Tower Lord

CHAPTER ONE

Vaelin

The beauty of the forest was revealed in daylight, the sun painting an ever-changing canvas of dappled clearings and great old trees, gently flowing streams tracking to shallow waterfalls and pools of clear water. Vaelin felt the army’s fears abate somewhat as they marched, won over by the unspoiled majesty of the forest, even giving voice to a few marching songs, though the often profane content seemed out of place amongst the trees, like a curse whispered in an Alpiran temple. The blood-song had never lifted from the moment he entered the trees, soft and melodious but also carrying a graver note, not in warning but respect. So old, he wondered. Far older than the people who worship it.

Four days in and Hera Drakil advised they were about halfway through, this being the narrowest stretch of forest between the Realm and the Reaches. Vaelin had given up trying to judge just how many Seordah travelled with them, and asking their guide proved pointless as the Seordah saw little meaning in numbers. “Many,” the hawk-faced man had said with a shrug. “Many and many.”

Although his soldiers may have been growing accustomed to the forest, his other recruits proved less than enamoured. “How much longer?” demanded Lorkan, forgetting his usual effusive courtesies. There was a deep line in the centre of his youthful brow and his eyes had the sunken look brought on by constant pain. Marken and Cara seemed only marginally less discomfited, both fidgeting and restless as they sat eating their cold breakfast. Weaver alone seemed unconcerned, hands busy with the hemp the Seordah had provided. For some reason he had abandoned baskets for a tightly bound length of strong rope, already ten feet long and growing every day.

“Four days only,” Vaelin assured Lorkan.

“Faith, I don’t know if I can stand it.” He rubbed his fingers against his temples. “Can’t you feel it, my lord?”

“Feel what?”

“The weight,” Cara said, breaking her usual silence. “The weight of such a great gift.”

“Whose gift?” Vaelin asked.

The look on her face told him she wondered if any awe she may have felt might have been misplaced. “The forest, Lord Vaelin. The forest has a gift all its own, covering every tree, branch and leaf.” She clasped her hands together, forcing a faint smile. “I daresay we’ll get used to it. The Seordah seem to cope well enough.”

Why them and not me? he thought later. Why do I feel nothing but welcome?

“Because it welcomes you,” Dahrena told him that night after their reading lesson. “It knows you, sees your soul.”

“You talk as if it’s alive.”

The look she gave him was a harsher echo of Cara’s. “Of course it’s alive. Ancient life surrounds us on all sides, for hundreds of miles, nothing but life, breathing, feeling and seeing. It sees you and likes what it sees.”

“Did it see you? When you first came here.”

“I was a child then, when father found me. I thought it was a dream, the wolf, the forest’s welcome.” She fell silent, returning to binding a fletching to one of her arrows. Like the Seordah, she made her own, hands moving with unconscious skill and precision. Drakil had given her a bow some days before, much the same as his own but with pictograms etched into the stave, at first glance crude representations of the beasts of the forest but possessing an elegant clarity on closer inspection. From her reverent expression as she accepted the weapon he deduced it held some great significance for them both.

“Do you remember a time before?” he asked. “Your childhood amongst your people?”

“The Lonak are not my people. I can remember no more than a few words of their language. I recall a village, somewhere in the mountains. A number of women, harsh and quick with the back of their hands, but also kind sometimes. I recall a night of flames and screams and blood, I think they died that night. There was a man with a knife, walking slowly towards me, black against the flames . . . then there was the wolf. I think he killed the man with the knife, though I have no memory of it. He came and crouched down before me and I felt an urging to climb onto his back.

“We ran for such a long time, me clinging to his fur, the air cold on my face. I wasn’t afraid, I was joyful, and sad when it ended somewhere dark and surrounded by trees. I got down from his back and he blessed me, his tongue covering my face, banishing fear. Then he was gone. Father found me in the morning, the first time the Seordah had ever allowed a Marelim Sil to walk the forest, and I was almost the first thing he saw.”

From her tone he deduced she had long reconciled herself to the conclusion he had just drawn. This was no accident. We are both children of the wolf.

“How many times have you seen it?” he asked.

“Just twice, including the day we came here. And you?”

