spared him a hard glance before returning to his work. “A truism with which you are intimately acquainted, I believe.”

“It has been, as ever, a great pleasure, Master.” Alucius gave an unheeded bow and returned to the ladder, pausing to cast an eye over Benril’s bony but still-strong back, his rope-thin, muscle-knotted arms moving in expert rhythm as they worked the stone. “There was one other thing,” he added. “It seems Master Grealin had taken up with a band of fighters in the forest. You recall Master Grealin? Great, fat fellow who minded the Sixth Order’s stores.”

“What of it?” Benril asked, continuing to chisel away.

Alucius kept his eyes on Benril’s hands. “He died.”

It was barely a slip, merely the slightest irregularity left in a carving of wondrous execution. But it was too deep to sand away, a timeless testament to a brief lapse of concentration.

“Many have died,” Benril said, not turning. “With many more to come when Lord Al Sorna gets here.”

The portly slave dropped his rasp, casting a fearful glance at Twenty-Seven before quickly retrieving it. Nearby, one of the overseers turned towards them, his hand going to the coiled whip at his side.

“Please have a care, Master Benril,” Alucius told him. “I take no pleasure in the prospect of describing your death to the woman I love.”

Benril still refused to turn, his hands once again moving with the same effortless precision. “Don’t you have some wine to find?”

It took several attempts before he identified the correct ruin, unearthing a blackened wooden sign from beneath a pile of tumbled brick, the lettering burnt to nothing but the crudely rendered image of a boar visible through the scorching. “Yes,” he agreed with Twenty-Seven. “I am fully aware this is probably a fool’s errand, thank you. Help me shift this stone.”

They worked for over an hour before he found it, clearing rubble away from the floorboards to reveal only a faint outline under the dust; a rectangle about a yard square. “A bottle or two of Wolf’s Blood would indeed be very welcome,” he told Twenty-Seven, wiping the dust away to reveal the hidden entrance, his fingers probing the edges. “Too tight a fit. Use your sword to prize it open.”

Twenty-Seven went about the task with his usual unhesitant obedience, jamming his short sword into the edge of the door and levering it up, the strain of the effort plain in the bulge of muscle on his arms, though his face remained as impassive as ever. Alucius took hold of the edge of the door as it came free, hauling it open all the way, revealing a horizontal drop into blank darkness.

He had had the foresight to bring a lamp and lit it now, then lay flat to lower it into the opening, the yellow glow illuminating only a tunnel of rough stone, free of any telltale gleam of glass.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t fancy it much either, my friend. But a man must follow his passions, don’t you think?” He moved back from the hole and waved at the slave. “You first.”

Twenty-Seven stared back and said nothing.

“Faith!” Alucius muttered, handing him the lamp. “If I die down there, they’ll whip you to death. You know that, I trust.”

He took hold of the edge of the hole and lowered himself in, hanging from his fingertips then dropping into the blackness below, finding the air musty and stale. Twenty-Seven landed nimbly at his side a second later, the lamplight illuminating a tunnel of uninviting length.

“There best be some Cumbraelin red at the end of this,” Alucius said. “Otherwise I shall be forced to say some very harsh words to Aspect Elera. Some very harsh words indeed.”

They followed the tunnel for no more than the span of a few minutes, though the echoing footfalls and absolute dark beyond the limit of the lamp’s meagre glow made it seem considerably longer, as did Alucius’s growing conviction that there was no wine to be found here. “I don’t care what you insist upon,” he hissed at Twenty-Seven. “I will not simply turn back now.”

Finally the tunnel opened out into a broad circular chamber, Alucius drawing up short at the fine brickwork contrasting with the rough stone walls of the tunnel. The chamber was ringed by seven stone pillars and shallow steps descending to a flat base in the centre of which stood a long table. Alucius went to the table, playing the lamp over the surface and finding it free of dust.

“On second thoughts,” he said. “Perhaps you have a p—”

A sudden whisper of disturbed air and the lamp shattered in his hand, flaming oil scattering onto the stone before blinking out, darkness descending with dreadful speed. Alucius heard Twenty-Seven’s sword scrape free of its scabbard then nothing, no clash of steel or grunt of pain. Just the darkness and the silence.

“I…” he began, swallowed and tried again. “I don’t suppose you have any wine.”

Something cold and hard pressed against his neck, positioned precisely above the vein he knew would see him dead in a few heartbeats should it suffer even a small puncture. “Aspect Elera!” Alucius said in a rapid exhalation. “She sent me.”

A pause then the blade disappeared from his neck. “Sister,” a female voice said, smooth and cultured but also hard and clipped. “Light the torches. Brother, don’t kill the other one just yet.”

“Alucius Al Hestian.” The young woman regarded him from across the table with a steady and not especially welcoming expression. “I’ve read your poems. My master thought them the finest works of modern Asraelin verse.”

“Clearly a man of some taste and education,” Alucius replied, casting a furtive glance at Twenty-Seven, crouched into a fighting stance, his sword moving back and forth in a slow parody of combat. On either side of him stood a man and a woman, both young like the woman seated at the table. The woman was plump and short with a large rat perched on her shoulder. The man was taller, well-built and wearing a heavily besmirched City Guard uniform. The plump woman regarded Alucius with a faint smile whilst the guardsman ignored him, staring fixedly at Twenty-Seven and his slothful sword play.

“Actually,” the young woman at the table said, “I found them cloyingly sentimental and overly florid.”

“Must have been my early work,” Alucius said, turning back to her. Her face was finely featured, a narrow aquiline nose and a softly pointed chin, her hair a pleasing shade of honey blond, and her eyes set in a cold stare of hostile appraisal.

“Your father’s a traitor, poet,” she stated.

“My father is forced to hateful duty by his love for me,” he returned. “Kill me if you would have him abandon it.”

“How noble.” The young woman spread her fingers on the table where a line of small steel darts were arranged in a neat arc. “And a wish easily granted, should I find you less than honest.”

The plump woman came forward, her rat running the length of her arm to jump onto the tabletop, scurrying over to Alucius, snout raised to sniff at his sleeve. “Don’t smell a lie on his sweat,” she advised the young woman in coarse, street-born tones.

“My sweat?” Alucius asked, feeling a fresh trickle of it trace down his back.

“Liar’s sweat’s gotta sting to it,” the plump woman advised. “Beyond us but Blacknose here smells it well enough.”

She extended her hand and the rat trotted over to her, jumping into her arms and settling into a contented huddle.

The Dark, Alucius thought. How delighted Lyrna would have been to see this. He forced the thought away; remembrance of Lyrna was painful and likely to provoke distracting grief at a time when he should be focused on continued survival. “Who are you people?” he asked the young woman.

She stared back in silence for a moment then raised her left hand, the fingers flat and level. She blinked and one of the darts rose from the table, hovering no more than an inch from her index finger. “Ask another question,” she said. “And this goes in your eye.”

“Can we move this along, sister?” the guardsman said in a strained voice. “This one’s mind is easily clouded but I can’t do it forever.”

The young woman blinked again and the dart slowly descended to the table. She clasped her hands together, her eyes unwavering from Alucius. “Aspect Elera sent you?”

“Yes.”

“What is her condition?”

“She resides in the Blackhold. Unharmed, save a raw ankle and sore need of a bath.”

“What did she tell you of us?”

“That you had wine.” Alucius risked a glance around the chamber. “I’m guessing she lied about that.”

“She did,” the young woman replied. “We also have scant food or water remaining and our forays into the city above yield us nothing.”

“I can bring food. Medicine too, should you need it. I assume that was her true purpose in sending me…” He paused to draw breath. “In sending me to the Seventh Order.”

The young woman angled her head, mouth twisting in a sardonic smile. “You speak of legends, poet.”

“Oh, what difference do it make now?” the plump woman said, moving to stand behind her sister. “You’ve got the right of it, y’lordship. I’m Sister Inehla, she’s Sister Cresia, and that over there is Brother Rhelkin. All that remains of the Seventh Order in this fair city.”

Alucius gestured at their surroundings. “And this place?”

“Once a temple to the Orders,” Sister Cresia replied. “Built before such frippery was expunged from the Faith. Our brothers in the Sixth Order found it some years ago, a hide for criminals, subsequently put to better purpose.”

Alucius turned to obtain a better view of Twenty-Seven and Brother Rhelkin, noting the strain on the guardsman’s face as the slave continued to move his sword as if through treacle. “What is he doing to him?”

“Making him see what he needs him to see,” Cresia said. “We’ve found it’s their principal weakness, those like him and his less deadly cousins. Minds so empty are easily clouded. He thinks he’s fighting a horde of assassins, come to spill your blood. Brother Rhelkin can also control the speed of the vision, making it last an hour or a second.”

“But not,” Rhelkin added through gritted teeth, “forever.”

Alucius turned back to Cresia. “Food and water,” he said. “What else do you need?”

“News of the war would be welcome.”

“The Volarian fleet sent to the Meldenean Isles suffered some form of calamitous defeat. Tokrev is poised to take Alltor and Darnel has ridden out with his knights to hunt down the Red Brother.”

“Lord Al Sorna?”

Alucius shook his head. “No word as yet.”

Cresia sighed and rose from the table. “When will you return?”

“Two days, if you can wait that long. Gathering extra provisions without raising suspicion takes time.”

She nodded at Twenty-Seven. “Should we kill this one?”

“His only task is to protect me or kill me should I step outside the city. In all other regards he is blind and dumb.”

She nodded. “I’m trusting you because Aspect Elera would not have sent you without reason.” She opened a pouch at her belt and the darts on the table rose to balance on their blunt ends before arching into the pouch in a precise sequence, making Alucius smile at the elegant impossibility of it.

“The night the city fell,” Cresia added. “I lost count of the men I killed with these, and other things besides. I bled myself white with killing and would have died if my sister hadn’t found me and brought me here. Know well, poet, if you abuse our trust, I’ll drain every drop of blood in my body to kill you.”

He found his father at the gate to the North Road, deep in counsel with the Volarian Division Commander as a battalion of Free Swords laboured to dig a deep ditch behind the wall.

“Lamp oil?” the Volarian was asking as Alucius approached, halting at a respectful distance, though still close enough to hear their discussion.

“As much as you can gather,” Lakrhil Al Hestian replied. “Enough to fill this ditch from end to end.”

The Volarian looked at the map spread out before them, scanning the lines depicting the walls and the country beyond. Alucius indulged some faint hope the man had enough arrogance to disregard his father’s counsel, but sadly, he again proved himself no fool. “Very well,” he said. “Have you chosen where to site the engines?”

Alucius’s father pointed to several points on the map as the Volarian nodded approval. “However,” Lakrhil said, “I will of course need engines to site.”

“They will be here in thirty days,” the Division Commander assured him. “Together with a thousand Varitai and three hundred more Kuritai. The Council has not abandoned us.”

If Lakrhil Al Hestian took any comfort from the man’s words, he failed to show it. “An army can travel far in thirty days,” he said. “Especially an army fuelled by love of a resurrected queen.”

Alucius stifled his gasp lest it draw the Volarian’s anger, his heart hammering worse than in the darkness below the ruined inn. She lives?

Mirvek straightened, fixing his father with a hard glare. “A lie told by cowards seeking to excuse failure,” he stated in unequivocal tones. “And that’s what you’ll tell your king when he returns. Whoever leads this rabble is not your queen.”

His father replied only with the slightest of nods. Alucius had yet to see him bow to any Volarian. The Division Commander gave him a final glare and turned to march away, his aides scurrying to keep up. Alucius approached his father with his heart still pounding. “Queen?” he asked.

“So it’s said.” Al Hestian didn’t look up from the map. “Restored to life, and apparently beauty by Dark means. If it’s really her. I’d not put it past Al Sorna to find a double somewhere and make her a figurehead.”

Vaelin too? And if he comes, then so too does Alornis. “What of Tokrev? Alltor?”

“Killed and saved. A messenger arrived from Warnsclave this morning. It seems every man in Tokrev’s army lies slaughtered and a great army marches north at the word of a Dark-blessed queen. My son, it seems you are shortly to be provided an ending to your poem.”

Alucius took a breath, turning from the map to look at the Free Swords labouring in the ditch. “Aren’t ditches normally dug outside the walls?”

“They are,” his father replied. “And if time allows, I’ll dig one there too, for the sake of appearances. The real defence is here.” He tapped the map with the barbed spike protruding from his right sleeve and Alucius saw an intricate web of black lines tracing through the maze of streets, streets that no longer existed. “A series of barriers, choke points, fire traps and so on. Al Sorna’s cunning enough, but he can’t work miracles. This city will be his army’s grave.”

“My lord,” Alucius spoke softly, moving to his father’s side. “I beg you…”

“We have spoken on this matter already.” His father’s tone was absolute, implacable. “I lost one son, I’ll not lose another.”

Alucius recalled the night the city fell, the screams and the flames waking him from drunken slumber, stumbling downstairs to find his father in the main hall, surrounded by Kuritai, slashing madly with his sword as they circled, one already dead but they made no move to kill him. Alucius had stood frozen in shock as a meaty arm closed over his neck and the short sword pressed into his temple. A Free Sword officer shouted to his father, pointing to Alucius. The expression on his face as he straightened from the fight was hard to forget, not shame, not despair, just honest and desperate fear for a loved son.

“Thirty days,” Alucius said softly, moving away, hugging himself tight. “Winterfall Eve is in thirty days, is it not?”

“Yes,” Al Hestian said after a moment’s thought. “Yes, I suppose it is.” Alucius felt his father’s eyes on him, knowing they were heavy with concern. “Do you need anything, Alucius?”

“Some more food,” he said. “Aspect Dendrish threatens to hang himself if we don’t feed him more. Though I doubt the bedsheets will hold him.”

“I’ll see to it.”

Alucius turned back, his smile bright, heartbeat steady now the weight of indecision had lifted. “Thank you, my lord.”

He was walking away when a commotion rose at the gate, the Varitai guards parting to allow entry to a lone rider. Alucius judged him as one of Darnel’s hunters, in truth a bunch of rogues and cutthroats recruited from the dregs of Renfael to hunt down the Red Brother. The man sagged in his saddle as he rode towards Alucius’s father, foam on his horse’s flanks and mouth. He nearly collapsed on dismounting, sketching a bow and speaking words too faint for Alucius to hear, though from the way his father straightened on hearing them, clearly of some import. Al Hestian strode off, barking orders, his two Kuritai guards in tow, Alucius hearing the word “cavalry” before he disappeared from view.

“First a risen queen and now a need for cavalry,” Alucius mused aloud to Twenty-Seven. “I believe it’s time to say good-bye to an old friend.”

Blue Feather delivered a painful nip at his thumb as he lifted her clear of the coop, the message dangling from her leg. So much weight on such a fragile thing, Alucius thought, eyeing the thin wire clasp.

“Do you want to say good-bye to her?” he asked Twenty-Seven who, as ever, said nothing.

“Oh, ignore him,” he told Blue Feather. “I’m going to miss you.” He held her up and opened his hands. She sat there for a moment, seemingly uncertain, then leapt free, her wings a blur as she ascended, then flattened out to catch the wind and fly away south.

Winterfall Eve, Alucius thought as he lost sight of the bird. When it’s said all grievances are forgiven, for who wants to bear a grudge through the hardships of winter?

CHAPTER EIGHT Frentis

A stiff autumn wind played over the remnants of the Urlish, raising swirling columns of ash to sting eyes and choke throats. It stretched away on either side of them, a dirty grey blanket covering the earth, broken only by the occasional black spike of a once-mighty tree.

“Would’ve thought some of it might have survived,” Ermund said, hawking and spitting before tying a scarf about his face.

“Darnel was certainly thorough,” Banders said. “Marching across this will not be pleasant.”

“We could skirt it,” Arendil suggested. “Head to the coast.”

“The coast road is too narrow,” Sollis said. “Too many choke points, and Al Hestian is bound to know them all.”

“And if we maintain this course,” Banders replied, “the dust trail we raise will give him ample signal of our approach. Not to mention filling our lungs with this stuff.”

“The country to the west is more open,” Sollis admitted. “But will add another week to our march.”

Frentis stifled a groan at the prospect of more days spent dreading dream-filled nights. Varinshold had become a focus for his desire for an ending, an ever-growing hope that whatever the outcome of their assault he would at least be assured release from her.

“Can’t be helped, brother.” Banders turned his horse about, nodding to Ermund. “Spread the word, we turn west until we clear the ash.”

