Tower Lord

CHAPTER ONE

Vaelin

“I miss her too.”

Alornis glanced up from her wood carving, dark eyes hard, as they had been for the past four weeks. Compelling her on this journey had done little to endear him to her, and Reva’s disappearance had only made things worse. “You didn’t even look for her,” she said.

Despite the accusation in her tone he was encouraged by the fact that this was the most she had said to him since the morning she woke to find Reva gone. The long journey through Nilsael, and their time on this ship as they voyaged to the Northern Reaches, had been marked by a refusal to engage him in anything more than the most basic conversation.

“What choice did I have?” Vaelin asked her. “Tie her up and bind her to a horse?”

“She’s alone,” Alornis said, returning to her carving, the short curved knife whittling away at the figure. She had started it when they first boarded the ship, a distraction from the sea-sickness that had her heaving over the rail for the first few days out from Frostport. Her stomach had settled in the week since, but her anger hadn’t, the knife chiselling at the wood in quick, tense flicks of her wrist. “She had no-one,” she added softly. “No-one but us.”

Vaelin sighed and turned his eyes to the sea. These northern waters were much more fractious than the Erinean, the waves rising steep and the unceasing wind possessed of a cutting chill. The ship was named the Lyrna in honour of the King’s sister, a narrow-hulled, two-masted warship of some eighty hands, augmented by Vaelin’s company of Mounted Guard who had been ordered to stay with him for the next year. The guard captain, a well-built young noble named Orven Al Melna, was punctilious in affording Vaelin every measure of respect his lordly status required, acting as if he were in fact under his command rather than the more truthful role of gaoler; the King’s insurance against any changes of heart.

“What did you tell her?” Alornis had moved to his side, her expression still guarded but not quite so fierce. “You must have told her something to make her leave us.”

This had been a worry for some time now; what to tell her. What lies to tell her, he corrected himself. I lie to everyone, why not her? He would tell his sister, his trusting sister who didn’t know he was a liar, that Reva had fled due to her god-worshipping shame, born of her acceptance of his tutelage and her feelings for Alornis, feelings the bishops held as a sin. It was perfect, mixing in enough embarrassment to forestall further questions on the matter.

He opened his mouth but found the words died in his throat. Alornis still regarded him with angry eyes, but there was trust there too. She looks at me and sees him. Did he ever lie to her? “What did Reva tell you about her father?” he asked.

And so he told her, all of it. From the day he was taken to the House of the Sixth Order to the night he returned to his father’s house. Unlike the tale he had told the Alpiran scholar on the voyage to the Isles, this was his unvarnished and complete account, every secret, every death, every tune from the blood-song. It took a long time, for she had many questions, and another week had passed before it was done, the shore of the Northern Reaches appearing on the horizon the morning he finished.

“And the song lets you see her?” she asked. They were in the cabin the first mate had given up for the Tower Lord and his sister. She sat cross-legged on her bunk, the near-completed carving resting in her lap. She had continued to whittle away as he told his tale, the figure becoming more refined with every passing day, in time revealed as a statue of a tall, lean man with a bearded face. She had borrowed some varnish from the ship’s carpenter and was carefully applying it to the wood with a small sable brush, making it shine like bronze. “Sherin, wherever she is?”

“At first, when I had learned how to sing,” he replied. “But the visions faded over time. It’s been more than three years since I had any sense of her at all.”

“But still you try?” His sister’s gaze was intent, entirely lacking in disbelief. There had been some initial scepticism when he first told her of the blood-song but he borrowed a trick from Ahm Lin’s tale of his apprenticeship and had her hide his belt-knife somewhere on the ship whilst he stayed in the cabin. He found it within a few minutes, slotted into a gap between two ale barrels in the hold. She tried again, this time enlisting the help of a sailor to hide it in the crow’s nest. Vaelin had opted not to climb up after it, simply calling on the look-out to toss it down. She hadn’t required any further demonstrations to trust his word.

“Not for some time now,” he said. “Hearing the song is one thing, singing is another. It’s very taxing, possibly deadly if I put too much effort into it.”