“Four.” Though there may have been one other time, when it was living in a statue . . . “Every time it has saved me, as it saved you.”

Her fingers became still and he saw her fear, the same tension he had seen when they first confronted Wise Bear. “For what?”

“I don’t know. For this perhaps, a war that needed us to fight it.”

“I was so young when he blessed me it’s only now I come to realise how it felt, the sense of a being so old I could never truly comprehend it. He must have seen countless petty feuds between the strange two-legged furless things that run around the earth, countless wars. Why is this one different?”

He recalled Aspect Arlyn’s words on the fate of the Realm when he had questioned the wisdom of supporting Janus’s mad war: It will certainly fall. Not to warring fiefs once more but to utter ruin, the earth scorched, the forests burned to cinder and all the people, Realm Folk, Seordah and Lonak dead. What else would you have us do?

“Because this one will claim his world as well as ours,” he said. “I think we both know we face other enemies than the Volarians.”

“Hence the good brother’s continued presence.” She glanced over at Brother Harlick, engaged in an animated conversation with Alornis. His sister seemed to find the scholar’s inexhaustible knowledge fascinating and could spend hours assailing him with questions in the as-yet-vain hope she could stump him.

“He knows far more than he shares,” Dahrena said.

“He’ll share it,” Vaelin assured her. “If I have to, I’ll wring every ounce of knowledge from him until he has no more breath to speak it.”

He spent the next morning travelling with the Eorhil, the horse-people leading their mounts through the trees and displaying almost as much discomfort as the gifted. “Horses can’t see the sky,” Sanesh Poltar said, smoothing a hand over his stallion’s head, the animal’s ears constantly twitching and his eyes wide. “Don’t like it. Neither do I.”

“The Eorhil are not welcome in the forest?” Vaelin asked.

Wisdom gave a soft laugh as she walked alongside the war chief. “We never have reason to come here. Eorhil and Seordah speak much the same tongue and trade for skins and weapons, but we are not the same people. They are of the forest, we are of the plains.”

“Do the Eorhil have stories,” Vaelin asked, “of the time before the plains, before the Marelim Sil came?”

Sanesh and Wisdom exchanged an amused glance. “Never a time before the plains,” Sanesh explained. “Eorhil always ride the plains. Always will. There was a time the Seordah were not so many in the forest, so it’s said by the grandfathers who speak of their grandfathers. But we had no knowledge of the Marelim Sil until they came to dig for stones in the hills.”

“But you do know of the blind woman?” Vaelin said to Wisdom.

Both Eorhil instantly became subdued, Sanesh striding on a ways and tugging his horse along.

Wisdom walked in silence for several moments, face set and closed. When she spoke again her tone was heavy with reluctance. “There’s a city, a ruin on the fringes of the Lonak Dominion. The Eorhil do not like the place and stay away, the grandfathers tell of troubled dreams and madness for any who venture there. But as a girl I was ever curious, for curiosity breeds wisdom, although I was yet to earn my name. So I journeyed there, alone, finding just the remnants of something that may have been wondrous in its time. I made my camp amongst the ruins and a woman came to my fire, a Seordah woman with empty eyes, although they could see me. I was not overly afraid for the Seordah are known to birth more gifted than the Eorhil. She said she also had journeyed far to view these ruins and we spent the night exchanging what little knowledge we had about the place. She pointed me to a certain stone amongst the rubble, very small, small enough to carry in both hands in fact, but also perfectly square, the surface smooth and undamaged. I asked her if she wanted it but she just shook her head, ‘This is for you,’ she said. So I picked it up.”

“It took you somewhere,” Vaelin prompted when the old woman fell silent once again.

Wisdom shook her head. “No. It gave me . . . knowledge. So much knowledge, all at once. Your language, the Lonak tongue, even the words spoken by the people we go to fight, and many more besides. I can recite every catechism of your Faith and every word in the Ten Books of the World Father, name all the Alpiran gods and relate every legend told by the Lonak. There was no insight to it, no context, just knowledge. It . . . hurt. So much that I fainted. When I woke the blind woman had gone, but the knowledge hadn’t.”

“So you are gifted?”