“It was there again,” Illian said at breakfast, smiling thanks at Thirty-Four as he handed her a bowl of his honey-sweetened porridge.

“What was there?” Arendil asked.

“The wolf. I’ve seen it every day for a week now.”

“Throw stones,” Davoka suggested. “Wolf will run from stones.”

“Not this one. He’s so big I doubt he’d feel them. Anyway, he’s not scary. Doesn’t chase after me, or growl or anything. Just sits and watches.”

Frentis saw discomfort in Davoka’s expression as she watched the girl eat her porridge. “I come with you today,” she said. “See if he watches me.”

Illian scowled, speaking a laboured but precise Lonak phrase he knew translated as, “The coddled cub never hunts.”

Davoka gave a soft laugh and returned to her own meal, though Frentis saw her lingering disquiet. “I’ll come too,” he said, keen to seek out any distraction from the persistent stain of last night’s dream. It had been stranger than usual, a confused jumble of images, mostly violent, often full of pain and sorrow, but not always. She whimpers as she lies abed, staring at her bedroom door… She laughs as she strangles a woman beneath a desert sky… She shudders in pleasure as he moves in her, heart swelling with feelings she had thought long dead…

On waking, sweating and striving to quell a torrent of sensation, he realised he had not seen her waking hours, but her dreams. I dream her dreams. What does she dream of me?

They rode west until midday, finding nothing save empty fields and the occasional cluster of slaughtered cattle or sheep, mostly older animals, the younger ones no doubt having been herded off to Varinshold. Another mile’s ride brought them to an empty farmhouse, the roof gone and walls blackened by fire, no sign of any life within. “Why do they destroy so much?” Illian asked. “They take slaves, which is evil but at least comprehensible. But to tear down everything whilst doing so. It’s beyond reason.”

“They think they’re cleansing the land,” Frentis told her. “Wiping it clean so their own people can start anew. Build another province to the empire in its image.”

Illian pulled her horse to a halt an hour later, turning to Davoka and pointing to a nearby rise, her smile bright. “There. Isn’t he beautiful?”

Frentis found it quickly, a shadowed outline on the skyline, taller than any wolf he had seen before. It sat regarding them with impassive scrutiny as they trotted closer, Davoka resting her spear on her shoulder for a quick throw. They stopped some thirty yards short of the beast, close enough for Frentis to see its eyes, blinking as it looked at each of them in turn, fur ruffling in the wind. He saw the plain truth in Illian’s words; it was beautiful.

The wolf rose and turned, moving off towards the north at a brisk trot for a hundred paces or so then stopping once more, sitting and watching as they exchanged glances.

“It didn’t do this before,” Illian said after a moment.

Davoka muttered something in her own language, face dark with foreboding, but Frentis noticed she had lowered her spear. He turned back to the wolf, seeing how its gaze was fixed entirely on him. He kicked his horse forward and the wolf rose again to follow its northward course. After a second he heard Illian and Davoka spurring to follow.

The wolf started to run after a half mile or so, its long, loping stride covering the distance with deceptive speed. Frentis lost sight of it several times as they galloped after, tracking it over low hills of long grass. Finally they reined in as it came to a halt on one of the taller hills and a familiar scent came to Frentis’s nostrils. He raised a questioning eyebrow at Davoka who nodded and climbed down from the saddle. Frentis joined her and they handed their reins to Illian. She pouted in annoyance as he pointed an emphatic finger at the ground to fix her in place.

They ascended the hill at the crouch, dropping to a crawl at the summit. The wolf had sunk to its haunches, waiting no more than a few feet away, still regarding Frentis with the same blank scrutiny.

“What a fool the man must be,” Frentis breathed, staring at the scene before them. The camp sat in open ground, the rear flank covered by a shallow stream, pickets patrolling the perimeter but not far enough out. The scent of smoke and horse sweat was richer now, campfires threw dozens of grey columns into the air, only partly obscuring the banner that rose from the centre of the camp: an eagle on a red-and-white-cheque background.

Five hundred men at most, Frentis mused, eyes scanning the camp. And Banders’s army stands unnoticed between him and Varinshold. “Take Illian,” he told Davoka. “Tell Banders I’ll lead them to Lirkan’s Spur. Master Sollis knows the way.”

“She can go,” Davoka said. “You shouldn’t do this alone.”

He shook his head, grinning as he nodded at the wolf. “Seems I’m not alone. Ride fast.”

He waited a good hour after their departure, watching the camp as scouts came and went, small groups of men with hunting dogs reporting in or galloping off in a fresh direction. He thought we’d make for Nilsael, Frentis decided, seeing how most of the scouts rode off to the north or the west. Didn’t consider we’d try for Renfael, his own land, the people so fiercely loyal. He shook his head, wondering if Darnel’s mind was truly that of a fool or if the man wasn’t in fact just a barking loon.

It took the best part of another hour before a scouting party came their way, two riders and a clutch of dogs making directly for their hill. The wolf rose when they had begun to climb the slope, the riders immediately dragging their mounts to a halt whilst the hounds milled about, whining in fear as their masters whipped at them, uttering curses and threats.

And the wolf howled.

Frentis shrank from the vastness of the sound, sinking to the earth, eyes clamped tight shut and hands over his ears as it soared across the fields and hills, the force of it cutting through him like a ragged saw-blade. Not since the long years of the binding had he felt so helpless, so small.

He opened his eyes as the howl faded, finding the wolf staring down at him, green eyes meeting his and birthing a realisation that it knew him, knew his every secret, every hidden scrap of guilt. It dipped its head, a rough tongue scraping over Frentis’s forehead, drawing a whimper and leaving something new. A message. It wasn’t a voice, more a certainty, a clear and bright surety shining in his mind: you must forgive yourself.

Frentis felt a laugh escape him as the wolf drew back, blinked again, then turned to lope away. Frentis stood to watch it run, a silver streak through the twisting grass, disappearing in a heartbeat.

The whinny of a panicked horse brought him back to his senses, turning to find the two riders staring at him in shock, their dogs a good distance away, yelping in fear as they raced for the camp. Frentis chose the rider on the left, palmed a throwing knife and sent it into his throat. He fell from his horse, blood frothing from his mouth as he clutched at his neck. His companion’s wide-eyed gaze shifted to Frentis and back again, hands twitching on his reins, his sword untouched at his side.

“You have a report to make,” Frentis told him. “Give Lord Darnel the Red Brother’s regards.”

He remounted and guided his horse to the crest of the hill, sitting and watching as the huntsman galloped back to camp. It took no longer than the space of a few heartbeats before it convulsed, knights struggling into armour and running to their horses, tents falling as squires packed up, and a single rider emerged from the burgeoning dust cloud, blue armour gleaming in the late-afternoon sun. Frentis raised a hand in a friendly wave, lingering long enough to ensure Darnel had seen it, then turned and galloped towards the east.

He led them on a winding course, buying time for Banders to get his people moving. He would gallop east for a time, halt, and watch Darnel’s pursuit for a few moments, then strike out towards the south. Darnel edged closer with every pause, but his horse and those of his knights were too burdened by their riders’ armour to mount an effective pursuit. Frentis would wave every time he stopped, the last time leaving it long enough to ensure Darnel saw his mocking bow.

He came to Lirkan’s Spur some two hours into the chase, a narrow thumb-shaped spit of grassland jutting into the broad waters of the Brinewash. The river was shallow here, fordable even this late in the year with open country to the north and a tall, rocky hill some three hundred paces south, shielding the eastern bank from view. He pulled his horse to a halt and scanned the surroundings, finding no evidence of any ally.

He turned his horse about, calming him with a stroke to the flank as he waited. The wolf’s message still sang in his breast, his newborn spirit leaving him with a faint smile that refused to budge from his lips, even as Darnel’s five hundred knights thundered towards the spur.

Come, my lord, he urged Darnel silently. Just a little closer.

His risen spirits took a slight tumble at the sight of Darnel raising a hand, his entire command coming to a halt some two hundred paces short. Frentis reached over his shoulder and drew his sword, raising it high before pointing it directly at Darnel in a clear and unambiguous challenge. Be true to yourself, my lord, Frentis implored him. Be the fool.

Darnel’s horse reared as its rider drew his own sword, one of his retainers trotting forward, perhaps keen to offer a cautionary word, but Darnel dismissed him with a furious wave before spurring his horse to a gallop. Frentis made ready to begin his own charge, then paused as a new sound came to his ears; horns sounding a high pealing note to the east, too high for a Renfaelin knight and the Sixth Order had no use for horns. He paused to glance over his shoulder, his smile fading completely at the sight of at least two battalions of Volarian cavalry charging towards the eastern bank of the Brinewash.

Al Hestian! he cursed. Another tumult drew his attention to the south, the great churning roaring of many horses charging through shallow water. Banders led his knights around the rocky hill and straight for Darnel’s company, Frentis spying the dim figures of his brothers atop the hill, bows drawn. He switched his gaze back to Darnel, finding the Fief Lord now halted, his men milling in confusion behind him. Frentis cast a final look at the onrushing Volarian cavalry, now fording the river, but prevented from galloping by the water’s height.

He fixed his gaze on Darnel once more and kicked his horse into motion, sword held out straight and level as he charged, covering the distance in barely a few seconds. He could see the black streaks of his brothers’ arrows arcing into Darnel’s host, horses rearing and knights falling as they struck home. One of Darnel’s retainers took hold of the Fief Lord’s reins and tried to drag him towards the Volarians, falling dead as Darnel hacked his long sword into the man’s neck, wheeling about and meeting Frentis’s charge head-on.

Their horses collided with bone-shattering force, Frentis’s sword rebounding from Darnel’s blade as the Fief Lord slashed at him before the animals reeled back. Frentis’s horse staggered, snorting foam and blood, sinking to its knees as he leapt clear, crouching as Darnel leaned low in the saddle to try for a decapitating blow with his long sword. Frentis let it whisper past then dived to catch hold of Darnel’s armoured forearm, hooking both arms around the steel-clad limb and hauling him from the saddle. He landed with a crash of rending metal but recovered quickly, lunging to butt his helmeted head into Frentis’s side, sending him sprawling, then bringing his long sword up in a two-handed grip. Frentis could see his eyes behind the visor, wide and full of unreasoning hate.

He rolled as the blade came down, cleaving into the earth, springing to his feet and slashing at Darnel’s visor. The Fief Lord dodged the blow and brought his sword around in a great arc, Frentis grunting with the effort as he parried the blow, Darnel’s steel biting deep into his Order blade. He reached out to catch Darnel’s gauntleted wrist before he could draw the blade back, stepping in close, angling his sword to thrust up through the visor. Darnel jerked his head back as the blade sank home, the tip emerging bloodied, the Fief Lord roaring in fury and pain.

Frentis spun, bringing the blade round to slash into Darnel’s legs, not piercing the armour but with enough force to send him to the ground. The Fief Lord howled and hacked at him again but Frentis blocked the blow and delivered a kick to his sword hand, the blade flying free. He smashed his sword guard into Darnel’s visor, stunning him before planting a boot on his neck, laying the tip of his blade on the opening, meeting the eyes behind it, smiling fiercely at the fear he saw.

“BROTHER!”

It was Arendil, charging towards them, men locked in combat on either side, his sword pointed at something over Frentis’s shoulder. He didn’t waste time with a glance, diving to the left as a Volarian cavalry sword left a shallow cut on his cheek. The Volarian dragged his horse around for another blow then tumbled from the saddle as Arendil’s sword lanced through his shoulder.

Frentis turned, finding himself faced with four more Volarians charging at full gallop. He heard the thunder of hooves behind him and threw himself flat, feeling hot breath wash over his neck as a horse leapt him. He looked up to see Master Rensial deliver a precise upward stroke to one of the onrushing Volarians, the man’s breastplate parting with the force of the blow. Rensial ducked under a wild slash of the Volarian to his right and replied with a backward stroke as he rode past, the cavalryman arching his back as the blade cut him to the spine.

The remaining two Volarians came for Frentis, close together and blades levelled, then tumbling to the ground as a cloud of arrows arched down from the hilltop to claim both riders and horses.

Frentis whirled, searching for Darnel amidst the raging chaos. Banders’s knights had shattered the Fief Lord’s command but were now fully engaged with the Volarians, men and horses wheeling in a mass of steel and rending flesh. Frentis caught a flash of blue armour through the heaving confusion to the right, a hunched figure on a horse being led away by two Volarians. Horns sounded and the cavalry began to withdraw, riders delivering a final slash before turning about and galloping back to the river.

Frentis saw a riderless horse a dozen feet away and vaulted onto its back, spurring in the direction of Darnel’s flight, hacking at any unfortunate Volarians in his way. He spied Master Rensial nearby, cutting down an unhorsed Volarian, and yelled to get his attention. The master’s eyes found him quickly, as ever in battle, focused, calm, and seemingly free of madness. Frentis pointed at the blue-armoured figure now nearing the river and the master spurred his horse in pursuit, Frentis riding hard on his heels.

Darnel was already labouring through the water when Rensial and Frentis caught up with his escort. Both men turning at the water’s edge to face them, manoeuvring their mounts with uncanny precision, Frentis grunting in annoyance at the sight of the twin swords on their backs. Kuritai.

Rensial attempted to skirt them, hanging half-out of his saddle to avoid a Kuritai’s blade, but the slave-elite leapt from his horse, landing nimbly on Rensial’s saddle and stabbing down with his twin blades. Rensial unhooked his foot from the stirrup and swung himself around his horse’s head, delivering a double kick to the Kuritai’s chest as they ploughed into the river, the slave flying free of the horse and the master regaining the saddle.

Frentis tried to dispatch the second Kuritai with a throwing knife, waiting until he was near level with the slave before sending it into his eye. The man barely seemed to notice the injury, hacking at Frentis as he rode by, the blade missing by inches, turning his horse to follow but falling dead as Davoka’s spear erupted from his chest. She hauled it free of the corpse and spurred her own horse onward, following Frentis into the river.

He could see Darnel ahead, flogging his horse bloody as it laboured onto the far bank, galloping east as an escort of Volarians closed around him and a rear-guard stood firm at the water’s edge. Rensial charged straight into them, his sword a blur as men fell around him, spurring after the fast-retreating Darnel then rearing as a Volarian blade cleaved into his horse’s neck. Another Volarian rushed towards the master, sword poised to strike at his back. Frentis’s horse ploughed into the Volarian’s mount before he could strike, his head transfixed by the Order blade a second later.

Davoka screamed in frustration as she fought her way through the remaining Volarians, spear whirling, blood trailing from the blade, leaving only two remaining cavalrymen, who vainly attempted to follow their comrades’ retreat, falling dead to arrows launched from behind. Frentis turned to see Sollis and Ivern fording the river at speed, bows in hand. Behind them the western bank was calm in the aftermath of battle, knights and free fighters wandering among the dead.

Frentis cast his gaze back at the dust cloud rising in Darnel’s wake, knowing they wouldn’t catch him now. Davoka uttered a Lonak curse and threw her spear into the ground. Nearby, Rensial knelt at his horse’s side, smoothing a hand along its neck and whispering softly as it breathed its last.

“That was reckless, brother.” Sollis’s pale eyes regarded him with stern disapproval, deepening further as Frentis laughed, long and loud.

“Yes, brother,” he replied as the mirth faded, knowing the expression on Sollis’s face to be a mirror of his own when he looked at Rensial. “Very reckless. My most profound apologies.”

“We had him!” Ermund fumed, hands on his sword hilt, stabbing the scabbard into the earth. “I was less than two yards away in the melee. We had him and still he lives. He’s laughing at us, I can hear it.”

“His knights lie dead or captured and he runs for Varinshold like a whipped dog,” Banders replied. “I doubt he’ll be laughing.”

“Though he does now have full knowledge of our number and whereabouts,” Sollis pointed out.

“But not the strength to do much about it,” the baron returned.

They were atop the rocky hill overlooking the spur. Below, Frentis’s fighters were moving amongst the dead, looting weapons or valuables. Near the riverbank a small cluster of Darnel’s knights waited under guard. They made a curiously pathetic sight when shorn of armour, just tired defeated men, eyes wide with fear and nerves frayed by the instant death meted out to those Volarians who had attempted to surrender.

“What’s these poxed whoresons doing alive, brother?” Draker had demanded of Frentis earlier, the prisoners within earshot and moving in a restless shudder. “Traitors to the Realm, ain’t they?”

“They yielded according to custom,” Ermund told him, not without a note of regret. “The baron will decide their fate.”