“That thing that had taken Brother Barkus, you searched for it?”

“I catch glimpses now and then. It’s still free in the world somewhere, deceiving, killing at the command of whatever it serves. But the images are vague. I suspect it can mask itself somehow. How else could it hide in Barkus for so long? It’s only when it thinks of me that the glimpses come, its hatred enough to burn through the mask.”

“Will it come for you again?”

“I expect so. I doubt it has much choice in the matter.”

“What happened when you called at the Order House?”

Again he was tempted to lie to her, the information garnered during his visit left a bitter taste and he had no desire to voice it. But instead of a lie he chose concealment. “I met the Aspect.”

“I know that. What did he tell you?”

“Not just Aspect Arlyn. I met the Aspect of the Seventh Order. And no, I won’t tell you who it is. For your own protection.” He leaned forward, holding her gaze. “Alornis, you must always be careful. As my sister you are a target. That’s why I brought you with me, that’s why I’m telling you this tale. The Northern Reaches are safer than the Realm, but I’ve little doubt that thing and its cohorts can reach for us here if they choose to.”

“Then who can I trust?”

His gaze dropped. I’ve told her nothing but truth so far, why stop now? “Honestly, no-one,” he said. “I’m sorry, sister.”

She looked at the statue in her hand. “When father died, did you . . . ?”

“Just the echo of it. He’d already passed the day I sang for you. You were watching the pyre with your mother. It was snowing. There was no-one else there.”

“No,” she said, with a small smile. “You were there.”

The North Tower came into view two days later. It was an impressive structure, wider at the base than the top, some seventy feet tall, surrounded by a stout wall half as high. It had the look of the older castles Vaelin had seen in Cumbrael, no hard angles and a general lack of statuary or ornamentation, a fortification from another time, after all it had stood here for near a century and a half.

The port was busy with fishing smacks and merchant vessels, their crews hauling ropes and oars to make way for the Lyrna as she made a stately progression to the quayside. Captain Orven ordered his men down the gangplank first, lining them up in two ranks, polished armour gleaming. They made something of a contrast to the line of twenty men in dark green cloaks standing at the opposite end of the wharf. Their line was somewhat uneven and their armour, mostly of hardened leather rather than steel, had a non-uniformity to it that wasn’t exactly ragged but neither was it particularly tidy. Most of the green-cloaked men were dark-skinned, the descendants of exiles from the southern Alpiran Empire, and none seemed to be less than six feet tall. Standing in front of the line was an even taller man, also in a green cloak, and a diminutive dark-haired woman in a plain black dress.

“How do I look?” Vaelin asked Alornis at the head of the gangplank. He was dressed in a fine set of clothes supplied by the King’s own tailor, a white silk shirt embroidered with a hawk motif on the collar, trews of good cotton and a long dark blue cloak trimmed with sable.

“Very lordly,” Alornis assured him. “You’d be even more so if you actually wore that thing rather than just carry it around.” She pointed at the canvas bundle in his hand.

He placed a smile on his face and turned to walk down the gangplank, approaching the dark-haired woman and the tall man, both giving a formal bow.

“Lord Vaelin,” the woman said. “I bid you welcome to the Northern Reaches.”

“Lady Dahrena Al Myrna,” Vaelin returned the bow. “We’ve met before, although I daresay you don’t remember.”

“I remember that day very well, my lord.” Her tone was carefully neutral, her handsome Lonak features lacking expression.

“His Highness sends his warmest regards,” Vaelin went on. “And sincere gratitude for your dutiful labours in continuing to administer this land for the Crown.”

“His Highness is most kind,” Lady Dahrena replied. She turned to the tall man at her side. “May I present Captain Adal Zenu, Commander of the North Guard.”

The captain’s tone was less than neutral, and absent of any note of welcome. “My lord.”

Vaelin glanced at the line of mismatched men. “I assume this is not the entirety of your command.”

“There are three thousand men in the North Guard,” the captain replied. “Most gainfully employed elsewhere. I didn’t think it appropriate to gather more than was strictly necessary.” He met Vaelin’s gaze, waiting a while before adding, “My lord.”