She shook her head with a small sigh. “Cursed, some might say. More puzzled than anything. That stone, that small perfect stone, filled with knowledge about the people of this world, but it was so old, crafted long before any of those languages were spoken as they are now. Who made it? And why?”

“Do you still have it?”

She raised her head, eyes searching for a gap in the canopy, no doubt hoping for a glimpse of sky. “No,” she said, smiling a little as a small patch of blue appeared above. “I found a heavier stone and smashed it to dust.”

The forest began to thin the next day, there was a noticeable widening of ground between the trees and clearings grew more numerous, although it remained dense in comparison to the Urlish. The mood of the men lightened further, the availability of open ground enabling more regiments to camp together, bringing a welcome sense of security. The forest’s charms may have won many hearts, but the basic fear of it remained, the ever-present knowledge that they didn’t belong here. The comparatively open ground also enabled Vaelin to gain a better appreciation for the Seordah’s numbers as he moved from clearing to clearing.

“Has to be well over eight thousand of them,” Nortah opined that evening at the council of captains.

“Ten thousand, eight hundred and seventy-two,” Brother Hollun reported. “Those that have remained within sight long enough to count that is. Bringing the total strength of the army to just over thirty thousand men.”

“I was wondering if we shouldn’t give the army a name,” Nortah said. “The Army of the North or something.”

Vaelin glanced at Captain Adal, who gave a nod. “Binding the men under a single name couldn’t hurt morale, my lord.”

“Very well,” Vaelin said. “I’ll ask my sister to design a banner, something suitably fierce.” His eyes tracked over the map. “The Seordah advise we are but one day’s march from Nilsael. Captain Orven, take your men and scout east. Captain Adal, send a company of North Guard west and take another south yourself. Any Volarian forces of appreciable size within thirty miles are to be reported to me as soon as possible.” He looked at Dahrena. “We will, of course, require deeper reconnaissance.”

“You’ll have it tonight, my lord.”

“My thanks, my lady.” He moved back from the table, addressing them all. “In the morning a full inspection of kit and weapons will be conducted and we will march into the Realm in battle order. Make sure every man under your command understands that we are now marching to war and like to find it in short order. If any were thinking of desertion, this is their last chance, though I wouldn’t advise making the return journey through the forest.”

“Good country,” Sanesh Poltar commented, on horseback once again and clearly happier for it. Northern Nilsael was indeed well suited to cavalry, rolling fields of grass and low hills stretching off towards the south. “How many elk roam here?”

“None that I know of,” Vaelin replied. “But you’ll find deer and wild goats as we travel south.”

“Goat,” Sanesh said with distaste. “Takes ten of them to skin one shelter. One elk will give you two.”

The army trooped from the forest in close order, well-dressed ranks moving with accustomed uniformity, though not quite in step. The ten regiments of infantry moved in a thick column, two regiments wide, the Eorhil on both flanks and the Seordah bringing up the rear in a mass of warriors, the various clans clustering together but giving only the vaguest impression of military organisation. The new banner of the Army of the North fluttered at the head of the infantry column, borne by Foreman Ultin himself, who had been fierce in warding off other hands when Vaelin handed it to him in the morning. Alornis had enlisted the help of the army’s tailors in realising her design, a great white hawk fringed with an Eorhil lance on one side and a Seordah war club on the other. Below the hawk was the bright azure oval of a bluestone.

“A little simplistic, perhaps,” she had said when showing him her sketch.

“When it comes to soldiers,” he told her with a hug, “you can never be too simplistic.”

He waited until the last Seordah had emerged from the forest and spent a while scanning the dark mass of trees, wondering if perhaps he would find a bright pair of green eyes staring back. There was nothing, just the trees and the deepening shadows, but there was a murmur from the blood-song, a forlorn note, uncertain but with enough ancient strength to carry a sense of hope.

“Good luck to you too,” Vaelin replied in a whisper before turning Flame’s head towards the south.

He marched them south for fifteen miles then called a halt, setting out pickets three times the usual strength. The Eorhil galloped off unbidden, some whooping with joy at the release from the forest’s strictures, the war-bands returning one by one as night fell, some bearing a few deer they had managed to bring down. The Seordah had encamped on the northern fringe of the army, remaining as close to the forest as they could. They were quiet as they sat about their fires, Vaelin seeing just grim acceptance on the faces of the men and women as they mended their arrows and sharpened their knives.