“Best keep ’em away from us on the march,” Draker muttered darkly before stomping off to do some more looting.

Banders had extracted enough information from the captured knights to reveal the depth of Darnel’s current delusions. “Rebuilding the palace, making himself a king,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m given to wonder if the Volarians haven’t put some Dark spell on him, stripping away all reason.”

“It was always there, Father,” Lady Ulice said quietly. “This madness. I remember it well enough. As a girl I mistook it for passion, love even. And it may well have been, but love for himself, bound only by his father’s will. With Fief Lord Theros gone he feels himself free, able to fly at last.”

“We’ll have to hope his unreason leaves him deaf to Al Hestian’s counsel,” Banders said. “Taking Varinshold by stealth may well be impossible now and all he need do is wait behind its walls whilst his allies conclude their business in Cumbrael.”

“I should still like to attempt the sewers, my lord,” Frentis said. “Alone if necessary.”

This drew some odd glances from the assembled captains, Sollis’s gaze particularly grave in its intensity. Frentis knew his freshly lightened soul showed on his face but the wolf’s gift was a cherished thing and he saw little reason to hide it. You must forgive yourself.

“I’ll… be sure to bear that in mind, brother,” Banders assured him with the kind of tight smile Frentis recognised. The smile you offer to one you think mad.

“We stand barely a few miles from the Nilsaelin border,” Lord Furel said. “A pause here to rest and await word from my messengers might be the best course. Reinforcements could well be marching to our side as we speak. At the very least some word will be coming from the Reaches.”

Banders looked at Sollis with a questioning eye. “I’ll send my brothers out in all directions,” the Brother Commander said. “If there’s word to be had within fifty miles of here, we’ll have it within two days.”

Banders nodded. “Very well. We camp here. Brother Frentis, you come under your brother’s word, not mine, but I think we are of like mind in saying your visit to Varinshold will have to wait.”

Frentis shrugged, bowing with an affable grin. “As my lord wishes.” His smile lingered as he made his way back to his tent, the unease he had felt at the very sight of his bedroll now vanished. A dreamless sleep, he thought, pulling off his boots and lying back on the blanket. I wonder how it’ll feel.

She watches them fight with cold detachment, assessing skill and speed as they dance in the pit below. Steely echoes rebound from the walls that surround her, the stone roof above coarse and free of decoration, for these are new pits, chiselled out far below the streets of Volar, the birthplace of long-gestated children.

Do you like them, beloved? she asks him, knowing he sees them, keen to engage his interest, hungry in fact to hear a single word from across the gulf that divides them. We learned so much from you.

The men in the pit below fight without restraint and die without screams. But their faces are not those of Kuritai, no blank automata here. These men grimace in pain and snarl in fury, register grim satisfaction at bloody victory. There are at least a hundred in the pit, moving with all the fluency of those bred to the fight.

Give a dog too tight a leash, she thinks, and it chokes. And however much you whip it, it will always be a dog. But these, beloved. She smiles down at the men in the pit. These are lions.

She turns away, moving along a stone walkway to a narrow door. The sounds of combat follow her as she walks; the tunnel is long and dark but she has walked here before and has no need of torches. The chamber she comes to is broad and high, tiered walkways rising on both sides allowing access to rows of cells, each sealed with bars of iron. She pauses and lets her song wander, feeling the dulled fears emanating from each of the cells. Drugs are widely employed by the overseers who service these cells, but still the fear always lingers. Her song alights on a cell on the middle tier to the left. The note is harsh, sombre, stirring a hunger.

She is momentarily troubled by this. Usually the song chooses an innocent, some pale-faced youth stolen from a slaughtered hill tribe or identified by the overseers in the training dens. She had liked to play the benefactor, the kindly mistress come to offer them deliverance from this place of endless fear, enjoying the desperate hope in their eyes, even granting them the mercy of a swift death by way of reward.

Now it is different. The song speaks of a loathsome soul and it’s this that stirs her hunger. Was this you, beloved? she asks him. Did you change me so much? Despite her unease she knows this shell must be sustained, the Messenger having related how quickly a stolen shell can sicken, the demands of multiple gifts drain them so. She starts for the nearby stairwell but pauses as two Kuritai approach, dragging a red-clad figure between them and providing a welcome distraction.

“Council-man Lorvek,” she greets the red-clad. “It’s been so very long. I’m glad to see the years have not withered you one bit.”

The red-clad appears to be a man in his mid-thirties, though she first met him some eighty years ago when he first rose to Council, in this very chamber in fact. He had been triumphant then, she recalls, preening with satisfaction at having secured fabled immortality. Now he just seems to be what he is, a scared man, cowed by torture and expectant of death.

“I…” he begins, swallows, a faint trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth. “I… humbly regret any offence caused to the Ally or his servants…”

“Oh, there you go again, Lorvek,” she says, shaking her head with a sad smile. “Always saying the wrong thing. What was it you called me that day in Council, oh, twenty years ago? You remember, the day I came back from my excursion to the realm of the slant-eyed pig?”

Lorvek hangs his head, summoning the will to plead further. “I… I said… unwise words…”

“Murderous whore to a pestilent phantom.” She takes hold of his hair and pulls his head up. “Yes, that was unwise. And now you call me a servant. I do wonder how you ever rose so high with such poor judgement. After everything the Ally has given you.”

A wave of weariness sweeps through him and his eyes grow dim for a second. She assumes he has exhausted his ability to beg, but then he draws breath, a light coming back into his eyes as he spits blood into her face. “The Council will not stand for this, you vile bitch!” he hisses.

“Evidence of corruption is hard to ignore,” she tells him, finding a glimmer of admiration for this final flare of courage. “I’m afraid the vote was unanimous. Besides…” She moves closer, whispering, “Just between the two of us, the Council won’t have to stand for anything soon.” She presses a kiss to his cheek and steps back.

“Back there,” she tells the Kuritai, jerking her head at the tunnel leading to the pits. “Give him a sword and throw him in. Tell the overseer I want to know how long he lasts.”

He screams as they drag him away, more defiance, dwindling again into contrite pleas as they enter the tunnel and his voice fades. She summons the song once more, seeking out the cell with the dark note and making for the stairs.

Frentis came awake with a shout, despair and grief doubling him over. He felt tears flowing and covered his face with his hands, sobs tearing from his throat.

“Boy?” Master Rensial reached out to touch him, hand tentative on his shoulder, bafflement in his voice. “Boy?”

Frentis continued to weep as the mad master patted his shoulder, aware that the others had stirred from their tents, that they stood outside looking on in amazement, but he found he couldn’t stop. Not until the morning sun rose and all chance of sleep had safely faded.

“My blood grandmother had many dreams.” Davoka’s eyes were intent on his face as she rode alongside, though her tone was light, her usual growl absent this morning.

Frentis gave a tired nod and didn’t reply. Breakfast had been a mostly silent affair, Thirty-Four passing him a bowl of porridge with a troubled frown, Illian and Arendil unable to meet his gaze, and Draker staring, bushy brows narrowed in concern.

Tears from the Red Brother, Frentis thought. They forgot I was a just a man… Perhaps I did too.

“She saw stars falling from the sky to shatter the land,” Davoka went on. “And floods high enough to drown the mountains. One day she gave away her pony and all her goods because a dream told her the sun would explode at twilight. It didn’t and people saw just a mad old woman with dreams, and dreams mean nothing.”

They are not dreams, he wanted to tell her, closing his eyes and rubbing at his temples as fatigue swept through him. “You think I am not fit to lead?”

“Our clan would follow you into the Mouth of Nishak if you asked. They fear for you, that is all.”

He opened his eyes and forced himself to scan the horizon. West of the Spur the ground was mostly pasture, though now devoid of cattle, the grass grown long through lack of grazing. Master Sollis had acceded to his request to scout the southern approach, though his pale eyes spoke of harsher judgement than that offered by the people who had followed him from the Urlish. He thinks me damaged, Frentis knew. Destroyed by the burden of so much guilt. He hadn’t told Sollis of the wolf’s blessing, the liberation from guilt it had brought, for it seemed empty now. What use was there in being freed from guilt if he was condemned to see through her eyes every night?

Davoka stiffened at his side and pointed. Frentis shook away the doubts clouding his head and followed her finger, finding two figures on the horizon, both mounted and moving at a steady canter through the long grass. He knew they couldn’t be Volarian — they never patrolled in small numbers — and he doubted Darnel had many more hunters to send forth, especially without dogs. Besides, it was plain they had already seen the two riders to the north and came on regardless. Not the actions of an enemy. Nevertheless he unhitched his bow and notched an arrow as the riders came closer, Davoka edging her horse away and angling it so her spear was concealed, held low on its right flank.

Frentis frowned as the riders’ features came into view, finding one a woman and the other a man. The woman had long hair tied back in a tight braid, mounted on a tall piebald mare. Her clothes were unfamiliar, a mix of leather and Volarian gear, including a short sword tied to her saddle though she also carried a lance adorned with feathers and what seemed to be talismans of carved bone.

He heard Davoka give a surprised grunt. “Eorhil.”

The man was dressed in the garb of Realm Guard infantry, his somewhat gaunt features set in a permanent frown, somewhere between bafflement and pain, his mouth open and lips free of expression. They reined to a halt some ten yards away, the woman’s gaze shifting between them, faintly amused by Frentis and his bow, stern and guarded when she turned to Davoka, the Realm Guard at her side sparing them only a tired glance.

Davoka said something in an unfamiliar tongue, the words hesitant and formed with difficulty. The Eorhil woman barked a laugh before speaking in heavily accented Realm Tongue, “Lonakhim sound like a birthing ape.”

Davoka bridled, taking a firm grip on her reins and hefting her spear though the Eorhil woman just grinned, turning to Frentis. “My… husband teach me… you tongue. You a… brother?”

“Yes,” he said. “Brother Frentis of the Sixth Order. This is Lady Davoka, Lonak Ambassadress to the Unified Realm.”

The Eorhil blinked in bafflement at the unfamiliar words and shook her head, patting her chest. “Insha ka Forna, I am Eorhil.”

“We know,” Davoka said evenly. “What do you do here?”

“This Brother Lernial.” The Eorhil gestured at the Realm Guard who was now staring silently at the ground. “Kwin sent us.”

“Kwin?” Frentis asked.

Insha ka Forna grunted in frustration and turned, pointing towards the south, speaking with slow deliberation. “Queen.”

CHAPTER NINE Lyrna

The name was halfway down today’s list, clearly legible in Brother Hollun’s neat script. It had become her daily habit to read the list after breakfast, the brother waiting patiently as she scanned every name. She had been gratified to find that he had already compiled a complete list of every subject in her army, apart from the Seordah and Eorhil, who reacted to his approaches with baffled disdain. Since arriving at Warnsclave she had asked him to expand it to include the refugees who continued to trail into the wasted city. The portly brother undertook the task with his usual diligent care, though he had been obliged to expand his staff of scribes to over thirty, mostly older folk skilled in letters and poorly suited to soldiering.

“These people all arrived yesterday?” she asked.

“Yes, Highness. We put them in the western quarter, shelter is sparse but Captain Ultin’s miners have been busy, bringing in timber to repair roofs and such. They’ve even begun raising some stone houses from the rubble.”

“Good. Assign more men to help them.” She looked again at the name on the list, recalling the final words of a drowning man. Don’t forget your promise, Highness.

She put the list aside and smiled at Hollun. She had taken to receiving her subjects in a large room on the second floor of the harbour-master’s house, a comfortable but somewhat scorched chair standing in for a throne, Iltis and her ladies at her back with a dutiful stillness she found quite irksome even though she recognised the necessity for it. A queen must have a court.

“This takes us up to some thirty thousand new mouths to feed, does it not, brother?” she asked her Lord of the Queen’s Purse.

“Thirty-one thousand, six hundred and twenty,” the brother replied with customary alacrity. “Thank the Departed for Lord Al Bera, or they’d all be starving.”

“Quite.” Lyrna decided not to add that, but for her newly acquired subjects, her army would have been on the march by now. Instead they were obliged to loiter in this ruin, ensuring the people were fed and training new recruits, fierce in their desire to get at the Volarians but lacking the strength to march more than a mile. The pickings provided by the Meldenean fleet had been less copious than she had hoped for, barely a ton of grain so far, though the pirates who came and went from the harbour seemed fairly well attired in silks and jewellery. The Shield had yet to make an appearance, though Ship Lord Ell-Nurin had arrived the previous day, the deck of the Red Falcon laden with captured arrows once destined for Varinshold.

There was a loud rap on the door and Orena went to open it, revealing Benten lowered to one knee. “Lord Al Sorna and Lady Al Myrna, my queen.”

She nodded, smiling again at Brother Hollun. “I look forward to tomorrow’s report, brother.”

He bowed and moved to the door, standing aside as Vaelin and the Lady Dahrena entered. “I would talk to the lord and lady in private,” Lyrna told her court, who duly bowed and withdrew, Iltis with obvious reluctance as he rarely let her out of his sight these days, but knowing better than to argue the point. Lyrna watched Vaelin and Dahrena rise in unison, their movements almost as synchronised as those empty-headed Nilsaelin twins. Looking at their matched, neutral expressions she wondered if they were aware of it, of how unnerving it was to see, or how painful.

A queen is above jealousy, she reminded herself. Though after today, they may be forgiven for thinking otherwise.

“Lady Dahrena,” she said, keeping her tone as light and brisk as she could. “I have been pondering your report on the rich gold deposits to be found in the Reaches. From what I can surmise from Brother Hollun’s estimates, the mines hold enough gold to pay our current and future debts to the Meldenean merchant class several times over.”

Dahrena gave a short nod. “I believe so, Highness.”

“Strange that I can recall no instance when King Malcius expressed an awareness of such riches within his Realm.”

The lady’s answer was swift and, Lyrna judged, well rehearsed. “The full survey of the deposits was not yet complete at the time of the King’s tragic demise, Highness. In truth, I suspect there are more seams yet to be found.”

“I am glad, my lady. Such wealth may well serve as the saviour of this Realm in years to come, for we have much work still to do. And yet, it is of scant use to us lying in the ground, hundreds of miles away, whilst the men with the skill to mine it are here, along with one best placed to organise their efforts.”

She saw them stiffen, once again with the same unnerving uniformity. “My queen?” Vaelin asked in a hard voice.

Lyrna took a breath, summoning her regretful smile. She had spent a while at the mirror practising this morning, for it had never been one of her best. “Lady Dahrena, it is my hard duty to order your immediate return to the Northern Reaches where you will exercise the Queen’s Word until such time as Lord Vaelin can resume his duties. Ship Lord Ell-Nurin’s vessel waits in the harbour to carry you there. With kindly weather you should reach the North Tower in three weeks, his ship being so uncommonly swift. I will also order sufficient vessels gathered to transport Captain Ultin’s miners home as soon as possible.”

“They want to fight,” Vaelin stated, Dahrena standing expressionless at his side. “Sending them away will cause trouble…”

“I’ll speak to them,” Lyrna told him. “Explain that every swing of a pick is worth a hundred strokes of a sword. Besides, they’ve done enough fighting to justify any claim to honour, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would, Highness,” Dahrena said before Vaelin could speak. “I… regret the necessity of your order.” She glanced briefly at Vaelin before lowering her gaze. “However, I can find no argument against it.”

How fortunate, since I will hear no argument from you. Lyrna chained the words behind another smile, rising and coming forward to clasp the small woman’s hands. “Your service in this war has been great and wondrous. It will never be forgotten, nor is it over. Bring me riches, my lady, so that I might buy justice.”

She released Dahrena’s hands and stepped back, forcing herself to meet Vaelin’s gaze, the glint in his narrow gaze hard to bear. This is not jealousy, she wanted to say. You know me better than that.

“You will wish to say your farewells,” she told them. “I have business with our new arrivals.”

The newcomers were unusual in that, unlike most of the other groups to make their way to Warnsclave over the past week, they were rich in children. One of the most frequent and difficult sights on the march had been the plethora of small corpses, often herded into houses and burnt to tiny remnants, others just slaughtered like unwanted livestock and left to rot in the open. Seeing so many still living gave a lift to Lyrna’s spirits, though they were mostly gaunt and silent, staring at her as she moved among their mean accommodations.

“Brother Innis,” Brother Hollun introduced a thin man in a grey robe. “Master of the Orphanage at Rhansmill. He hid his charges in the woods for weeks.”

“Brother.” Lyrna returned the man’s bow with grave respect. “I thank you, with all my heart. Your deeds credit the Faith.”