“Quite right, Captain.” Vaelin beckoned to Alornis. “My sister, the Lady Alornis Al Sorna. She will require suitable quarters.”

“I’ll see to it,” the Lady Dahrena said. Vaelin was heartened to find she managed to summon a smile for his sister as she bowed. “Welcome, my lady.”

Alornis returned the bow a little awkwardly; noble manners were new to her. “Thank you.” She offered another sketchy bow to the captain. “And you, sir.”

The captain’s bow was considerably more accomplished and his tone markedly warmer than when he had addressed his new Tower Lord. “My lady is very welcome.”

Vaelin looked up at the tower looming above, a dark mass against the sky, birds flocking around the upper levels. The blood-song rose with an unexpected tune, a warm hum mingling recognition with an impression of safety. He had a sense it was welcoming him home.

The base of the tower was surrounded by a cluster of adjoining stone-built buildings comprising the stables and workshops required for the smooth functioning of a castle. Vaelin guided the horse they had given him through the main gate and into the courtyard where the servants of the tower had been arrayed in welcome. He dismounted and made an effort to speak to a few, finding only clipped responses and a few obvious glares of hostility.

“Friendly bunch, these Reach dwellers,” Alornis muttered as they made their way inside. Vaelin patted her on the arm and kept smiling to all they met, though it was starting to make his face ache.

The Lord’s chamber was situated on the ground floor of the tower, a simple unadorned oak chair sitting on a dais looking out on the large circular space. Against the wall stone steps ascended in a spiral to the next level. “Remarkable,” Alornis said, drinking in the sight of the chamber with evident fascination. “I didn’t think a ceiling of such size could be supported without pillars.”

“There are great iron beams in the wall, my lady,” Captain Adal told her. “They reach from the foundations all the way up to the top of the tower. Each floor is suspended from the beams, counterweights stop them from falling in on themselves.”

“I didn’t know our forebears were such skilled builders,” Vaelin commented.

“They weren’t,” the captain replied. “This is actually the second North Tower, built by my people when we were granted refuge here. The original was only half as tall and had a tendency to list.”

Vaelin’s gaze was drawn to a large tapestry hanging behind the Lord’s Chair. It was about twelve feet long and five feet high, embroidered with a battle scene. An army comprising warriors clad in a variety of armour, and bearing varying forms of weaponry, advanced against a host of men and women clad in furs, all with a savage aspect, standing alongside great cats with teeth like daggers. Overhead birds of prey crowded the sky, an unfamiliar species larger than any eagle, their talons outstretched as they flew towards the polyglot army.

“The great battle against the Ice Horde?” he asked Dahrena.

“Yes, my lord.”

He pointed at the birds. “What are these?”

“We called them spear-hawks, though in truth they’re a descendant of the eagle, bred for war. The ice people used them the way we use arrows.”

He peered closer, picking out the figure of the former Tower Lord, Vanos Al Myrna, a great bear of a man pointing a war hammer towards the Horde. Next to him stood a smaller figure with long dark hair and a bow in hand. “This is you?” he asked in surprise.

“I was there,” she replied. “As was Captain Adal. We all were, every Realm subject in the Reaches old enough to bear arms, fighting alongside the Eorhil and the Seordah. The Horde made no distinction between combatant and civilian, all hands were needed to fight them off.”

“Especially since no aid was forthcoming from the Realm,” the captain added.

Vaelin’s gaze lingered on the war-cats amongst the ranks of the Ice Horde and the blood-song swelled, turning his thoughts to the north-west. So, they found refuge here after all.

Dahrena gave a sudden gasp and he looked up to find her regarding him with a wide-eyed stare.

He raised an eyebrow. “My lady?”

She flushed and tore her eyes away. “I’ll show you to your rooms, my lord.”

“Please do.”

The room was situated three floors up, high enough to afford a clear view of the town and surrounding country. A large fur-covered bed was set against the wall and a sturdy desk stood in front of the south-facing window. A stack of papers sat on the corner of the desk next to a quill and a full inkpot.