He found Dahrena seated outside Hera Drakil’s shelter, eyes closed and face immobile. The Seordah chief sat beside her, the concern on his face no doubt a mirror of Vaelin’s own.

“Once a child was lost,” he said when Vaelin sat down at the fire. “We feared he had been taken by a wild cat. Adra Dural sat like this for a whole night then took me to where he could be found. He had slipped on a rock in the river and hit his head. He lived but now has trouble remembering his name.”

“Adra Dural?” Vaelin asked.

“Flying Spirit. What else could we name her?”

Dahrena gave a soft groan and opened her eyes, face tensing with sudden cold. Vaelin pulled a fur over her shoulders as she shuffled closer to the fire. “You were gone too long,” he said.

“There was a lot to see,” she replied in a gasp. “You were right, about Alltor. It still holds, and a very bright soul burns atop its walls.”

“And between them and us?”

“Volarians move in large groups across Asrael and Cumbrael. Fewer in Nilsael but I saw more moving out from Varinshold. There are other souls in the forest to the north of the city, burning bright but also dark, some darker than the Volarians. I had a sense much killing was being done there.” She paused to gulp water from her canteen. “What remains of the Realm Guard is moving north of the Greypeaks, trying for the Nilsaelin border. I guessed their strength at perhaps three thousand men. Their souls are dark with fear and the burden of defeat. I caught a glimpse of a large body of men approaching from western Nilsael, but I couldn’t linger any further to discern their identity or intent.”

“You have done more than I could ask, my lady.”

Off the eastern perimeter a horn sounded the approach of mounted men. Vaelin rose as Captain Adal galloped into the camp, reining in and offering a salute, his face grave. “My lord, we found a village.”

The bodies had been piled in the village square, stripped naked and bleached white, the limbs already stiffening in the morning air. Most had had their throats cut but some showed signs of having died fighting.

“Old people and children,” Nortah observed. “For the most part.”

“They kill what they can’t sell,” Dahrena said. She spoke in an even voice but tears streamed from her eyes as she viewed the carcasses. “Like a cattleman weeding out poor stock.”

The village itself had been ransacked, valuables taken but the buildings left standing. It had been a pretty place of wattle-and-daub-walled cottages, thatched roofs and a tall windmill standing atop a nearby hill, the blades still turning, oblivious to the fate of those who had built it. “Build a fire,” Vaelin told Adal. “Have Brother Kehlan say the words.”

“Snowdance has the scent,” Nortah said, pointing to the war-cat as she crouched with ears flat, staring eastwards at the wagon tracks leading away from the village.

“They’ll have a day’s lead on us,” Adal pointed out.

“I’ll only need a day,” Nortah replied with a questioning look at Vaelin.

“What do you require?”

“A company of North Guard should do, plus Lorkan.”

“And me, brother.” Vaelin reached for Flame’s reins, hauling himself into the saddle. “I should like to see the man who can’t be seen.”

“I don’t know if I can.” Lorkan’s hands were shaking as he held the knife, eyes bright in the predawn gloom. “I’ve never . . .”

Vaelin saw Nortah’s head slump a little, knowing he was wrestling with his own reluctance. “Have we ever asked you for anything?” he said to the gifted youth. “In all the years you have been sheltered, fed, educated and tolerated, has any price ever been asked?”

“Teacher, I . . .”

“Here.” Vaelin took the knife from him and returned it to his sheath, holding it out blade first. “Hold it like this, hit them with the pommel, as hard as you can just below the ear. If they don’t go down first time, hit them again.”

Lorkan hesitated then reached for the knife, turning and walking towards the fires of the Volarian camp. He paused after a few steps and turned back to Nortah. “Teacher, if I fall tell Cara . . .” He trailed off then forced a grin. “Tell her I was a hero. She won’t believe it, but it may make her laugh, finally.”