Brother Innis, clearly unused to royalty and ill from lack of food, staggered a little but managed to remain upright. The children clustered around him, clutching at his robe, some glaring at Lyrna as if she had done him harm. “I had a great deal of help, Highness,” the brother said, gesturing at the comparatively few adults in the group. “These people starved so the children could eat, led the Volarians away so that they might remain undiscovered. Some paid dearly for their courage.”

“They will receive full justice for their sacrifice,” she assured him. “If you require anything, speak to Brother Hollun and it will be provided.”

He gave another unsteady bow. “Thank you, Highness.”

“Now. I seek a woman named Trella Al Oren.”

Innis blanched at the name, shooting a guarded glance at a shelter nearby, a roof of thin planking over what had been a woodshed. “She… gave much to keep these children warm,” he stammered. “Forgive me, Highness. But I beg that no punishment be visited upon her.”

“Punishment?” Lyrna asked.

“How may I serve, Highness?”

Lyrna turned to find a tall woman standing outside the shelter, arms crossed. She was somewhere past her fiftieth year, handsome features set in a wary frown and white streaking her black hair. “My lady”—Lyrna bowed to her—“I bring news of your son.”

Lady Al Oren had contrived to preserve a china tea-set throughout her ordeal, two small cups and a spherical pot, finely decorated with an orchid motif inlaid with gold. “Alpiran,” she said, pouring the tea as they sat outside her shelter. “A gift from my aunt on the occasion of my wedding.”

Lyrna sipped her tea, finding the taste surprisingly rich. “My lady is resourceful,” she offered, hoping to ease the woman’s obvious tension. “To keep such treasures safe, and procure tea of such quality.”

“We found a merchant’s cart a few weeks ago. The owner killed, of course. They took everything but the tea, though a single sack of grain would have been more welcome.” She sipped her own tea and sighed, steeling herself to ask the obvious question. “How did he die?”

“Saving my life, and the lives of those who now make up my court.”

“But not his own.”

“My lady, if there had been any way…”

Lady Trella shook her head, eyes closed and face downcast. “I kept hold of my hopes, throughout it all, during the flight from Varinshold, the long days on the road, finding Brother Innis and the children… I held to my hope. Fermin was always so clever, if never wise. If there was a way to survive the city’s fall and escape the dungeons, he would have found it.”

Lyrna thought of the shark and the battle, wondering if she should share her suspicions, her belief that Fermin had found at least some form of escape, and vengeance. But the words were beyond her, the enigma of it all so great. Was he a man living in a shark? Or a shark with a memory of once being a man? In either case, she felt sure this brave woman had no need to be burdened by further mystery.

“It is my wish,” she said, “to make Fermin a posthumous Sword of the Realm. In honour of his sacrifice.”

Lady Trella’s lips formed the faintest smile. “Thank you. I think he would have found the notion… amusing.”

Lyrna glanced around at the onlooking people, the adults busying themselves with the chores of cooking or building, but Brother Innis and his clutch of children continuing to view their meeting with deep concern. “Brother Innis said you kept them warm,” she said.

Lady Trella shrugged. “Anyone can light a fire.”

“Also, to survive the assault on the city, and the flight southward. Quite an achievement.”

“I don’t know how much Fermin told you of our circumstances, Highness, but despite our name, we did not live a noble existence. Poverty makes one resourceful.”

“I’m sure. But still, a woman alone, surviving war and hunger for so long.” She watched Lady Trella sip more tea, seeing how she forced herself to swallow. “You may have heard,” she went on, “that I have lifted all strictures on use of the Dark in this Realm. The Gifted now occupy an honoured place in my army, and upon speaking to them, I have noticed that they share a common trait. In each case their mother also had a gift, but not always their father. Curious, don’t you think?”

Lady Trella met her gaze then slowly raised her hand, splaying the fingers. “A Volarian soldier kicked my door in that night, found me hiding in my bedroom closet, laughed as he took hold of my hair and made ready to cut my throat.” A small blue flame appeared on the tip of her index finger, dancing prettily. “He didn’t laugh for long.” The flame turned yellow and flared, engulfing Trella’s hand from fingers to wrist.

“Highness!” Iltis appeared at her side, sword half-drawn. Lyrna realised she had risen and backed away, staring at the flames.

“I know of your edict, Highness,” Trella said. “But mere words do not dispel centuries of fear. My mother made certain I knew well the danger of revealing my nature, the terror it aroused, and the unwelcome attention it drew from the Faithful.” She closed her hand and the flames died. Lyrna took a breath, forcing the tremble from her limbs. She gave a nod of reassurance to Iltis and resumed her seat, sipping some more tea until the memories faded. The smell of her own skin as the flames licked over it…

“The Seventh Order is bound by my word,” she said after a moment, when she was sure there would be no quaver to her voice. “I will not allow them to compel any subject to join it. There is a small company of Gifted from the Northern Reaches who stand apart from them, answering only to Lord Vaelin and myself. You would be welcome to join them.”

“I am an old woman, Highness.”

“Not so old, I think. And I feel your son’s soul would smile on your service, don’t you?”

Trella’s eyes went to the children standing nearby. “I have obligations here, Highness.”

“These children will be well cared for, you have my word on it. They have no more need of your fire, but I do.”

Something must have coloured her voice then because the wariness on Trella’s face deepened, her eyes taking on the guarded cast Lyrna was seeing more often on a few select faces. Nortah, Dahrena, Reva… Vaelin. Those not in awe see more clearly. “I make no command,” Lyrna added with a smile. “Merely a queen’s request. Think on it a while. Meet with Aspect Caenis or the folk from the Reaches. I am sure either would welcome you.”

“I will, Highness.” Trella bowed as Lyrna rose. “One more thing, if I may crave a boon.”

“Of course.”

“My son’s sigil.” The lady’s eyes were bright with tears now, the children coming to her side as they sensed her distress. “I should like it to be a weasel. Of all the little beasts that followed him home, they were his favourite.”

“As my lady wishes,” Lyrna assured her with a bow. Better a weasel than a shark.

Although much of Warnsclave had been destroyed down to its cobbled streets, the infrastructure below the town remained largely intact, numerous cellars providing useful additional shelter, and places of confinement. The Volarian woman had been secured in the coal cellar of what had once been a blacksmith’s shop, judging by the soot-covered anvil sitting amidst the rubble. Two Realm Guard stood outside the steps leading down to the cellar whilst Lord Verniers waited, resting on the anvil as she approached, scribbling away in a small notebook. He rose on seeing her, bowing with his usual fluency and greeting her in Realm Tongue uncoloured by even the trace of an accent. “Highness. My thanks on granting my request.”

“Not at all, my lord,” she replied. “However, I feel I have brought you here on a false premise.”

“Highness?”

Lyrna gestured for the guards to open the door to the cellar. “Yes, my lord. I know you are keen for my knowledge to add to your history, but I regret scholarship will have to wait upon the needs of diplomacy.”

She bade him follow her down the steps, Iltis preceding her into the darkness. Fornella Av Entril Av Tokrev sat at a small table, reading by the light of a single candle. She wore no chains and her face and hair were clean, Lyrna having allowed her a bowl of water each morning for ablutions. She had also been provided with parchment and ink, the table before her covered with a scroll inscribed from end to end in neat Volarian.

Fornella rose and bowed as Lyrna entered, her face impassive until she saw Lord Verniers whereupon she favoured him with a cautious smile. “Highness, my lord,” she said in her basic Realm Tongue. “Two visitors. I am honoured.”

“We’ll speak in your own tongue,” Lyrna told her, dropping into Volarian. “It is important there be no misunderstanding between us.” She told Iltis to wait outside and gestured for Fornella to sit, moving to the table and scanning the scroll she had written, finding it a list of names, places and goods, each name marked with a circular symbol Lyrna recognised. “A writ of manumission,” she said. “These are your slaves, I take it.”

“Yes, Highness. Though the document is in fact a will. The slaves are to be freed upon my death.”

“My understanding of Volarian law is limited,” Lyrna lied. “But I believe a slave, regardless of owner or importance, can only be freed by special edict of the Ruling Council.”

“Quite so, but my brother sits on the Council. I have little doubt he will accede to my wishes in this.”

By the time he hears of your death, Lyrna thought, I expect he’ll be too preoccupied with the imminence of his own demise to care about your final wish. “Am I to take it,” she asked instead, “that your liking for your empire’s principal institution has waned recently?”

Fornella glanced at Verniers, the scholar standing rigidly against the cellar wall and refusing to meet her gaze. “We have made many mistakes,” the Volarian woman said. “Slavery is perhaps the worst, only surpassed by our bargain with the Ally.”

“A bargain that, if Lord Verniers’ account is to be believed, has provided you with several centuries of life.”

“Not life, Highness. Merely existence.”

“And how is it achieved, all these additional years?”

Fornella lowered her gaze and for the first time Lyrna had a sense of her true age in the faint lines now visible around her shrouded eyes. “Blood,” Fornella said after a moment, her voice no more than a murmur. “The blood of the Gifted.”

Lyrna’s memory flashed to the ship, the overseer prowling the slave deck, whip coiled. All here, trade for one with magic. She moved closer to the table, her fists resting on the surface as she leaned towards Fornella, the Volarian woman’s face still lowered. “You drink the blood of the Gifted,” she grated. “That is where your years come from.”

“There is a place,” Fornella said in a whisper. “A great chamber beneath Volar, hundreds of cells filled with Gifted. Those who are party to the bargain go there once a year… to drink. And every year, there are more empty cells, and always more red-clads clamouring to share in the Ally’s blessing.”

“And so you need more, and the Ally promised you would find them in this Realm. That is why you came here.”

“And to secure a northern front for the Alpiran invasion, as I said. But yes, the Ally promised this land would be rich in Gifted blood.”

“And when that was all gone, and the Alpiran lands also stripped, what then? Send your armies forth to rape the whole world?”

Fornella’s head rose, her eyes steady though her voice was uneven, the voice of a woman facing her final moments. “Yes. In time, he promised the world would be ours.”

Is it shame I see in your eyes? Lyrna wondered. Or just disappointment?

“I assume it was the promise of endless life that seduced Lord Darnel to your cause?” she asked.

Fornella gave a rueful shrug. “The lure of immortality is hard to resist, especially for a man in love with himself.”

Lyrna moved back from the table, turning to Verniers. “My lord, do you find this woman’s words to be truthful?”

Verniers forced himself to look at Fornella in reluctant but close appraisal. “I doubt she has lied, Highness,” he said. “Even as her slave, I found honesty to be her only interesting quality.”

“And do you think your Emperor would find her believable?”

“The Emperor is wiser than I in all respects. If she speaks truly, he will hear it.”

“And, I hope, understand the value of forgetting past differences.”

Verniers’ face was grave as he met her gaze. “There is much to forget, Highness.”

“And a world to fall if we cannot forge common purpose.” She turned back to Fornella. “There is a man in Brother Caenis’s Order who can hear lies. You will state to him your willingness to travel to Alpira with Lord Verniers where you will tell the Emperor all you have told me. If he hears a lie, Honoured Citizen…”

“He will not, Highness.” Fornella’s relief was palpable, her years showing again in the sag of her mouth. “I will do as you ask.”

“Very well.” Lyrna looked at Verniers, summoning her regretful smile. “And you my lord? Will you do this for me?”

“No, Highness,” he replied, the even tone of his voice and narrowness of his gaze making it clear her smile was a wasted effort. This one sees far too much.

“I will do it,” Verniers went on, “for my Emperor, who is great in his wisdom and benevolence.”

She stood on the roof of the harbour-master’s house to watch the ships leave, seeing Vaelin’s farewell to Dahrena, finding herself unable to look away even though she felt like an intruder. He held her for such a long time. The small woman moved back from him, exchanged farewells with Lady Alornis, Lord Adal, Brother Kehlan and Sanesh Poltar, then turned and walked the gangplank to the Red Falcon, Ship Lord Ell-Nurin greeting her with a bow. As the ship made for the harbour mouth, Lyrna wondered if there was any significance in the fact that not a single Seordah had come to see her off.

Vaelin stayed to watch the ship sail away, responding to his sister’s embrace with a slight shake of the head before she and the others drifted away. After a while Lord Verniers and the Volarian woman arrived and she saw him escort them to the ship. She was still puzzled over the interest he had shown in choosing the vessel to carry them to the empire, but he was ever a man of secrets.

She turned as Orena climbed onto the roof bearing a fur-trimmed cloak. “The wind is harsh today, Highness.”

Lyrna nodded her thanks as the lady placed the cloak over her shoulders, still watching him as he stared after the departing scholar. “Murel says he’s the most frightening man she’s ever met,” Orena mused softly.

“Then there is wisdom in the young,” Lyrna said. “Does he frighten you, my lady?”

Orena shrugged; of all her attendants, she was the least given to formality when they were alone, something Lyrna found sufficiently refreshing to forgive her often-wayward tongue. “Some men are brutes, some are kind. Every once in a while you meet one who’s both.” She straightened then gave a formal bow. “Lord Marshal Travick craves an audience, Highness. It seems his new recruits are squabbling over what to name their regiments.”

“I’ll be there directly, my lady.”

Alone again, she waited and watched as he turned back from the harbour, walking away with a purposeful gait. It wasn’t jealousy, she thought. I can permit you no distractions, my lord.

She was awoken in the small hours by Murel’s soft but insistent hand. There had been no dreams tonight and wrenching herself from an untroubled sleep birthed a foul mood. “What is it?” she snapped.

“Lord Vaelin is downstairs, Highness. With Captain Belorath. It seems he bears an important message from the Isles.”

Lyrna ordered her to fetch a bowl of cold water and plunged her face into it, gasping at the instant headache as the lingering tiredness vanished. She dressed in her simplest robe and managed to summon a welcoming visage by the time she descended the steps to her makeshift throne room.

Captain Belorath matched Vaelin’s bow though his face betrayed his discomfort at finding himself in a servile position to a woman once his captive, a captive he had come close to killing. After the Shield took over the monstrous Volarian flagship, Belorath had resumed command of the Sea Sabre, sailing back to the Isles for repairs and to impart news of the great victory at Alltor. Also, Lyrna had hoped, to fetch more ships for the fleet.

“My lord, Captain,” she greeted them, settling onto her throne. “I trust the news is grave enough to justify the lateness of the hour.”

“Indeed, Highness,” Vaelin said, nodding to Belorath.

The captain’s face betrayed a certain reluctance as he spoke, the tone clipped and careful. “As Your Highness knows, the Ship Lords have been keen to ensure the security of the Isles through… certain discreet measures…”

“You’ve had spies planted in this Realm for years, Captain,” Lyrna broke in. “A fact not unknown to the late King or myself.”

“Yes, Highness. Most have fallen silent since the invasion; however, we have continued to receive occasional intelligence from one in Varinshold.”

“The one who warned the Volarian fleet had sailed,” Lyrna recalled.

“Quite so. Upon returning to the Isles I found another message had arrived from the same source.” Belorath pulled a scroll from his belt and came forward to hand it to her. “It’s addressed to you, Highness.”

Lyrna unfurled the scroll, finding the words scant, but enough to make her wonder if, for all her vaunted intelligence, she wasn’t just a fool after all.

CHAPTER TEN Alucius

“Don’t lie to me, little poet!” Darnel glowered at him, his voice low and filled with dire promise, the recently stitched cut below his eye threatening to split as he snarled. “They must have told you something.”

Alucius spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “No more than regret at the passing of a brother in the Faith, my lord. Though I did sense a certain satisfaction from Aspect Dendrish at finally becoming the fattest man in Asrael.”

Darnel rose from his throne, his hand going to his sword, face red with fury. He halted when Division Commander Mirvek gave a warning cough and Alucius’s father stiffened, stepping closer to his son’s side. Darnel’s gaze swept around them all, his hand quivering on his sword-handle. His recent flight from the Red Brother and the news that his fief was now raised in rebellion had done little to improve his temperament. Also Mirvek’s increasing disregard and deference to his Battle Lord provided ample evidence of Darnel’s burgeoning irrelevance. Only a handful of his knights remained and there were no more to be had in his fief. Alucius wondered why the Volarian didn’t simply have Darnel killed and assume command himself, but the man was clearly a soldier to his core and would continue to follow orders until contrary word came from the Council. Darnel was their appointed vassal and Mirvek lacked the authority to depose him, however useless he had become.

“They know of more Gifted,” Darnel told the Volarian, failing to keep a desperate note from his voice. “I’m sure of it.”