“I’ve readied the petitions and reports for your perusal, my lord,” Dahrena said, gesturing at the papers. They were alone, the captain having offered to show Alornis her own rooms on the floor above. “Anything urgent is tied with a red ribbon. You may want to read the letter from the shipbuilders guild first.”

He glanced at the documents, finding a red-ribboned letter on the top of the pile. “My thanks for your thoroughness, my lady.”

“Very well. If you’ll excuse me.” She bowed and turned to the door.

“What is it?” he asked before she could leave.

She hesitated, turning back with obvious reluctance. “My lord?”

“Your gift.” He sat in the chair in front of the desk, reclining with his hands behind his head. “I know you have one, otherwise you couldn’t have felt mine just now.”

Her previously expressionless face became shadowed by fear, quickly replaced by anger. “Gift, my lord? I do not understand your meaning.”

“Oh, I think you do.”

They stared at each other in silence, she with resentment shining in her eyes, he realising the depth of distrust he would find here. “Where do I find my brother?” he asked when it became plain she was determined not to answer his question. “The blond fellow with the pretty wife and the war-cat.”

The Lady Dahrena gave a faint snort of amused annoyance. “She said you would know. That there was no point in lying to you.”

“She was right. Did she also tell you that you have nothing to fear from me?”

“She did. But she knows you, I do not. And neither do the people your King has sent you to rule.”

“I think you mean our King.”

She closed her eyes for a second, sighing in suppressed anger. “Quite so, my lord. I misspoke. Sella and her husband can be found at Nehrin’s Point, a settlement twelve miles to the north-west. I know they will be pleased to see you.”

He nodded, picking up the letter on the top of the stack. “What do they want? These shipbuilders.”

“The merchants guild have reduced the stipend they pay for the upkeep of their ships. They say the drop in trade thanks to the Alpiran war has reduced their profits too much. The shipbuilders request that you reinstate the original price under the King’s Word.”

“Do these merchants speak the truth?”

She shook her head. “Trade in certain goods has reduced, but the price of bluestone has doubled since the war. More than enough to make up the losses in other commodities.”

“The bluestone price has increased due to its rarity, I assume? King Janus once told me the seams were thinning every year.”

Dahrena frowned. “I cannot account for what our late king told you, my lord. But the mines have continued to produce a steady flow of stone for years. In fact my father was obliged to slow production to prevent the price from falling. It’s doubled in price due to the fact that Realm ships can no longer carry it directly to Alpiran ports.”

Vaelin swallowed a bitter laugh. Another strand to the old schemer’s web revealed as a lie. He opened the letter and signed his name to it, feeling her gaze on his hand as he laboured over the letters. “The shipbuilders’ request is granted,” he said. “What else do you have for me?”

Her gaze moved from his clumsy signature to the stack of letters. “Well,” she said, moving to the desk and opening the next petition, “it seems Captain Adal needs to buy the North Guard some new boots . . .”

They held a banquet for him in the Lord’s chamber that evening, a lavish but tense affair attended by the leaders of the town guilds, the senior brothers and sisters from those Orders maintaining mission houses in the Reaches, and a large number of merchants. They were the least taciturn, engaging the new Tower Lord in conversation whenever the opportunity arose, each working in a request for a private audience when time allowed. Dahrena had already warned him her father conducted all meetings in the presence of witnesses, a surety against accusations of graft, and he replied to every request with a statement that he saw no reason why such a wise practice should not continue.

He found himself seated alongside the representatives of the Faith at the top table. Only the Second, Fourth and Fifth Orders had Houses in the Reaches. The Sixth had never established itself here, local security resting in the hands of the North Guard by royal command. Dahrena said the official reason was that the security of the greater Realm was deemed of higher importance in the Sixth’s already long list of responsibilities, but her father always suspected it had more to do with Janus’s keenness to keep them well away from his supply of bluestone.

Vaelin was surprised to find Brother Hollun of the Fourth Order the most talkative of the Faithful. A rotund and jovial fellow with the permanent squint of the near-sighted, he talked at length about the history of the Reaches and his Order’s work in keeping accurate records of local trade, especially where bluestone was concerned. “Did you know, my lord,” he said, leaning closer to Vaelin than was strictly necessary, probably to get a clear look at his face, “more money passes through the three banks in this town in a month than in the whole of Varinshold in a year?”