He resumed walking, his slender form black against the pale orange horizon, moving without any attempt at stealth or concealment. After he had gone about fifty paces Vaelin heard Adal and the other North Guard utter soft gasps of surprise and bafflement. Vaelin frowned, seeing only a young man walking across a field.

“Shouldn’t be long now.” Nortah notched an arrow to his bow and started after Lorkan. “We’ll secure the slaves. Come on fast when you hear the commotion.”

“He’ll be seen,” Vaelin said, nodding at Lorkan’s retreating shadow.

“Really?” Nortah smiled over his shoulder. “I can’t see him.” He moved off in a low crouch, Snowdance slipping into the grass at his side.

“He’s right, my lord,” Adal said in a whisper. “The boy just . . . vanished.”

They waited as the horizon faded to black and the stars were revealed in a cloudless void, the half-moon adding a pale blue tint to the swaying grass.

“Erm, my lord?” Vaelin turned to see Adal holding out a sword, handle first, the blade resting on his forearm.

“No thank you, Captain.” The canvas bundle was tied to his saddle, the knots still firmly unpicked. “I have a feeling I shan’t need it tonight.”

The screams began shortly after, choked off by Snowdance’s wailing growls. Vaelin spurred Flame into a gallop, the North Guard following instantly as they covered the ground to the Volarian camp in the space of a few heartbeats. He pulled up in the centre of the camp, seeing a slave-hound sail through the air, trailing blood from a torn throat as Snowdance tossed it aside and sought another victim. Bodies lay between the wagons, several pierced with arrows, most clearly the result of the war-cat’s attentions. A few Volarians tried to assail the North Guard with whips and short swords but were swiftly cut down, some throwing their weapons aside and raising arms in a plea for mercy; however, the sights in the village had left the men of the Reaches with no inclination to show it.

He found Nortah helping Lorkan free the slaves from the wagons. They numbered at least a hundred people, evidence that the slavers had visited more than one village. On being unshackled some of them went wild, attacking any Volarians they could find, the living and the dead, but most just stumbled about in shock. One of the freed men recognised Vaelin and immediately sank to his knees, shouting gratitude with tears streaming from his eyes, soon joined by a dozen or more ragged people. He dismounted and went to them, raising his hands to call for silence.

“They answered us,” the man who had recognised him said, still kneeling. “We called to the Departed to send you and they did.”

Vaelin reached down and pulled the man to his feet. “No-one sent me . . .” he began then stopped at the sight of the naked devotion in the man’s eyes. Most of the other freed captives had gathered round now, all staring with unnerving intensity, as if he were something that had stepped from a dream. “I come in answer to the Realm’s need,” he told them. “I offer only war and struggle for any who wish to join with me. Those who don’t are free to go.”

“We go nowhere but with you, my lord,” the weeping man said, immediately echoed by the others. His hands clutched at Vaelin’s arms, frenzied and desperate. “I was with you at Linesh. I knew you would never forsake us.” The other captives closed in around him, voices raised in an awed babble. “You will lead us to freedom . . . The Tower Lord is blessed by the Departed . . . Give us justice, my lord . . . They murdered my children . . .”

“All right!” Nortah moved through the crowd, pushing them back with his bow. “Give His mighty Lordship some room, you fawning fools you.”

Eventually the North Guard had to intervene to release Vaelin from the mob’s adoration, Captain Adal leading Flame to his side so he could mount and ride free. “Escort them back to camp,” he told the captain. “Weapons for any who want them.”

“Even the women, my lord?”

Vaelin recalled the murderous hate in the eyes of a woman he had seen repeatedly lashing a Volarian corpse with her chains. “Even the women. Those unwilling or unsuited to fighting can cook or help Brother Kehlan.”

He started back for the camp in company with Nortah and Lorkan, Snowdance bounding on ahead, her tail whipping about as she rolled and leapt in the grass. “She’s always like that after a hunt,” Nortah explained.

“You are . . . well, brother?” Vaelin ventured, noting a familiar haunted look in his brother’s eyes.

“Thought it might have gotten easier,” Nortah replied with the faintest of grins. “But even with scum like that, it still hurts as much as it ever did.”