Not so much a fool he doesn’t know his stock has fallen, Alucius realised, watching Darnel fidget. Seeking to buy security with the Aspects’ knowledge.

“The Aspects are precious to all those still free in these lands,” Alucius’s father said. “Harming them in any way invites further rebellion.”

“His people rebel in any case,” Mirvek pointed out in a reflective tone. “These Aspects of yours are intriguing. The warrior Aspect intriguing enough the Council ordered him shipped back to the empire the day he was captured. Questioning them could prove fruitful.”

Alucius didn’t like the weight the Volarian placed on the word “questioning.” “If you’ll allow me more time,” he said. “I’m sure they will prove more accommodating. Aspect Dendrish in particular would probably spill every secret in his head for a full dinner.”

Mirvek failed to laugh, regarding him with a narrow gaze. Up until now his attitude to his slave general’s son had been one of vague contempt, but now Alucius knew he was seeing him with uncomfortable clarity. “My most able questioner was taken by your Red Brother,” the Volarian said. “He could have had them talking in seconds. I have sent for a replacement, arriving with our reinforcements by the week’s end. You have until their arrival.”

Alucius replied with a grateful bow, backing away as the Volarian dismissed him with a flick of his hand. He could feel Darnel’s eyes on him as he made his way from the throne room and once again wondered at his complete absence of fear.

“Well,” Alucius said as Sister Cresia panted in his ear, her naked form atop him, trembling a little. “That was unexpected.”

She levered herself off him, turning her back and reaching for her blouse. “I haven’t spent my entire life skulking here,” she said. “I was bored. Don’t fall in love with me, poet.”

He forced away an image of Alornis’s face, hiding guilt in a laugh. “Trust me, sister, I need no such instruction.”

Sister Cresia shot him a sharp glance and rose from the pile of furs where she made her bed. She had said nothing when he made his way down here once again, inclining her head at a side passage and leading him to her chamber, shrugging her clothes off and standing naked with a questioning look. Alucius had glanced at Twenty-Seven standing in the passage outside, his blank gaze seemingly fixed on the fine brickwork. Cresia’s brother and sister were off somewhere in the nighttime streets above, gathering knowledge and supplies she said, though he had brought sufficient to last them until Winterfall Eve, after that a lack of provisions was likely to be the least of their concerns.

“Who was she?” Cresia asked, her tone lightly curious.

“Who was who?”

“The woman you were thinking of a few moments ago.” She fastened the belt to her trews and sat to pull on her boots.

Is that her design? he wondered. Seeking to garner knowledge through intimacy. She’s as much a spy as I am.

“How could any man think of another when in your arms, my lady?” he replied, sitting up. He felt her flinch at his caustic tone and felt a pang of regret. I always hurt them, he recalled, thinking back over the years, the girls drawn to the handsome poet with the sad smile, the sweet embraces and the inevitable tears. Alornis was the only woman he had never contrived to disappoint, and he had never even kissed her.

“If you require intelligence from me,” he told Cresia, “it might be simpler, and less time-consuming, to just ask.”

She rose and tossed him his shirt. “Very well. When my brother and sister return. And I’ll expect a full account if we’re to help in this escapade of yours.”

They ate a sparse meal of dried beef and bread washed down with water, since his father hadn’t seen fit to provide wine with the extra provisions. If Inehla and Rhelkin sensed any tension between them, they failed to show it, though he fancied there was a faint glint of amusement in the glance Inehla gave her sister.

“How can you be certain the queen’s army will attack on Winterfall Eve?” Rhelkin asked when the meal was done.

“I can’t,” Alucius admitted. “The only surety I can give is that I sent word for them to do so.”

“How?” Cresia asked.

“By pigeon. My last, in fact. So please don’t ask me to send any more.”

“How does a poet come to keep pigeons?”

“Because he’s also a spy in service to the Meldenean Ship Lords.” Alucius sipped his water, sighing in fond remembrance of his last taste of decent wine as the others stared in silence. It had been a bottle from his father’s cellar, one of his oldest, Cumbraelin naturally, a deep and richly flavoured red from the southern vineyards. The bottle had been pleasant but not enough to see him to the sleep he craved, plagued as he was by the ache left by Alornis’s departure to the Reaches. So he had sought out a bottle of brandy from the kitchens, falling into bed only to be roused some hours later by a Volarian army.

“Then you,” Sister Cresia said, breaking through his reminiscence, “are a traitor to this Realm.” Alucius noted her hand had moved to the leather pouch on her belt whilst Brother Rhelkin was now turned towards Twenty-Seven, poised no doubt to employ his gift.

“I suppose so,” Alucius said. He looked at his cup of water and grimaced, putting it aside.

Cresia continued to glare as the silence thickened. “Why?” she asked eventually.

“That is not your concern,” Alucius stated. “What matters is that we have a common interest in ensuring this city is recovered for the Realm with a minimum of bloodshed. And, at present, I stand best placed to achieve this outcome.”

“A spy deserves no trust.”

“Trust? You speak of trust?” Alucius laughed. “You who have lived a lifetime of lies. What service have you done in the name of the Faith, I wonder? How much blood spilled in the shadows over the years?”

Inehla’s rat scurried along the table, sniffing his hand then baring its teeth with a loud squeak. “Does he smell a lie?” Cresia asked her.

The plump sister shook her head, her expression dark. “No, only this one’s contempt for us.”

Cresia’s face registered a scowl of fury before she forced it to a neutral frown, her hand retreating from her pouch. Inehla’s rat gave a final squeak then ran back to its mistress as Brother Rehlkin turned away from Twenty-Seven.

“How is it to be done?” Cresia asked Alucius.

“The Volarian reinforcements are due to arrive on Winterfall Eve,” he said. “To be greeted at the docks by Commander Mirvek, Lord Darnel, and my father. I doubt any will object, or notice if I’m there. I shall require your sister’s skill to create sufficient diversion.”

“Diversion from what?”

“This city will stand or fall on my father’s judgement. Without it, Darnel and his allies are doomed.”

“A hard thing for a son to kill a father,” Rehlkin observed.

“If you doubt my ability to do this,” Alucius replied, “you should kill me now and keep skulking here until Queen Lyrna arrives.” He saw the man’s dislike in his cold glare and found himself beyond caring. “I’ll need you and Sister Cresia to secure the Aspects.”

“Breaking into the Blackhold is no easy task,” Cresia said.

“But within your abilities, I’m sure. I’ve little doubt their guards have orders to kill them should the city fall, and it’s better to risk death than blindly accept it.”

He saw them exchanging glances, reaching agreement in silent nods, Cresia’s the most reluctant. “We’ll do this,” she said. “But when it’s done, poet, you will not be spared an accounting.”

“No.” He got up and turned away, walking back to the tunnel with Twenty-Seven falling in behind. “I don’t imagine I will.”

“I must say, Aspect,” he said, sitting on the bunk beside her. “I found the wine rather bitter.”

“But you did find it?” she asked, her gaze intent.

“Indeed I did. Only three bottles, though.”

Her mouth twitched in suppressed disappointment. “Pity.”

“Disappointment was ever my lot, Aspect. I do, however, have news. It seems we have a new queen.”

“Lyrna? She lives?”

“Hale, whole and leading an army to our salvation as we speak, an army commanded by Lord Al Sorna himself, having crushed General Tokrev at Alltor.”

Aspect Elera sat straight, closing her eyes, her shoulders pulled back as she breathed a series of controlled breaths. He had seen her do this before, when her usual composure slipped and the faint sheen of tears glimmered in her eyes. After a few seconds she reopened her eyes and smiled, the same calm, open smile he knew he would miss a great deal.

“Excellent news, Alucius,” she said. “Thank you for telling me. And when can we expect our queen’s arrival?”

Alucius flicked his eyes at the Free Sword outside. The man might appear dumb as a stump and capable of no more than a few words of Realm Tongue, but Alucius’s short spying career had taught him the value of seeing beyond appearances. “Such intelligence is far beyond my reach, Aspect.” He folded his arms and extended three fingers towards his elbow, seeing understanding in her gaze as she resisted the impulse to nod.

“It is my belief you should not save the wine,” she said in a brisk tone. “These are troubled times, and wine always offers an escape from worry, don’t you think?”

“You are kind to think of my comfort, Aspect. But, if ever a man has drunk his fill, it’s me.”

The Free Sword gave an impatient jangle of his keys and Alucius stood. “Though, I am able to share two bottles with you,” Alucius told her. “Your own comfort being of paramount importance to me.”

Her smile faltered a little, a stern glint appearing in her gaze. “Wine should not be wasted, Alucius.”

“And it won’t be.” He knelt, meeting her eyes, seeing how she fought tears. Instead of raising her hand for him to kiss, as was their habit, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead, whispering, “I beg you, go.”

He clasped her hands and kissed them, standing and moving from the cell. He was careful in his scrutiny of the Free Sword as he locked the door, seeing only the dull eyes of a brutal fool. Nevertheless, he was glad he had told Cresia to kill him the instant she entered this chamber.

It was the one house he had never visited since the city’s fall, a part-tumbled-down, once-impressive mansion near Watcher’s Bend, shaded by the branches of a great old oak. The roof was even more threadbare than he remembered and the windows were all gone, stirring memories of how hard Alornis had worked to keep them clean and intact. The house had been spared burning by some happy chance, perhaps because of its size or the barren rooms within, void of any useful loot, at least to those unskilled in spotting concealment.

The door was half-off its hinges, the hallway beyond all peeling paint and bare floorboards. He remembered his first visit here, the falsely confident knock she took so long to answer. “Alucius Al Hestian, my lady,” he had greeted her, bowing low. “Former comrade to your noble brother.”

“I know who you are,” she replied with a puzzled frown, opening the door only wide enough to look him up and down. “What do you want?”

It had taken several visits before she let him in, and only then because it had been raining, pointing him to a stool in the kitchen with a stern warning against dripping on her drawings. It had been duty that made him persist, the appearance of adherence to a royal command, but it was the drawings that made him come back the next night, suffering her puzzled indifference and occasional barbs. He had never seen anything like them, the clarity and feeling rendered with such economy, as irresistible as he came to find their creator.

He made his way to the kitchen where she had spent most of her time, the floor tiles liberally adorned with broken crockery, the table where she prepared the meagre meals they shared tipped over and lacking a leg.

“Protect me?” she had laughed when he explained his reason for coming here every night. Her eyes went to the short sword at his belt, twinkling a little. “I’m sorry, but that really doesn’t suit you.”

“No,” he admitted. “It never did. But, thanks to your brother, I do know how to use it.”

In truth, he always knew she needed little protection. Those few Faithful sufficiently deluded to imagine her some kind of substitute for her brother were sent away with implacable and waspish refusal, whilst the King never had reason to suspect her loyalty. She worked every day under Master Benril’s less-than-pleasant tutelage and spent her nights in this empty house, her charcoal and silverpoint crafting wonders from the parchment she starved herself to buy. It was parchment that bought her toleration, for he always had an ample supply and would bring some when he came, content to sit and watch as she worked, a bottle of Wolf’s Blood never far away despite her obvious disapproval.

“Every word she speaks regarding her brother and her father is to be recorded,” Malcius had told him that day he had been called to the palace, ostensibly to receive the queen’s endorsement of his latest collection of poems, but in reality to press him to a new duty. Malcius’s face had been grave as they walked together in the gardens, a king forced to reluctant necessity. “The identity of any and all visitors also. Lord Vaelin’s shadow was ever far too long, Alucius. Best if she’s not caught in it, don’t you think?”

He thought he was making me a spy, Alucius mused, glancing at the wall where she had pinned her sketches, bare now, save for the outline of parchment on whitewash. Little knowing the Meldeneans had got there first. Poor old Malcius, Janus would have known in an instant.

He climbed the creaking and partly missing stairs to the upper floor, Twenty-Seven following, hopping the gaps with nimble swiftness. He paused only a little at the door to Alornis’s room, as he had done at the end of many a drunken night, just to catch the soft whisper of her breath as she slept. Why did I never tell her? he wondered. Words spoken so easily to so many others, but I could never say them to her, the one time they would have been true.

The room where he had slept was mostly intact, his narrow bed still sitting against the wall complete with mattress, though the sheets were gone. He pulled it away from the wall and knelt, dislodging a fragment of plaster to reveal a small hiding place, missed by the Volarians who had come looting. He sighed in relief at finding the narrow leather bundle intact.

“Doesn’t seem much does it?” he said to Twenty-Seven, placing the bundle on the bed and undoing the ties, revealing a small dagger. The handle was undecorated whalebone and the sheath plain leather. He drew it, baring a well-made blade six inches long. “But,” he went on, “the man who gave it to me said the barest touch is enough to kill. Not instantly, but the poison on the blade will ensure a swift death.” He met the slave’s eyes, something he rarely did since there was nothing there to see. “What would you do if I tried to stab you with this? Kill me? I doubt it. Disarm me more likely, break my wrist perhaps. Or would you, I wonder, simply stand there and die, sure in the knowledge that I’ll find another just like you at my side before the day’s out?”

Twenty-Seven stared at him and said nothing.

“Don’t worry, my good friend.” Alucius returned the dagger to its sheath and pushed it into his belt. “It’s not for you. Besides, I find I’ve grown too fond of your company. Your conversation being such a delight.”

He pushed the bed against the wall and settled onto it, lying back with his hands behind his head. “How many battles have you seen? Ten, twenty, a hundred? I was in a battle once, well three times if you count the Bloody Hill and Marbellis, though my part was hardly worthy of note. No, my one true battle was in the Usurper’s Revolt, the High Keep. The first great victory in the illustrious career of our soon-to-be deliverer. There are songs about it, awful and dreadfully inaccurate, but I’m in them, most of them anyway. Alucius the poet-warrior, come to avenge his brother, ‘his sword like lightning from a righteous storm.’”

He fell silent for a moment, remembering. It was always the smell and the sound he recalled best, much more vivid in his mind than the images, which were just a red-tinged jumble. No, it was the sound of horses screaming, the stink of sweat, the odd crunch steel makes when it pierces flesh, voices begging their god for deliverance, and shit… the acrid, stinging perfume of his own shit.

“I made him teach me,” he told Twenty-Seven. “On the march. Every night we’d practice. I got better, good enough to fool myself I had some kind of chance, some hope of surviving what was coming. I knew I was wrong when Malcius ordered the charge. Knew in an instant I was no warrior, no avenging soul, just a scared boy with shit in his trews. I remember screaming, I suppose the others thought it a war cry, but it was just fear. When we charged the gate they sought to bar our entry with their bodies, linking arms, shouting prayers to their god. When we struck home the force of it sent me flying. I tried to get up but there were so many bodies pressing me down, I screamed and I begged but no one pulled me free, then something hard came down on my head.”

He remembered the kindly sister who had nursed him back to health, later destined to find herself in the Blackhold for heresy and treason, all because she spoke against the war. He remembered his father’s face the day he returned to the mansion, the sigh of relief followed by a curt order: “You will not venture again from this house without my consent.” He had nodded meekly, handed back Linden’s sword, and gone to his room where he had stayed for the best part of a year.

“I have always been a coward, you see,” he said. “And the more I learn of this world I find it the only sensible course in life, for the most part. At Marbellis I stood and watched a city burn, then watched my father hang a hundred men for burning it. I stayed at his side throughout the siege, even when he led a charge to seal a breach in the defences. Didn’t shit myself that time, though I was very drunk. When the walls fell I ran when he ran. Darnel was there, oddly enough, just as terrified as the rest of us. I remember he had to fight his own men to get to the ship that took us to safety, and when we sailed away I looked at his face and knew him to be every bit the coward I am.”

He turned to Twenty-Seven, beckoning him closer and speaking softly. “I need you to remember something.”

He spoke for a short time, the words unrehearsed but flowing well. When he was finished he ordered Twenty-Seven to repeat them, the slave doing so in a disconcertingly precise imitation of Alucius’s voice. Is my accent really that mannered? he wondered when the slave fell silent.

“Very good,” he said, then gave careful instruction regarding when and to whom his words were to be repeated. “I’ll sleep now,” he told Twenty-Seven. “Wake me by the eighth bell, if you would.”