“I did not, brother,” Vaelin replied. “Tell me, how regular is your correspondence with Aspect Tendris?”

“Oh”-the black-robed brother gave a shrug-“perhaps once a year a letter comes, usually with advice on how to ensure the Faith of my junior brothers doesn’t waver in these difficult times. At so far a remove from the Order House, we can hardly expect to occupy the Aspect’s attention when other matters are more pressing, I’m sure.”

Sister Virula of the Second Order was less talkative. She was a thin woman of middling years with a somewhat morose air, her conversation limited to softly spoken complaints about Captain Adal’s refusal to provide an escort for her intended mission to the horse-tribes of the Eorhil Sil. “An entire nation barred from the Faith through simple lack of will, brother,” she told Vaelin, seemingly incapable of addressing him by his correct honorific. “I can assure you my Aspect is very displeased.”

“Sister,” Dahrena said in a weary tone. “The last group of missionaries sent to the Eorhil Sil were found bound and gagged outside the tower gate. My father raised the matter at the autumn horse trade and the answer was quite clear; they don’t like to hear your bad talk about the dead.”

Sister Virula closed her eyes, briefly recited the Catechism of the Faith under her breath and returned to her soup.

The Fourth Order was represented by Brother Kehlan, a man of some fifty or so years with a serious look who regarded Vaelin with the same wary suspicion he saw on most faces around him.

“Would I be right, brother,” he asked the healer, “in judging you the longest-serving member of the Orders in the Reaches?”

“I am, my lord,” Kehlan replied, pouring himself some more wine. “Some thirty years now.”

“Brother Kehlan came north with my father,” Dahrena explained, touching an affectionate hand to the brother’s sleeve. “He has been my tutor for as long as I can remember.”

“Lady Dahrena has an excellent knowledge of the healing arts,” Kehlan said. “In truth she’s more my tutor these days than I am hers, what with all the curatives she brings back from the Seordah. They’re often remarkably effective.”

“You visit with the Seordah, my lady?” Vaelin asked her. “I was given to believe they forbid entry to their forest.”

“Not to her,” Kehlan said. “In fact I doubt there’s a path in the Northern Reaches she couldn’t walk in complete safety.” He leaned forward to meet Vaelin’s gaze, some wine sloshing from his overfilled cup. “Such is the respect and affection she commands here.”

Vaelin gave an affable nod in reply. “Of that I have little doubt.”

“Are the Seordah very fierce, Lady Dahrena?” Alornis asked. She was seated on Vaelin’s left and had said little all evening, clearly disconcerted by the unfamiliarity of the circumstance. “All I know of them are rather fanciful tales from the histories.”

“No fiercer than I,” Dahrena replied. “For I am Seordah.”

“I thought my lady was of Lonak descent,” Vaelin said.

“I am. But my husband was Seordah, and so, by their custom, am I.”

“You have a Seordah husband?” Alornis asked.

“I did.” Dahrena looked down at her wine cup, smiling sadly. “We met when the Horde came out of the north and my father called for aid from the Seordah, he was amongst the thousands who answered. I would have married him the very day I met him but for father’s insistence I wait for my majority. After we were wed I lived amongst them for three years until . . .” She sighed and took a sip of wine. “The war between Lonak and Seordah has never ended. It raged long before your people came here and will no doubt rage for centuries to come, claiming many more husbands.”

“I’m sorry,” Alornis said.

Dahrena smiled and patted her hand. “Love once and live forever, so the Seordah say.”

The sadness in her eyes stirred memories of Sherin, her face the day he had placed her in Ahm Lin’s arms, the hours he spent watching the ship take her away . . .

“Might I enquire what plans my lord has for the morrow?” Brother Hollun said, calling his attention back to the table. “I have several months worth of records requiring the Tower Lord’s signature.”

“I have business at Nehrin’s Point,” Vaelin replied. “I would like to introduce my sister to some friends I’m told reside there. We’ll see to the records when I return, brother.”