“Wasn’t so bad,” Lorkan said, drinking from a liberated flask of wine. From the slur of his words Vaelin suspected it wasn’t his first. “Hit the last bugger like you said, m’lord. Bam bam behind the ear. ’Cept he didn’t fall like the others, just staggered about a bit and reached for his sword.” Vaelin noted the red-brown stain on Lorkan’s hands as he drank some more. “He saw me. They always do when you touch them.”

“But only those not gifted,” Vaelin said. “We can see you regardless. To others it’s as if you vanish.”

“Well deduced, my lord.” Lorkan bowed in his saddle. “But I don’t vanish, not really. It’s more like I slip beneath their notice, like the buzz of a fly or the shadow of a bird on the ground. As a child I walked the streets of South Tower for years, stealing at will. They see me but don’t see me, so I can steal from them, unless I touch them, then these days it seems I have to kill them.” He raised the wine flask to his lips again, gulping and nearly tipping over until Nortah reached out to steady him. “Don’t tell Cara, Teacher,” the young man said. “What I did. I don’t want her to know.”

They marched on in the morning, halting at midday when Captain Orven rode in with confirmation of Dahrena’s warning about a large host approaching from the west. “Twelve miles distant as of this morning, my lord,” the guardsman reported. “We only saw the dust and a few outriders so I can’t say for sure how many.”

Vaelin ordered the regiments into a battle line astride a low hill, facing west with the Eorhil on both flanks and Nortah’s archers strung out in a loose skirmish line a hundred paces in front. The Seordah had accepted the role of rear-guard without demur, clustering about the baggage train in their clans, an arrow notched to every bow. Vaelin placed himself in the centre, the North Guard on his left and Orven’s men on his right, positioned just to the rear of Foreman Ultin’s miners. Dahrena was at his side, patently ignoring Adal’s scowl of disapproval.

There was little talk in the ranks, Vaelin recalled that the stillness before battle had a tendency to calm the tongue. He sat astride Flame, watching the dust-cloud rise above the western hills as the blood-song sang a placid tune lacking any warning. He waited as they came on, loosely ordered companies of light infantry resolving out of the dust, a few troops of cavalry fanning out to cover the flanks. They strung out in a somewhat uneven line some three hundred paces distant, a banner showing an axe within a six-spoked wheel fluttering over the centre of their line.

“Lower weapons!” Vaelin ordered. “Stand easy in the ranks.”

The miners stepped aside as he walked Flame forward then spurred to a trot, raising his hand to the man who rode from the Nilsaelin line to greet him, a lean-faced fellow with a mutilated left ear and close-cropped hair. “I hope you brought more, my lord,” Count Marven said. “As I fear this is nowhere near enough.”

Fief Lord Darvus Ezua was possibly the oldest human being Vaelin could remember meeting, sitting in his high-backed Lord’s Chair, bony hands clutching the rests and regarding Vaelin with a deep scrutiny that reminded him of Janus’s owlish gaze. Vaelin and Dahrena stood before him in a large tent in the centre of the Nilsaelin camp, the old lord flanked by his twin grandsons, both of whom seemed to have made efforts to distinguish themselves from one another with differing armour and mismatched capes. They were, however, both uniformly tall and blond with mirrored faces and, Vaelin noticed, a disconcerting tendency to blink in unison. Count Marven stood in a corner of the tent, his expression one of studied neutrality.

“This little jaunt nearly killed me, you know,” Fief Lord Darvus said, his voice marked by a noticeable croak but still strong and clear. “And the poor buggers who had to carry my litter.”

“War was ever a demanding master, my lord,” Vaelin replied.

“War, is it?” The old man gave a brief cackle. “What makes you think I’m here for that?”

“We are invaded. Why else would you bring your host?”

“A show of strength is important when negotiating. Did the same thing when I bent my knee to Janus, though it was stiff as a board even then. Still made me do it though, the Asraelin bastard.”

“Am I to understand, my lord, you intend to treat with the Volarians?”

Vaelin felt Dahrena stiffen at his side and gave her a placating pat on the arm. His meetings with Janus had given him ample experience with scheming old men. This one makes a show before striking his real bargain.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Darvus returned. “Darnel did and his fief remains unmolested.”

Vaelin tried to contain his shock. The Fief Lord of Renfael a traitor?