He was gratified to find Darnel on horseback at the docks, his few remaining knights clustered about him on foot. The Fief Lord was ever keen to tower above those around him and insisted on riding whenever he ventured from the palace. A full battalion of Free Swords was lined up along the wharf behind Mirvek, waiting to greet whatever luminaries approached on the huge warship now cresting the horizon. Alucius knew from his father the Volarian supply convoys had been subject to frequent attack in recent weeks, the Meldeneans no doubt happy to find piracy as profitable an endeavour in war as in peace. However, a ship possessing the size and power of the monster sailing towards them could surely expect to remain immune from their attentions.

Alucius had spent the morning in expectation of some great commotion, men rushing to man his father’s carefully laid positions as Lyrna’s army appeared on the southern plain. But there had been no alarm, no warning trumpets to pierce the morning air and no armies to besmirch the surrounding country.

If she could have come, she would, he knew. If only to hang me. He had been keen to avoid her since the war, her scrutiny being ever so acute, their meetings limited to the occasional palace function. There had been times when she sent messengers requesting his attendance at luncheon but he had always demurred, fearing what her insight might tell her. I know what you did, Lyrna.

It had begun the day he returned from Marbellis and she came to the docks to greet the feeble remnants of her father’s once-great army. Her smile perfect; grave, encouraging, free of judgement or reproach. But he saw it, just for an instant as she watched a Realm Guard with a missing leg being carried from the ship. Guilt.

It had all tumbled into place later, an instantaneous realisation when he learned their new king was safely returned to the Realm and Vaelin taken by the Alpirans. He had been at the palace when Malcius, pale-eyed and gaunt beneath his beard, placed the crown upon his head and the assembled nobles bowed… and Lyrna’s face betrayed the same flicker of expression he had seen that day at the docks.

I know what you did.

He had always marvelled at how quickly the Meldeneans found him. Drink, women and the occasional flurry of poetry had been his chief distractions in the two years since Marbellis, liquor making him somewhat incautious with his words, words that some might take as sedition. The Meldenean had sat down next to him one night in his favourite wineshop, so favoured because the first cup was always free for veterans, a small expense since they were so few in number. The Meldenean wore the garb of a sailor, as befitted his nationality, speaking initially in coarse, uncultured tones. He bought wine for Alucius, professing himself ignorant of letters upon hearing his occupation, but asked many questions about the war. He came back the following night, buying less wine but asking more questions, and the night after that. With every meeting Alucius noted his accent was not so coarse as before, and his questions more searching, especially regarding the King and his sister.

“They’re traitors,” Alucius had said, a little too loud from the way the man winced and gestured for him to speak softer. “The whole family,” he went on, knowing he was far too drunk and not caring. “Janus sent my brother to die in the Martishe, had my father slaughter thousands for nothing. Abandoned my friend to the Alpirans. She did that, not Janus. It was her.”

The Meldenean gave a slow nod. “We know,” he said. “But we’d like to know more.”

They offered him money, which he refused, proud of himself for being sober when he did so. “Just tell me what you want.”

Spying, he discovered, was an absurdly easy occupation. Few people ever see more than they wish to, he decided, having accepted an invitation to read poetry to a gaggle of merchants’ wives, rich in gossip and fat with information regarding the new trade routes their husbands had been obliged to forge since the war. They saw a handsome young poet, tragic hero of a tragic war, wilted obligingly at his verse and proved very helpful when he asked for likely investment opportunities. “For my father, you understand. He needs something to occupy him these days. Peacetime is such a trial for a military man.”

He would go to inns frequented by the Realm Guard, finding welcome among the veterans who had been at Linesh with Vaelin, embittered cynics to a man and talkative when sufficiently full of ale. He made it known he was available for commissions, penning love poems for smitten young nobles and eulogies for the funerals of rich men, gaining access to the wealthy and the powerful in the process. His Meldenean contact was happy with his work and provided the pigeons to speed delivery of his intelligence, and the dagger should he ever face discovery.

“I’m not an assassin,” Alucius told him, eyeing the dagger with distaste.

“It’s for you,” the Meldenean told him with a grin before walking from the wineshop. Alucius never saw him again. The following week came the summons from the King and his order to spy on Alornis, after which he found his enthusiasm for his new occupation began to wane. Being with her dimmed his anger, made the sting of betrayal less acute. He continued to gather information, mostly trade gossip of little value, sending the birds off and knowing, should he include his notice of retirement among the messages, the Meldeneans were more likely to offer a blade than a pension. As it turned out, the Volarians made such worries redundant.

Alucius stood with Twenty-Seven some ten yards behind his father, who had positioned himself outside Darnel’s coterie of sycophant knights. “Impressive beast, isn’t it?” he asked, moving to stand on his father’s left.

Lakrhil Al Hestian nodded as the ship came closer, Alucius seeing two smaller vessels following in its broad wake. “Apparently it’s the sister ship to their Stormspite,” his father said. “I forget the name. Mirvek thinks it a sign of the Ruling Council’s continued faith in his command, bringing more reinforcements than expected.”

Alucius remembered the Stormspite as a brooding monster that had sat in the harbour for days until General Tokrev sailed it off to Alltor, never to return. Picking out details as its sister came closer, he was struck by the similarity between them; even for ships built to the same pattern the resemblance was striking, though the Volarians were a people greatly fond of uniformity.

“Are your preparations complete?” he asked. “All made ready to bleed Lord Vaelin’s army white?”

“Hardly,” his father grunted. “The Free Swords are lazy when not set to pillaging, and the Varitai little use in labour. Give them a shovel and they just stare at it. Still, it seems we’ll shortly have more hands to complete the task.”

“Could you have held Marbellis? If you had had this much to work with?”

Lakrhil turned to him with a quizzical expression; it was an unspoken understanding that Marbellis was a subject neither of them wanted to discuss. “No,” he said. There must have been something in Alucius’s expression, some vestige of his intent, for he leaned closer, speaking softly. “You don’t need to be here, Alucius. And you’ve yet to produce a single useful word from the Aspects.” His eyes flicked to Darnel. “I can’t protect you forever.”

Alucius’s gaze went to his stolen house, finding the balcony where he ate breakfast and counted the ships every morning. She was there as requested, a small, plump figure leaning on the balustrade, her gaze fixed on Darnel, or rather Darnel’s horse. “It’s all right,” Alucius told his father. “You won’t have to.”

Darnel’s horse gave a loud snort, jerking and shaking its head. “Easy now,” the Fief Lord said, smoothing his hand over its neck. Alucius was relieved to see Darnel wore no armour today, just finely tailored silks and a long cloak. He reached for the dagger at the small of his back, concealed beneath his coat, his eyes intent on Darnel’s horse. It snorted again, giving a loud whinny, eyes widening into panicked mania as it reared, too sudden for Darnel to grab a tighter hold of the reins, pitching him from the saddle. Free of its rider the great warhorse wheeled around, lashing out with its hooves at the nearest of Darnel’s knights, the iron shoes ringing loud on the man’s breastplate as they sent him sprawling. The animal pivoted on its forelegs, vicious hind hooves scattering the remaining knights as Darnel back-pedalled on the ground, eyes wide in panic. The horse stopped its assault on the knights and turned again, wild eyes fixing on Twenty-Seven before charging with a shrill scream. The slave-elite’s expression remained as calm as ever as he attempted to dive clear of the horse’s path, proving fractionally too slow as the animal’s flank collided with his shoulder, spinning him to the ground, slack and senseless.

Alucius drew the dagger from its sheath and sprinted towards Darnel, now climbing to his feet, well clear of any protection. Only use the shortest possible thrust, Vaelin had told him, all those years ago when he fancied himself a hero. It’s the fast blade that draws blood.

Some battle-won instinct must have sounded in Darnel’s mind, for he turned just as Alucius thrust towards his back, the blade piercing his cloak and becoming entangled in the folds. Darnel snarled, bringing his fist around to smash at Alucius’s face. He ducked under it, tearing the dagger free of the cloak and lunging for Darnel’s arm, knowing even the slightest cut would be enough. The Fief Lord sidestepped, his sword coming free of its scabbard in a blur. Alucius felt a great stinging burn flare across his chest, the shock of it sending him to his knees, Darnel looming above him, sword drawn back. His expression was fiercely triumphant, smile broad in anticipation of the kill. “You think to kill me, little poet?” he laughed.

“No,” Alucius replied, feeling blood bathing his chest as he glanced over Darnel’s shoulder. “But I expect he will.”

Darnel whirled but too late. Lakrhil Al Hestian speared the Fief Lord through the neck with the spike protruding from his right sleeve. Darnel took some seconds to die, spitting blood and weeping as he hung from the spike, eyes bulging and lips babbling gibberish before he finally slumped to the wharf. Alucius still thought it hadn’t taken long enough.

A cold hand seemed to enfold him on all sides as he collapsed, feeling his father catch him, smiling up at his ice-white face. “The Aspects,” he said. “Get to the Blackhold…”

“Alucius!” His father shook him, his voice a rage-filled scream. “ALUCIUS!”

Alucius was aware of a great clamour somewhere, though his vision was too dim to make out the source, men yelling in alarm and summoning memories of the High Keep. He found it strange that the sky above his father’s head seemed to be filled with black streaks, like the arrows at the Bloody Hill, another unwelcome memory. He closed his eyes, pushing it all away and filling his mind with Alornis’s face as the last of his blood seeped away.

CHAPTER ELEVEN Frentis

“Winterfall Eve,” Brother Lernial said in his perennially dull voice. He had said almost nothing since arriving with the Eorhil woman the day before, slumping in front of a fire and staring at the flames for hours. Insha ka Forna stayed at his side, her gaze continually drawn in expectation.

“The Seventh Order,” Ivern said, watching with Frentis from the fringes of the gathered captains, his face a mix of confusion and suspicion. “Hiding in the Realm Guard. And where else, one wonders.”

“Aspect Grealin gave the impression they had many guises,” Frentis said.

“Grealin.” Ivern shook his head. “Just how many lies did they tell us, do you think?”

“Enough to keep us safe.” Frentis straightened as Brother Lernial said something and Insha ka Forna raised a hand to beckon him over.

“What happens on Winterfall Eve?” Banders asked the brother.

“Varinshold.” Lernial frowned in concentration, a vein pulsing in his temple and sweat beading his brow. “Lord Al Sorna attacks Varinshold. Something… something will happen.”

“Al Sorna’s army is in Warnsclave,” Banders said. “How could he make such an attack?”

Lernial gave a pained grunt, arching his back and exhaling slowly, then slumping forward, features slack with exhaustion. “That’s all,” he muttered.

“There must be more,” Banders persisted, drawing a glower from Insha ka Forna.

“Leave him!” she said. “This… hurts him, much.”

“You can hear Lord Vaelin’s thoughts?” Frentis asked Lernial in a gentler tone.

The brother shook his head. “Brother Caenis only. It’s… easier that way.” He gave a wan smile. “But to wade through even the most disciplined mind is a tiring task.”

Frentis nodded his thanks and rose from the man’s side, moving away to confer with Banders and Sollis. “Three days until Winterfall Eve,” the baron said. “Scant time for planning. I’ve had my lot fell the few trees around here for ladders and engines, but none are ready yet.”

“Which makes the sewers our only option,” Frentis said. “We know from Darnel’s knights that Aspects Elera and Dendrish are in the Blackhold, perhaps Aspect Arlyn too. I don’t give much for their chances if the city is attacked. I can secure them if you’ll allow me.”

“Securing a gate is more important,” Sollis said.

“The Aspects…”

“Are aware that the Faith occasionally requires sacrifice. We will secure a gate to allow Baron Banders’s knights into the city, then make for the Blackhold.”

“We, brother?”

Sollis’s pale gaze was steady, yielding no room for argument. “Brother, you have led your company well, and they are loyal to you. But your loyalty is to me. Or are you no longer willing to call yourself a brother?”

“I will never call myself anything else,” Frentis returned, anger rising to colour his face.

Sollis merely blinked and turned to the baron. “We’ll set out at dawn, which should enable us to approach the city under dark in three nights.” He looked at Frentis. “Choose your people and be ready.”

They followed the Brinewash towards Varinshold, moving in single file along the bank, which was damp enough to prevent any betraying dust cloud. Frentis chose Davoka, Draker and Thirty-Four to accompany him through the sewers, provoking Arendil and Illian to loud protests at being excluded. Davoka sternly rebuked the lady for her petulance, and Banders refused to even countenance the thought of Arendil leaving his sight. “You’ll stay by me at all times,” he told his grandson. “If this goes right, the fief will have need of a new lord by the week’s end.”

They stopped after a two-day trek, occupying a shallow dip in the ground just south of the Brinewash, Varinshold out of sight just over the horizon. Sollis’s brothers scouted the surrounding country, mostly grass and expanses of ash left by the demise of the Urlish. They returned at nightfall reporting the Volarians seemed to have abandoned patrolling. “Could be they’ve no cavalry left for such duty,” Ermund suggested. “We killed hundreds back at the Spur.”

They settled down to rest as night set in, huddling in cloaks against the chill as fires could not be risked. Frentis sat watching the others sleep, determined to stay awake, as he had for the past two nights, fighting exhaustion with every step. At one point he had snapped awake finding himself held in the saddle by Davoka, shaking his head at her stern entreaties to rest come the night. She waits for me there, he knew with a cold certainty.

“Will it end tomorrow, brother?” It was Illian, sitting a few feet away, swaddled in a cloak taken from a dead Volarian at the Spur. It covered her easily, leaving only the pale oval of her face peering out from the hood.

So young, Frentis thought. So small. You would never know, as no one knew when they looked at her. Annoyed by the comparison, he looked away. “Will what end?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“The war,” she said, shuffling closer. “Draker said it’ll all be over come the new day.” She gave a rueful smile. “Then he said he’d buy a whorehouse with his spoils.”

“I doubt there are any left to buy, my lady.”

“But we’ll be done? The war will end?”

“I hope so.”

She seemed oddly deflated by this, a flicker of her increasingly rare pout on her lips. “No more Gorin,” she murmured. “No more Davoka. Arendil will go off and rule his fief, Draker to his whorehouse, you to the Order.”

“And you, my lady?”

“I don’t know. I have no idea if my father lives, if his house still stands.”

“And your mother?”

Illian’s expression soured a little. “Father used to tell me she died when I was little. One day I heard two of the maids gossiping, seems my darling mother took off with a sea captain when I was no more than a year old. Father had every scrap of clothing she owned stripped from the house, along with every image of her. I don’t even know what she looked like.”

“Not all are suited to parentage,” Frentis said, thinking of his own family, if they could be called that. “Whatever your father’s fate, his lands and assets are now yours by right. I feel sure the queen will see to proper restitution in due course.”

“Restitution.” She looked around at the surrounding fields of ash, rendered silver-blue in the moonlight. “Is that even possible now? So much has been broken. Besides, I’m not sure I want to regain ownership of an empty ruin.”

“Arendil…” Frentis began in a cautious tone, “You seem… fond of him.”

She gave a soft sigh of embarrassed exasperation. “I am. He’s very sweet, and one day I expect Lady Ulice will find him a wife suited to fine dresses and balls and empty talk with privileged fools. I am not. Not now, if I ever was.” She wriggled in the folds of her cloak, hefting her crossbow, her hands tight on the stock. “I’m made for this. I’m made for the Order, brother.”

He could only stare at her completely serious expression. “There are no sisters of the Sixth Order,” he said, lost for any other response.

“Why not?”

“There just aren’t. There never have been.”

“Because only men fight wars?” She nodded at Davoka. “What about her? What about me?”

He shifted uncomfortably, lowering his gaze. “The composition of the Orders is set down by the tenets of the Faith. They can’t simply be cast aside…”

“They could if you were to vouch for me. Especially if Brother Sollis were to add his voice. Everything has changed, I’ve heard you say so yourself.”

“This is a foolish notion, Illian…”

“Why is it foolish?”

“Do you want to be like me?” He leaned forward, eyes locked on hers, suddenly angered by her naïvety. “Do you have any notion of what I have done?”

“You’re a great warrior, and the man who saved my life.”

Seeing her mystified, wide-eyed gaze, he sighed, his anger evaporating as he slumped back. “I have killed my way across half the world to return to this Realm, and when the queen comes to claim her throne she’ll make sure I face a reckoning.”

“For what? Winning the war?”

He just shook his head. “I was once just like you, lost, seeking a home, begging the same favour from someone who came to hate himself for saying yes. And I find myself with a surfeit of hate, my lady. Approach Brother Sollis if you wish, he will say the same thing.”

“We’ll see,” she muttered, falling into a sullen silence.