Sister Virula stiffened at mention of the settlement. “Do I understand, brother, that you intend to visit the Dark Clave?”

Vaelin frowned at her. “Dark Clave, sister?”

“Just silly rumours, my lord,” Dahrena said. “The kind that always beset those with unfamiliar ways. The Reaches have ever been a refuge for exiles, people of differing faiths and customs, outlawed in their homelands. A long-standing tradition of the Tower Lord’s dominion.”

“One not to be overthrown without very careful consideration,” Brother Kehlan said, downing what was probably his sixth cup of wine. “New blood enriches us, Vanos always said. Something you’d do well to remember.”

Vaelin found he didn’t like the threat in the man’s voice, drunk or not. “Brother, if serving me is such an irksome task, you have my leave to return to the Realm at your earliest convenience.”

“Return to the Realm?” Kehlan grew red in the face, getting to his feet, shaking off Dahrena’s restraining hand. “This is my realm, my home. And who are you? Some vaunted killer from the mad king’s failed war?”

“Brother!” Captain Adal came forward, grasping the healer’s arm and pulling him away. “You forget yourself. Too much wine, my lord,” he said to Vaelin.

“Do you have any notion of the greatness of the man you pretend to replace?” Kehlan raged on, tearing free of Adal’s grip. “How much these people loved him? How much they love her?” His finger stabbed at Dahrena who sat with eyes closed in despair. “You are not needed here, Al Sorna! You are not wanted!” He continued to rant as Adal and another North Guard hustled him from the chamber, leaving a taut silence in his wake.

“And I thought this evening was destined to end without any entertainment,” Vaelin said.

The words provoked only a small ripple of laughter, but it was enough to herald a return of conversation, albeit muted.

“My lord.” Dahrena leaned close to Vaelin, speaking in hushed but earnest tones. “My father’s death was very hard on Brother Kehlan. The illness that took him was beyond his skill to heal. He has not been himself since.”

“He spoke treason,” Sister Virula said, her voice a touch smug. “He said King Janus was mad. I heard him.”

Dahrena gritted her teeth and pressed on, ignoring her. “His service to this land has been unmatched. The lives he has saved . . .”

Vaelin rubbed at his temples, suddenly weary. “I’m sure I can forgive the drunken outburst of a grieving man.” He met her gaze. “But it can’t happen again.”

She nodded, forcing a weak smile. “My lord is kind. And there will be no repetition of this, you have my word.”

“I’m glad.” He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “My thanks for all your attention today, my lady. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I find myself sorely in need of rest.”

“The Eorhil named him He Who Trails Fire When He Runs. On account of his mane.” The stable master smoothed a hand over the horse’s flank. It was a handsome beast, thickly muscled though not so toned as a well-bred Realm mount, but tall at the shoulder, his coat a dark russet brown save for his mane which had a tinge of red to it. “Not ones for short names the Eorhil. I just call him Flame.”

“He’s young,” Vaelin observed, checking the horse’s teeth and noting the absence of grey in the hairs on his snout.

“But smart as a whip and well trained, my lord,” the stable master assured him. He was a broad man in his thirties, Nilsaelin judging by his accent, sporting a patch over his left eye and naming himself only as Borun. He had greeted Vaelin’s early-morning appearance at the stables with brisk affability, absent any of the resentment the Tower Lord was becoming accustomed to.

“He was traded from the Eorhil when still a colt,” Borun said. “Was to be Lord Al Myrna’s next mount. Lady Dahrena thought it fitting he should come to you.”

Vaelin scratched Flame’s nose, receiving a contented snort in response. At least this one won’t bite. “I’ll need a saddle. And a mount for my sister.”

“I’ll see to it, my lord.”

Alornis appeared as the horses were being led into the courtyard, yawning and swaddled in furs. Even in summer the Reaches retained a chill for much of the small hours. “How far is it?” she asked. There was a redness to her eyes that made Vaelin suspect she had partaken of more wine than she should the night before.