“Didn’t know that, eh?” the old lord said with another cackle, easily reading his face. “You’ve been away too long, boy. Darnel led his knights against the Realm Guard. My agents tell me he’s been given half of Asrael in return and lords it over Varinshold as we speak.”

“A traitor’s example is a poor one to follow, my lord,” Vaelin replied.

A genuine anger coloured Darvus’s wrinkled face. “My people look to me for protection and I’ve grown old providing it, swallowing every insult and humiliation heaped upon me by your kings along the way.”

“The Volarians will bring no insult or humiliation, it’s true. All they bring is death and slavery. We found one of your own villages yesterday, old people and children killed, the others taken in chains. We freed them and they joined us, all willing to fight and die to secure the freedom of this fief and this Realm. If you require an example, I suggest you look no further.”

He saw the twins exchange a uniform glance as he described the fate of the village, hands tightening on their sword hilts. Not their idea, Vaelin realised. They think the old man’s words genuine.

“My lord uncle,” the twin on the left said. “In reference to our discussion this morning . . .”

“Shut up, Maeser,” the old man snapped. “And you, Kaeser. Your dear departed mother always had wise counsel for me, but all you two ever bleat about is war and swords and horses.” He stared at the young lord until he looked away. “Their mother married a Renfaelin knight of great renown,” he explained to Vaelin. “Had a son of my own in those days so I didn’t see the harm, then the fool manages to pox himself into an early grave without issue and I’m left with these two.”

“If I might enquire, my lord,” Vaelin said. “What it is you want? I think we both know you have no intention of throwing your lot in with our enemy, and I have little time for elaborate bargaining.”

Darvus reclined in his chair, a small pink tongue appearing between his lips for a moment. Janus was an owl, Vaelin thought. Seems this one’s a snake.

“Out!” the Fief Lord barked at his nephews who both bowed and exited the tent with such synchronised precision it seemed like a rehearsed dance step. “Not you, Marven,” Darvus added as the count started for the exit. “I’d like a reliable witness to this little accommodation.”

The old lord’s gaze swung to Dahrena before he continued. “One of my agents had occasion to meet a fellow from the Reaches recently. A factor from some frost-bitten mining town, seemed to think he’d been poorly treated during a recent difficulty.”

Vaelin heard Dahrena utter a soft sigh. Idiss.

“Sadly the fellow contrived to get drunk and fall into Frostport harbour,” Darvus went on. “But not before he related an interesting story.”

“As I said, my lord,” Vaelin said. “I have little time.”

“Gold,” the old man said slowly, his gaze still fixed on Dahrena. “You have been keeping secrets, my lady.” He leaned forward, small tongue darting over his lips once more. “One of the lessons taught by a long life is that the opportunity for enrichment comes and goes like an unpredictable tide, and Nilsael is always the last to catch a wave. Not this time. This time we get our share.”

“There are sound reasons for keeping such information secret,” Dahrena said. “For your fief as well as the Reaches.”

“Not any more,” the Fief Lord returned. “Not with so many wolves at our door, and Lord Vaelin so badly in need of troops.”

“What do you want?” Vaelin asked, his patience reaching its limit.

“My dear departed daughter, keen-minded mother to idiot twins, used to say that gold was like water, it slips through one’s fingers with such ease. It’s not the man who digs the gold that gets rich, it’s the man who sells him the pick.” The bony fingers drummed on the armrests for a moment. “All gold mined in the Northern Reaches must be landed and sold in a Nilsaelin port.”

“That’s all?” Dahrena asked.

The old man smiled and inclined his head. “Quite all my lady.”

Every ounce of gold sold within his own borders, Vaelin thought. Any merchant seeking to buy it will have to come here, along with all their clerks and ships, no doubt laden with goods to trade in kind. The snake will make his fief the richest in the Realm within a generation. Janus would have been impressed.

“Your terms are acceptable, my lord,” he told Darvus. “Subject to ratification by the Crown.”

“Crown, is it?” The old man gave another cackle, raising a skeletal hand to point a finger at Vaelin with no sign of any tremble. “There’s only one head left fit to wear it and it stands before me right now.”