He watched her put the crossbow aside and pluck a bolt from her quiver, working the iron-headed barb on a small whetstone. No, he conceded. No longer made for dresses and balls. “Did you know,” he said, “in the southern jungles of the Volarian Empire, there lives a beast, fully twelve feet tall and covered all over with fur, that looks just like a man on stilts?”

She angled her head at him, raising an eyebrow. “You’re making it up.”

“No, it’s true. I swear on the Faith. And in the oceans to the east are great sharks, as big as a whale and striped red from end to end.”

“I’ve heard of those,” she admitted. “My tutor showed me a picture once.”

“Well, I’ve seen them. There is more than war to find in this world, Illian. There is as much beauty as there is ugliness, as long as you have the eyes to see it.”

She gave a small laugh. “Perhaps I’ll find a sea captain of my own one day, go looking for it.” The words were empty, he knew, the humour forced. Her mind was set on but one course.

“I hope so too.”

He saw her frown as she scanned his face, youthful beauty marred by concern. “You must sleep, brother. Please. I’ll watch you. If you start to get… upset, I’ll wake you.”

There are some dreams you can’t wake from. But he was so tired now, and a battle waited no more than three hours hence. “Don’t neglect your own rest,” he told her, settling onto his side, breathing deep, then closing his eyes.

She sits alone in a spacious chamber of marble floors and fine furnishings; it is midafternoon and a gentle breeze sways the lace curtains hanging over the arches leading to the balcony. The chamber belonged to Council-man Lorvek and is filled with artifacts bought or stolen from all corners of the world; Alpiran statuary of bronze and marble, fine paintings from the Unified Realm, exquisite ceramics from the Far West, garish war masks from the southern tribe lands. A priceless collection, the fruit of several lifetimes’ labour. It is how they persist, these select few red-clad, filling their endless days with successive obsession, for art, wealth, flesh… or murder.

She casts a glance around Lorvek’s collection and decides to have it all destroyed the following morning. The feeding two days ago has left her invigorated but with a sour edginess. The Gifted had been foul indeed, a nondescript man of middle years with the ability to hold a person in place, frozen, immobile, but awake. He had spent over two decades wandering the empire killing women, freezing them so they could only suffer in silence as he visited all manner of torments upon their flesh. He would have been a useful recruit for the Ally, given enough time, but his mind was far too fractured to justify the effort needed. He had tried to resist her, somehow sensing the threat despite the drugs, casting his gift at her like the flailing invisible hand of an addled drunk. She would have laughed at him once, even retreated for a while to allow the drug haze to fade before returning to enjoy his impotent rage as she made it last. But she hadn’t, the stumbling wretch deserved little regard and certainly no pity, but the blood had tasted foul as she slashed his throat, fighting a reflexive gag as she forced herself to drink deep, wondering if all the death she had wrought would also taint her blood.

She forces the memory away and slows her breathing, calming her mind, focusing her thoughts. I feel you, beloved, she tells him. I know you feel me too.

She waits, mind open to a response, knowing he is there, but feeling only the depth of his enmity. Will you not talk to me? she implores. Are you not lonely too? And we have shared so much.

Anger swells, reaching across the great divide to lash at her, making her wince. I fear for you, she persists. We know she lives, beloved. We know she comes to take the city, and you know what she will do when she finds you.

The anger dims, replaced by grim acceptance and a great depth of guilt.

Forget all the nonsense they instilled in you, she begs. All the lies they told you. The Faith is a child’s illusion, nobility a coward’s mask. They are not for such as us, my love. You felt it, when we were killing together. I know you did. We soared above them all, and we can do so again. Leave now. Run. Come back to me.

The sensation changes, emotion fading to be replaced by an image, a darkly beautiful young woman, half her face bathed in firelight, her brow creased in confusion and regret. Her lips move but the sound is lost to her, although she knows the words with absolute clarity. I made my bargain, beloved. I cannot make another.

I had no choice, she tells him now.

The image fades, swirling in her mind until it transforms into a voice, hard and cold but blessedly familiar. Neither do I.

They mustered two hours shy of dawn, gathering around Sollis as he unfurled a recently drawn map of the city, pointing to the north-east gate. “I suggest an attack in two directions, my lord,” he said to Banders. “Your knights to press a charge along Gate Lane, it’s wide enough for ten men abreast and leads directly to the harbour. If successful, you’ll cut the city in two and sow confusion in the enemy’s ranks. My brothers, Brother Frentis’s company and the Renfaelin common folk will make for the Blackhold. It’s a stout fortress and will provide a place of retreat should the day go against us.”

Banders nodded his agreement and turned to address his assembled captains. “The odds do not favour us, as you know. But we are told Lord Vaelin comes to take this city and I intend to aid him in doing so. Tell every knight and man at arms that come the morning there will be no turning from the charge, no restraint is to be shown, and no mercy. The city stands infested, and we will cleanse it.” He glanced at Arendil, adding in a sombre tone, “Lord Darnel is not to be taken alive, regardless of any entreaties to knightly custom. He has forfeited life and knighthood long since.”

The four of them made their way to the city on foot, heading for the northern stretch of wall where the Brinewash emerged from the city through a great sluice gate. They crawled slowly for the final half mile, Draker grunting along behind and drawing an irritated kick from Davoka. The outlaw had become much stealthier over the months but often had need of a reminder. As expected, the sluice gate was too well guarded to allow entry, even if it had been possible to navigate the frothing current that slid over the barrier in a constant rush. Instead Frentis led them into the river and followed the wall north. They wore thin clothing of light fabric, boots having been abandoned before entering the chill waters, their weapons confined to daggers and swords.

The pipe emerged from the wall three feet above the water where the river began to arc away from the city and commence its long winding journey into the heart of the Realm. A continual stream of effluent flowed from the pipe, leaving a foul-smelling stain on the river that had Draker gagging as they swam through it. Frentis hugged the wall, eyes fixed on the parapet above, finding it empty though there was the faint murmur of Volarian voices nearby. He had discounted this exit when they escaped the city during the invasion given the ease with which archers would have picked them off as soon as they emerged. Now he gambled on its vulnerability, doubting even a soul as cautious as Blood Rose would see much threat in so exposed an entry point.

He moved along the wall, hands exploring for holds, but finding nothing.

“It’s too slippy, brother,” Draker whispered next to his ear, his large hand scraping moss from the stone.

Frentis turned as Thirty-Four tapped his shoulder. The former slave patted his chest and pointed to the mouth of the pipe, then made an upward-pushing motion with both arms. Frentis took another look at the moss-covered wall and gave a reluctant nod. The splash of disturbed water would have to be risked if they were to continue.

He and Davoka moved to either side of Thirty-Four, drawing breath then sinking under the water. Frentis took hold of the man’s slim leg and placed the foot on his shoulder, counted to three to ensure Davoka was similarly prepared, reached out to slap her arm, and they both kicked upwards in unison, boosting Thirty-Four out of the water to clamp his hands on the rim of the pipe. He hung there for a few seconds as they scanned the wall above, waiting for any sign of discovery. Nothing. Even the murmur of voices seemed to have gone.

Thirty-Four levered himself onto the top of the pipe and caught the coiled rope Frentis threw him, looping it over the great iron tube and tying it tight with his usual facility for knots. Draker hauled himself up first, squirming into the pipe and biting down curses at the filth now piling up in front of him. It took several anxious moments before his head finally disappeared into the pipe. Davoka followed him, grunting as she heaved herself into the opening, pushing Draker’s bulk ahead of her. Frentis gestured for Thirty-Four to follow then climbed up, casting a final glance at the walls as he undid the rope from the pipe, dragging it behind as he squirmed through.

“Nothing beats the smell of home, eh, brother?” Draker asked as he emerged into the sewers. The big outlaw stood in the channel of rushing filth, casting his gaze right and left. “Reckon it’s this way,” he said, pointing right. “Channel loops back around towards the gate, as I recall.”

“Lead on,” Frentis told him.

It took over an hour of sloshing through the polluted water, and a couple of wrong turns before they came to the requisite drain. It was an iron grate twenty feet from the north gate with a narrow opening where the inner wall met the road. Frentis remembered slipping through the opening with relative ease one time, many years ago when he had run from a vengeful shop owner. Now, however, even Thirty-Four found the opening too narrow.

“There’s a wider one on Firestone Way,” Draker recalled.

“Too far,” Frentis said. He peered through the opening at the wasted streets beyond, finding a series of jagged silhouettes, collapsed walls, and burnt-out buildings, devoid of good cover, the sky above now a grey-blue signifying a fast-approaching sunrise. “They’ll see our approach.”

He pulled a dagger from his belt and started chipping at the mortar around the bricks forming the opening, the others soon joining in. “Softly,” he cautioned Draker as the big man jabbed his short sword hard into the mortar.

Sunrise had come on by the time they loosened enough brick to allow egress, long shadows stretching from the ruins as they hauled themselves free. Frentis led them from shadow to shadow towards the gate, finding it manned by a dozen Varitai.

“We should’ve taken Illian with us,” Draker grumbled in a whisper. “She’d pick off a few in short order.”

Frentis beckoned to Thirty-Four. “We need a distraction.”

The former slave nodded, sheathing his short sword and rising to run towards the gate, gesticulating wildly. “The general!” he called in Volarian as the Varitai stirred, moving to confront him with swords drawn. “He calls for you!” Thirty-Four went on, pointing towards the southern quarter. “Slaves are in revolt! You must come!”

As expected, they just stood regarding him in silence. Varitai were conditioned to respond only to orders given by their officers and there was no chance they would follow his commands. However, they were still compelled to look in his direction as he scurried away, halting and beckoning madly. “Come! Come! Or I’ll be flayed!”

A tired-looking Free Sword sergeant emerged from the gatehouse, rubbing bleary eyes and buckling on his sword as he took in the sight of the desperate slave. “What the fuck do you want?”

Frentis nodded to the others and slipped from their shadow, crawling closer under concealment of a low pile of blackened bricks, no more than fifteen feet from the gate.

“A revolt, Honoured Citizen!” Thirty-Four said to the sergeant, an impressively convincing whine colouring his voice. “Please! Oh please!”

“Shut up,” the sergeant said wearily, moving towards Thirty-Four, clearly puzzled by his clothing, mean even for a slave, and the sight of his sword. “Who gave you that? Give it here!”

“Certainly, honoured sir,” Thirty-Four said as the sergeant reached for his sword, drawing it in a single fluid motion and flicking the blade across the man’s eyes. Thirty-Four stepped nimbly past him as he collapsed to his knees, screaming and clutching at his face, killing a Varitai with a thrust to the neck then turning and running. Six Varitai took off in pursuit, one falling dead with Frentis’s throwing knife in his throat, two more quickly hacked down by Davoka and Draker.

Frentis hefted a spear dropped by the Varitai he had killed, hurling it at his onrushing comrade with enough force to pierce his breastplate. Thirty-Four skidded to a halt, pivoted and delivered a precise cut to the leg of the Varitai chasing him, Draker’s blow nearly decapitating the slave soldier as he fell.

“Stay close!” Frentis ordered, scooping up a fallen blade and charging for the gate, a sword in each hand. The five remaining Varitai formed a tidy defensive knot, impassive faces behind levelled spears. Frentis threw his left-hand sword at the one in the centre, the blade sinking into his face just beneath his helmet. Frentis leapt through the gap, slashing left and right, the others moving in to finish those he wounded. A pain-filled yell drew his gaze and he found Draker on his back, parrying thrusts from a Varitai’s spear, a newly earned gash on his forehead. Davoka moved to help him but the outlaw proved his hard-won skills by rolling under the Varitai’s guard to stab at his groin, spoiling the accomplishment somewhat by proceeding to bring the slave soldier down with a series of frenzied blows, obscenities flowing from his snarling lips in a torrent.

“Raise the gate,” Frentis told Davoka, making for the steps leading to the parapet. He found two Free Swords there, youthful faces aghast at the carnage they had witnessed below, pointing their swords at him with trembling hands.

“Fight or run,” Frentis told them in Volarian. “You’ll die today in either case.”

They ran, sprinting away across the parapet without a backward glance. “Tell your comrades the Red Brother’s here!” Frentis yelled after them before turning to pull a torch from a stanchion. He hopped onto the battlement and waved the torch back and forth, peering into the misted fields beyond the walls. A few heartbeats later he saw it, a single torch flaring to life, burning brighter as the bearer came closer, and two thousand Renfaelin knights resolved out of the mist at full gallop. Banders was clearly visible at the head of the tight column, his faux-rusted armour catching the rising sun, Arendil and Ermund on either side of him. They thundered through the gate without pause, the clatter of steel-shod hooves on cobbles rising to a deafening pitch as they charged along Gate Lane. A few Varitai came running from the western quarter to oppose them, a single company managing to form ranks across the lane before being smashed aside by the tide of horse and steel.

“Brother!” Frentis looked down from the gatehouse, finding a grinning Ivern there, mounted, with Frentis’s horse at his side. “The Blackhold awaits!”

The squat fortress was already in uproar when they got there, two Varitai lying dead at the main gate and several more inside. They were obliged to fight their way into the courtyard as more guards came rushing from a maze of shadowed doorways, mostly Varitai with a few Free Swords showing none of the cowardice of their comrades on the wall. Sollis took his brothers up the stairs and into the upper levels, clearing the archers from the parapet and sending their own arrows down on the defenders below.

Frentis led his company from doorway to doorway, Draker breaking them open as they searched for the Aspects, finding only more Volarians, most willing to fight, others cowering, but all destined to die. He was emerging from a storeroom when a Kuritai appeared out of the shadows, twin short swords flashing. Frentis parried his first blow but slipped on a patch of blood, tumbling to the flagstones, the Kuritai looming above… then falling dead when a crossbow bolt punched through his breastplate.

“Not like you to be so clumsy, brother,” Illian observed from across the courtyard, words garbled somewhat by the bolt held between her teeth as she braced the crossbow against her midriff to draw the string back.

He was about to tell her to join Brother Sollis on the parapet but found his attention drawn to a commotion rising from a half-open door at the rear of the courtyard. He went to it, finding a set of steps leading into the bowels of the Blackhold. He called to Davoka to follow and took the stairs at a run. At the base of the steps he found a dead Free Sword with what appeared to be steel darts embedded in both eyes; beside him lay the body of a man in a bedraggled City Guard uniform, bloodied sword in hand and belly rent open.

In the chamber beyond the stairwell lay three Varitai, steel darts jutting from their necks; beyond them a young woman was grappling with a burly Free Sword, blood streaming from her nose and eyes as he forced her to her knees, short sword inching towards her throat. Frentis drew his sword back for a throw but Illian was faster, sending a bolt into the Volarian’s temple before he could bring his blade to bear.

The woman slumped beneath the collapsing Free Sword, blood bubbling on her lips as she issued a groan of near-complete exhaustion. Frentis hauled the corpse away and helped her upright, finding her eyes still bright despite the paleness of her skin. “My brother…” she whispered.

“Brother?”

“Rhelkin… City Guard.”

Frentis shook his head and the woman moaned in sorrow, blinking red tears before speaking again. “Aspects… are they safe?”

He cast his gaze around the chamber, taking in the sight of the cells. From one of them he could hear an implacable thumping noise, a voice within shouting something unintelligible but with an odd note of authority. “Search the bodies,” he told Illian. “Find the keys.”

Aspect Dendrish stood still and straight-backed as the door swung open, face rigid and composed though his rapidly blinking eyes told of a man expectant of a swift death. “Aspect,” Frentis greeted him with a bow. “Brother Frentis. I doubt you remember, but we met at my Test of Knowledge…”

The Aspect seemed to deflate, issuing an explosive sigh of relief and doubling over, as much as his bulk would allow. “Where is Aspect Elera?” he demanded after a moment, raising a haggard face that somehow managed to retain a vestige of the imperious self-regard Frentis recalled.

“Brother Frentis,” she said as the door opened, sitting on her bed, smiling in welcome, her hands clasped in her lap. “How you’ve grown. Is Alucius with you?”

There was a pounding of running feet and Ivern appeared at the door to the cell, his grin even wider than usual. “Brother Sollis sends his regards, Aspects,” he said, nodding briefly at them in turn before addressing Frentis. “He says to gather your people and forget about holding this place. We need to get to the docks.”

CHAPTER TWELVE Vaelin

“Have I ever told you,” Nortah began, his pallor somewhat grey in the dim light of the hold, “how much I detest sea travel?”

Behind him one of his fighters gave a grunt of agreement before heaving into his helmet. “Do it in the bilges,” Nortah rebuked him. “You’ll have to wear that before long.”