“A few hours’ ride, usually,” Dahrena advised, climbing onto her own horse. “But we have a call to make first. I should like to show you one of the mines. If you are agreeable, my lord?”

“Certainly.” He inclined his head at Alornis, then at her horse. She yawned again, muttered something and hauled herself into the saddle with an audible groan.

As well as Orven’s guardsmen, they rode in company with Captain Adal and two of his men, taking the north road into heather-covered hills. The road had a well-maintained surface of hard-packed gravel and proved a busy route; they had to make way for several heavily laden carts along the way.

“When my father first took on the Lordship it was just a narrow dirt track,” Dahrena said when Vaelin commented on the quality of the road. “The stone had to be carried to the dock on packhorses. He used the King’s coin to build the road and the King’s Word to make the merchants pay towards its upkeep.”

They rode together at the head of the column. The mix of rigid neutrality and anger from the previous day seemed to have abated, but he could still sense a guardedness in her demeanour. Probably still worrying over the drunken healer, he thought.

“You don’t intend to stay, do you?” he asked.

She gave him a sidelong glance and he knew she was wondering what his song had told him, although his words came from nothing more than careful observation. “I had thought I might return to the forest,” she said. “For a time.”

“A pity, I should have liked to bestow a title on you.”

She arched an amused eyebrow at him. “Aren’t titles within the gift of the King?”

“And in this land I exercise his Word. How does First Counsel to the North Tower sound?”

She laughed then sobered when she saw his serious intent. “You want me to stay?”

“I’m sure the people of these Reaches would greatly appreciate it. As indeed, would I.”

She rode on his silence for a time, brows drawn in thought. “Ask me again when you’ve seen the mine,” she said, then spurred on ahead.

The mine was a gaping wood-braced maw torn into the side of a squat mountain, around which a number of wooden buildings were clustered. The miners were mostly stocky, pale-skinned men with candles pressed into leather straps worn about their heads. They offered cursory bows to Vaelin and deeper ones to Dahrena, ignoring a barked command from the mine foreman to gather in ranks to properly greet the Tower Lord.

“Insolent hill-born dogs!” he shouted at them, although Vaelin had a sense his anger was a little forced. The foreman was somewhat taller than his charges, with a cleaner face and a thick Renfaelin brogue. “Ye’ll have to forgive them, m’lord,” he said. “Don’t know no better.” He raised his voice. “Been shagging goats and smoking five-leaf their whole lives, the scum!”

“Oh, fuck a rock ape, Ultin,” called a tired voice of unseen origin.

Ultin flushed and bit down on his anger. “My own fault, m’lord. I’m too soft on ’em. Anyhow, welcome to Reaver’s Gulch.”

“Lord Vaelin would like to see the workings,” Dahrena told him.

“Of course, my lady, of course.”

He lit a lamp and led them to the mine entrance. Alornis gave the inky blackness of the shaft a brief glance and promptly announced she would prefer to remain above ground, taking her ever-present parchment and charcoal off to find something interesting to draw. Dahrena and Vaelin followed Ultin along the shaft, the damp walls shining in the lamplight. They passed a pair of miners pushing a wheeled barrow laden with rock to the surface. The descent couldn’t have covered more than two hundred yards but the rising heat and musty air stirred a sense that they were descending to the very bowels of the earth. Vaelin was starting to wish he had followed Alornis’s example by the time they came to a halt.

“Here we are, m’lord.” Ultin lifted his lamp, illuminating a cavernous space where a dozen or so miners were chipping at the walls with picks, others roaming the cavern floor to heave the hewn rock into barrows. “The richest seam in the Reaches. Finest quality stone too. Despite what that liar at Myrna’s Mount might tell you.”

Vaelin moved closer to the wall. He was surprised how clearly the bluestone stood out in the rock, small azure beads shining in the grey stone. “I once owned one as big as my fist,” he murmured. “I used it to hire a ship.”

“And the other matter, Ultin,” Dahrena said. “Lord Vaelin needs to see that too.”

Vaelin turned to find him giving her a questioning glance. She responded with a nod and he led them towards a small side tunnel leading off from the cavern. They followed him along the increasingly narrow passage for a good quarter hour, eventually coming to the end where Ultin’s lamp revealed a sloping length of rock about twenty yards long. At the foreman’s expectant look Vaelin moved closer to the slope, seeing something there besides bare stone, a thick yellowish vein running through it from end to end. He turned to Dahrena with a questioning glance. “Is it . . . ?”

“Gold,” she confirmed. “And Master Ultin assures me, for well he knows such things, it’s of the purest quality.”

“That it is, m’lord.” Ultin ran a hand along the yellow vein. “Grew up working the gold seams in west Renfael, and I’ve never seen so much of it in one place, nor so pure.”

Vaelin squinted at the seam. “Doesn’t look like so much.”

“You misunderstand me, m’lord. When I say one place, I mean the Reaches, not just this mine.”

“There’s more?”

Dahrena touched the foreman on the arm. “Master Ultin, if you could give me a moment with the Tower Lord.”

He nodded, lighting the candle in his head-strap and handing her the lamp before making his way back along the passage.

“We’ve found many such seams,” she told him when Ultin’s footsteps had faded. “These past four years, the deeper we dig the more we find.”

“Then I must confess my surprise King Malcius failed to mention such good fortune.”

Dahrena pursed her lips. “Good fortune for him could mean ruin for this land,” she said.

“Did your father know of this?”

“It was at his order that no word of it was sent to the Realm. To this day it’s known only to the Miners Guild, Brother Kehlan and myself.”

“An entire guild knows of this but says nothing?”

“The hill people are very serious in the oaths they give. They were here long before the first Asraelin ship appeared on the horizon. They know what will happen if word of this spreads to the wider Realm.”

“The wider Realm is greatly troubled at present. Such riches could alleviate considerable suffering, not to mention fund our King’s many ambitions.”

“That may be, my lord. But it will also bring the Realm down on us like a plague. Bluestone is one thing, gold is another. Nothing so inflames men to lust and folly like the yellow metal we find with every shaft we sink. Everything will change, and believe me, this land and its people are worth preserving.”

“Oath or no. A secret like this holds too much value to be kept forever. By accident or betrayal it will become known.”

“I am not suggesting we strive to keep it concealed for all the ages. Just the scale of it. The King can have his gold, build all the bridges and schools he likes with it, just not all at once.”

She was suggesting treason, and, judging by the intensity of her gaze, she knew it.

“You show great trust in me,” he said.

She shrugged. “You . . . were not what I expected. Besides, as you say, it was a secret you would have learned soon enough.”

He turned back to the seam, looking at the dull gleam of the yellow metal in the lamp’s glow. Greed had never been a preoccupation for him and he had always found its power difficult to understand, but it was an undeniable power nonetheless. He searched for the blood-song but found no music, no notes of either warning or acceptance. This decision, seemingly of such import, may in fact be irrelevant.

“Lady Dahrena Al Myrna,” he said, turning back to her. “I ask you formerly to accept the title of First Counsel to the North Tower.”

She gave a slow nod. “I gladly accept, my lord.”

“Good.” He began to work his way back along the narrow passage. “When we return to the tower, I shall require your assistance in composing a suitably restrained letter to the King advising him of our good fortune in finding a new supply of gold, albeit of relatively small quantity.”

They emerged blinking in the sunlight, finding Captain Adal waiting with a scroll in hand. Nearby a newly arrived North Guard was removing the saddle from an exhausted horse. The captain’s face was grave as he handed Vaelin the scroll. “From our northernmost outpost, my lord. The news is three days old.”

Vaelin looked down at the scroll and the meaningless scrawl it contained. “Perhaps you could just . . .”

“I agree, my lord, this lettering is appalling,” Dahrena said, reading the scroll over his shoulder, her eyes widening at the contents. “This is confirmed?”

Adal gestured at the new arrival. “Sergeant Lemu witnessed their transit himself. He’s not a man prone to excessive flights of imagination.”

“Transit?” Vaelin asked.

Dahrena took the scroll and read it through again. He was disturbed to note her hands shook as she held it. “The Horde,” she said in a soft murmur. “They came back.”