Vaelin gave his brother a soft pat on the arm and moved deeper into the hold, passing ranks of free fighters dressed in Volarian armour, taking the steps to the lower deck where the Seordah sat in equal misery. He found Hera Drakil sitting next to a half-open porthole, eyes closed and mouth open to suck in the sweet outside air.

“We’re five miles from the harbour,” Vaelin told him, drawing a puzzled frown. “We’ll be there soon,” he clarified. “Make your people ready.”

“They have been ready to get off this horrible thing since they stepped on it,” the war chief returned with a baleful glint in his eye. Without Dahrena’s guidance, persuading them to this stratagem had not been an easy thing. He had explained it all in detail to Hera Drakil, the queen adding her voice with promises of great rewards and everlasting gratitude should they consent to take ship to Varinshold. The Seordah listened to it all in silence then walked back to his people’s encampment. Vaelin and Lyrna lingered on the periphery watching the argument unfold. The Seordah were not a demonstrative people, rarely given to raised voices or gesticulation, so there had been a certain ominous quality to the increasing stillness and quietude evident in the various war chiefs as they sat in a circle and debated the merits of Vaelin’s plan. Eventually, after several hours and with night coming on, Hera Drakil returned, his face rigid with reluctance as he said, “We go on the big water.”

“Salt staining every breath,” the Seordah said now. “No earth beneath your feet. How can such a thing be borne for any time?”

“Greed or necessity,” Vaelin replied. “You recall your part in this?”

“Kill all the two-swords we find and make for the big black building.” The Seordah stirred as Vaelin rose, leaning forward, fixing him with the same questing gaze he had shown him since Alltor. What is he looking for? Vaelin wondered again as the war chief’s eyes met his. Does he ponder if there is another soul behind these eyes? Or is it more what I may have brought back?

“You…” The Seordah paused, searching for the right words. “You are more… you now, Beral Shak Ur.”

Vaelin replied with a cautious nod. In truth he felt stronger, the chill having lifted from his bones, for the most part. Also his final practice with Davern had actually seen him defeat the shipwright, much to his sister’s delight. She had taken to watching the daily contests and gave a squeal of triumph as Vaelin’s wooden sword found a gap in Davern’s defences, jabbing into his midriff with enough force to provoke an obscenity-laden shout of pain. His dark-faced fury at Alornis’s taunts had been something of a guilty pleasure, though Vaelin was careful to hide it as he thanked the sergeant for his service and released him from future obligations.

“I am,” Davern grated, “always at your disposal, my lord.”

He made his way to the top deck and joined Reva at the helm, dressed in her light mail shirt, sword on her back, and bow in hand, laughing at something the Shield had said. The man’s humour faded at sight of Vaelin and he beckoned his helmsman forward to take the wheel, offering a cursory bow. “My Lord of Battle.”

“Fleet Lord Ell-Nestra,” Vaelin replied, bowing lower. The Shield’s resentment was more carefully hidden than Davern’s, though, he suspected, no less deeply felt.

“Our pet savages are prepared, I take it?” Ell-Nestra asked.

“Don’t call them that,” Vaelin told him, annoyed at the ease with which the Shield provoked him. Defeat and humiliation are poor tutors, it seems.

“Your pardon, my lord. Though you must agree they make poor sailors.”

“Who can blame them?” Reva said, her face only slightly less grey than Nortah’s. “I’d fight half the world to get off this tub.”

“Tub?” The Shield rounded on her in mock fury. “My lady insults the finest vessel ever taken by a Meldenean sabre. Why, I would challenge you, if you were not merely but a feeble woman.”

He took the lightning slap she gave him with good grace, making her laugh again with a florid bow before striding off to order his first mate to muster a fighting party. I thought at least she’d be immune to his charms, Vaelin thought sourly.

“Your people are ready?” he asked her.

She jerked her head at the rigging above, Vaelin seeing the densely packed archers on the platforms at the top of the great ship’s two towering masts. A figure leaned over the side of the foremost platform to wave at them, Vaelin recognising Bren Antesh’s silhouette. He sensed a certain impatience in the archer’s movements. “I think your Lord of Archers is keen for you to join him aloft,” he advised.

“In which case he’ll be disappointed,” she replied with a level gaze.

He let the matter drop; cautioning her seemed irrelevant given their mission. A wasteful gamble, Count Marven had called it, not without justification. Vaelin looked at the two ships following in their wake, the only Volarian vessels captured by the Meldeneans during their brief campaign, each crammed with more Seordah. Beyond the horizon waited all the ships they could commandeer on short notice, thirty vessels laden with more forest folk and three regiments of Realm Guard, including the Wolfrunners. The cream of this new army, gambled on an expectation of Volarian arrogance.

The Shield had sailed into Warnsclave a day after Belorath’s arrival, his great flagship laden with stolen supplies, relating his dismay at failing to seize a ship of equal size and design to his own newly acquired monster. “It was like fighting a mirror image,” he told Lyrna, his usual ebullience muted somewhat, and unlike most, less inclined to stare at her face. “Except one captained by a fool,” he went on. “Sadly, the fires we birthed in her were too great and she went down, along with a few hundred Free Swords, judging by the screams.”

The idea had been birthed then, triggering instincts Vaelin had thought lost with his song. They expect the Stormspite’s twin at Varinshold. He had pondered it for a day and a night before seeking the queen’s approval. “We don’t have ships enough for the whole army,” she reminded him.

“But enough to seize the docks, and Varinshold will stand or fall on who holds them. Plus, Brother Caenis will relate the need to attack on Winterfall Eve to the Renfaelin host via Brother Lernial.”

“The odds.” She shook her head. “Even if these Renfaelins, whoever they are, do ride to our aid, the odds still do not favour us. Marven is right, the risk is too great.”

“Not for the Seordah,” he said. “Not if they make the first attack, aided by Lady Reva’s archers. The docks will be taken within an hour.”

“Their prowess impresses you that much?”

He recalled the Kuritai that day as the rain beat down, swift and deadly but seeming like slow children as the forest folk broke their line. “You didn’t see them at Alltor, Highness.” He straightened, addressing her formally. “My queen, as Battle Lord I tell you this is the only way Varinshold will be in our hands before the year’s end.”

“By the Father,” Reva’s whisper brought him back to the present. She stood at the rail as they rounded the southern headland and Varinshold came into view. For a moment Vaelin felt certain they had sailed to liberate nothing more than a ruin, the entire southern quarter seemingly just a mass of piled brick and blackened wood. As they drew closer however, he began to pick out familiar buildings still standing amidst the rubble: the merchants’ houses overlooking the harbour, the northern wing of the palace just visible through the fading morning mist, and in the centre, the dark stump of the Blackhold, where he hoped the Aspects still drew breath.

Reva turned back from the view, her face grim, waving at the archers above, who promptly crouched, disappearing from view. The Shield donned a shirt of broad-ringed mail and buckled on his sabre. “Best if you stay by me, my lady,” he told Reva with a wink. “I’ll protect you.”

This time she failed to laugh, the sight of the city seemingly robbing her of humour. “It’s they who need protection,” she muttered, jerking her head at the Volarians now visible on the quay. Her face had taken on a tense aspect, her brow furrowed and gaze focused. On any other woman her age it might be taken for sullenness but Vaelin knew it was the face she wore throughout the siege, the face so many Volarians had seen in their final seconds of life.

He reached out to place a hand on her shoulder and she clasped it before he moved away, going to the prow. Nortah’s chosen men were coming up on deck, dressed in their Volarian gear, his brother making a convincing Free Sword Battalion Commander as he arrayed them in good order. He would be first down the gangplank to exchange salutes with whatever senior Volarian came to greet their arrival, before striking them dead and leading the charge against their escort, the Cumbraelin archers raining death on all others.

The sails were trimmed as they approached the harbour mouth, all in silence to prevent those ashore wondering why Meldenean voices could be heard on a Volarian ship. Vaelin could see their reception more clearly now, neatly arrayed rows of Free Swords standing to the rear of a single officer, hopefully the senior Volarian commander in the city. A cheering sight since the man would probably be the one to greet Nortah, or if not, would be almost certain to die in the arrow storm. Off to the left stood a tall figure on a warhorse, long dark hair tied back from his handsome face. Lyrna had given orders for Darnel to be taken alive if possible, keen to extract whatever intelligence he held regarding Volarian plans, but Vaelin gave little for the man’s chances once the Realm Guard came ashore. He would have to get the Shield to spirit him away…

He straightened as Darnel’s horse abruptly began to rear, tipping its master from the saddle and lashing about with its hooves. For a second all was confusion as the horse went wild, trampling men and charging away, then he saw a slender young man rushing towards Darnel, a faint gleam of steel in his hand. Alucius!

He saw it all, standing helpless as the ship inched closer to the shore, saw Darnel’s sword cut through Alucius’s chest, saw a tall familiar figure impale Darnel with the spike he wore in place of a hand, saw the Volarian commander marshal his men in response.

“Antesh!” Vaelin called, cupping his hands and casting his voice at the platforms. The Lord Archer’s head appeared above the platform edge and Vaelin pointed to the wharf. “Kill them all!”

Reva appeared at his side. “What is it?”

“Forget the plan,” he told her, reaching over his shoulder to draw his sword, the quay no more than ten feet away now. “Tell Nortah to get his people ashore and start killing.”

He hoisted himself onto the rail, watching the arrows streak down from above, Volarians falling by the dozen, Al Hestian visible through the milling confusion, crouched protectively over his son’s body. Vaelin took a final judging glance at the quay and leapt from the rail, landing hard and rolling to absorb the shock. He sprinted towards Al Hestian, finding his way blocked by a knot of Free Swords, using their comrades’ bodies as shields as they backed away under the orders of a veteran sergeant. Vaelin hacked his way into their midst, laying about with his sword in a two-handed grip, two falling in quick succession, the veteran sergeant skewered through chest and neck by multiple arrows, the others attempting to flee but soon tumbling to the stones under the deadly rain.

Vaelin ran on, cutting down any Volarian who contrived to block his path. The sword flashed with all the effortless, terrible grace he had thought lost, parrying and killing as he moved without conscious decision. Perhaps it was never the song, he thought grimly, sidestepping a thrust from a Free Sword and moving behind him to lay open the back of his neck. You don’t need a song to be a killer.

He saw Al Hestian ahead, still crouched over Alucius, a group of Volarians rushing towards him. Something thrummed past Vaelin’s ear and the lead Volarian fell dead with an arrow protruding from his breastplate. Vaelin glanced behind to see Reva notching and loosing arrows from her finely carved bow with a speed and precision he knew he would never match. He sped on towards Al Hestian, seeing two more Free Swords fall to Reva’s arrows. Another came close enough to hack down at the former Battle Lord. Vaelin leapt, extending his blade to block the blow, hammering a fist into the man’s face. The man staggered, drawing his short sword back for a riposte, then snapped his head back and collapsed as one of Reva’s arrows found his eye.

“Alucius!” Vaelin shoved Al Hestian aside and crouched next to the poet, his eyes tracking over the terrible wound in his chest to his face, the features bleached white, eyes half-closed. Reva crouched at his side, touching a hand to Alucius’s face, sighing in sorrow.

“Drunken sot,” she muttered.

“Weaver!” Vaelin said, standing to cast his gaze out to sea. “He’s on the third ship with the other Gifted…”

“Vaelin,” she said, reaching out to grasp his arm. “He’s gone.”

He stood, dragging his gaze from Alucius’s body as the Seordah swept past them on either side, tearing through the hastily assembled ranks of Free Swords, cutting their line apart. Some fought, hacking and stabbing with their short swords at the too-swift, silent phantoms that assailed them, their blades finding only air as they fell by the dozen. Others fled, sprinting away through the ruins or throwing themselves into the harbour, willing to risk drowning rather than face such an onslaught. Here and there Kuritai could be seen, managing to strike a blow or two before they were clubbed down. Beyond the slaughter Vaelin could see a dense formation of Volarians building in the more open ground near the warehouse district, neat ranks of Varitai falling into place with their uncanny precision.

“They’ll fall back to the palace.”

Vaelin turned to find Lakrhil Al Hestian regarding him with a vacant frown, his voice dull, listless. “There are fire-traps surrounding it. They could hold out for days.”

He looked down at Alucius once more, bent to retrieve the dagger still clutched in the poet’s hand, and raised it towards his own throat. Vaelin’s punch jabbed into the nerve cluster below Al Hestian’s nose, leaving him unconscious on the stones.

“Muster your archers on the quay,” he told Reva, nodding towards the dense ranks of Varitai, now attempting a fighting withdrawal into the city, the Seordah continually harrying them with volleys of arrows from their flat bows. Despite their retreat he knew this was far from over; he could see more Volarian formations moving through the ruins, battalions forming in the northern quarter with more to the west. He saw Nortah a short distance away, mustering his fighters amidst the remnants of a Free Sword company, sword bloody from end to end.

“Move towards the north gate!” he called to him. “Stop them joining up. I’ll send the Realm Guard to join you when they dock.”

Nortah nodded, then drew up short at the sight of something towards the east, laughing and pointing his reddened blade. “Perhaps that won’t be necessary, brother.”

Vaelin heard them before they came into view, a great, cacophonous clatter of steel on stone. Clearly the Volarian commander heard it too as he attempted to switch companies to his left flank, all too late. The knights tore into the Volarian ranks, longswords and maces rising and falling as they hacked their way through the Varitai, cutting the formation in two. The Seordah charged in to complete the destruction, a fine red mist of mingled blood, breath, and steaming horse sweat rising to cover the raging carnage. The Varitai, unlike the Free Swords, didn’t know how to flee and fought to the last.

Vaelin ordered Nortah to join up with Reva’s archers and sweep towards the palace. “There’s still half a division to kill,” he told them. “Take no chances, keep them divided and let the archers do their work.”

He waited for the Realm Guard to come ashore, the Wolfrunners the first Regiment to arrive, now commanded by a former corporal Vaelin vaguely remembered from the Alpiran war. “Set guards on this man,” Vaelin ordered, pointing to Al Hestian’s unconscious form. He took a final glance at Alucius, knowing he would have to be the one to tell Alornis and feeling like a coward for hating the duty. “And secure this man’s body,” he said. “The queen will wish to say words when we give him to the fire.”

He walked through the scene of the Varitai’s defeat, a dense carpet of bodies breasting the wharf from end to end. A broad-chested knight on a tall charger trotted up to him, trampling bodies and breaking bones under hoof. He pushed back the red-painted visor covering his face, greeting Vaelin with a forced laugh. “Quite the spectacle, eh, my lord?”

“Baron.” Vaelin bowed. “I had hoped it would be you.”

A young, bare-headed knight guided his horse to Banders’s side, his bright gaze alighting on Vaelin for a moment before scanning the quayside with intense scrutiny. “Where is he?” he demanded, hefting a gore-covered longsword.

“Arendil, my grandson,” Banders explained to Vaelin. “He’s keen to meet Lord Darnel.”

“Back there, young sir.” Vaelin pointed over his shoulder. “Quite dead, I’m afraid.”

The young knight slumped in his saddle, sword arm sagging. His face betrayed as much relief as disappointment. “Well, at least it’s over.” He brightened at the sight of a group of people approaching along Gate Lane at the run, raising his hand in a welcoming wave. Vaelin initially took them for some of Nortah’s fighters but soon realised they were an even more unusual mix, varying greatly in age and garb, including a girl of no more than sixteen, a Lonak woman of impressive stature… and a muscular young man with an Order blade.

Frentis stared at him as he approached, a faint smile on his lips. Vaelin halted a few feet away, taking in the sight of a man who was both brother and stranger. His frame was even more impressive now, powerful and, Vaelin noted, free of scars judging by the skin visible through his torn shirt. His face also had lost the youthful smoothness he remembered, hard lines forming around the mouth and eyes. For once, Vaelin was grateful for the song’s absence as he found himself uncertain he wanted to know what those eyes had seen.

“I heard you died,” he said.

Frentis’s smile widened. “Whilst I knew you couldn’t have.”

Seeing his evident and genuine warmth, Vaelin felt his sorrow deepen yet further. “I require your sword, brother,” he said, holding out his hand.

Frentis’s smile slowly faded and he glanced at the people flanking him before nodding, coming forward to proffer his blade hilt first. Vaelin took it and beckoned the Wolfrunners’ new commander forward. “This man,” he said, “is bound by the Queen’s Word to answer for the murder of King Malcius. He is to be shackled and confined pending her judgement.”