Tower Lord

CHAPTER SIX

Vaelin

The office of the King’s Notary was free of other petitioners on this the first day of the Summertide Fair, but Vaelin was still obliged to wait for almost an hour before the clerk looked up from his ledger book. He was a youngish man with the harassed air of the overworked and underpaid. “My apologies, sir,” he said. “We’re short-staffed today, what with the fair.”

“I fully understand.” Vaelin rose from the bench and approached the young clerk’s desk, so piled high with papers and ledgers he resembled a badger in an untidy den. “When I was last in the Realm the Fourth Order had charge of the King’s records,” he said.

“Not these days. These days the brothers of the Fourth Order are more like the Sixth, swaggering about, swords and all.” The clerk reclined in his seat, stifling a yawn and giving Vaelin a curious glance. “You’ve been travelling then, sir?”

“Indeed, far and wide.”

“Anywhere exotic?”

“The Meldenean Islands most recently. Before that the Alpiran Empire.”

“Didn’t think they even allowed our ships to land any more.”

“I took a roundabout route.”

“I see.” The clerk reached for a blank piece of parchment. “So, good sir. What brings you here with the delights of the fair but a short walk away?”

“I require a Warrant of Acknowledgment, for my sister.”

“Ah.” The clerk dipped his pen in an inkwell and jotted something onto the parchment. “Complicated families are truly the life-blood of this office. Fortunately, the procedure is fairly straightforward. You simply swear to your sister’s legitimacy in my presence, I will inscribe the warrant, we both sign and the deed is done. The fee is two silvers.”

Two silvers. It was fortunate Reva had agreed to sell the fine Realm Guard knife she acquired on the road. “Very well.”

“Excellent. Now, your name sir?”

“Lord Vaelin Al Sorna.”

The nib of the clerk’s pen made a loud crack as it snapped, ink splattering across the parchment. He stared at the black stain for a moment, swallowed and slowly raised his head. There was no doubt in his expression, just awe.

Pity, Vaelin thought. I was starting to like him.

“My lord . . .” the clerk began, rising and bowing, low enough for his forehead to bump the desk.

“Don’t do that,” Vaelin told him.

“They said you were dead . . .”

“So I heard.”

“I knew it was a lie. I knew it!”

Vaelin forced a smile. “The warrant for my sister.”

“Oh.” The clerk looked down at his desk, then around at the empty office, sweaty hands leaving a stain on his tunic. “I fear this is above my station, my lord.”

“I assure you it isn’t.”

“My apologies, my lord.” He backed away from the desk. “If you could wait just one moment.” He fled into the shadowy depths of the office. There was the sound of a door being thrust open, a bark of annoyance then a hushed conversation. The clerk soon returned followed by an overweight man somewhere past his fiftieth year. He faltered for a moment at the sight of Vaelin but gathered his composure with admirable speed.

“My lord,” the man said with a formal bow. “Gerrish Mertil, formerly of the Fourth Order, now Chief Notary for the City of Varinshold.”

Vaelin bowed back. “Sir. I was explaining to this man . . .”

“A Warrant of Acknowledgment, yes. Might I enquire your purpose in seeking this document?”

“No, you might not.”

The Chief Notary flushed a little. “Your pardon my lord. But I am aware of the King’s Order regarding your late father’s property and the Magistrate’s judgement in your sister’s case. A Warrant of Acknowledgment will negate the judgement but not the King’s Word, which as you know, is above the law.”

“I am aware of that, thank you.” He reached into his purse and extracted two silvers, placing them on the desk. “Nevertheless I wish to acknowledge my sister. I believe I am merely exercising rights enjoyed by all Realm subjects.”

Gerrish Mertil nodded at the young clerk who hurried to prepare the documents.

“Would it be presumptuous, Lord Vaelin,” the Chief Notary said, “for me to be the first official of the Realm to welcome you home?”

“Not at all. Tell me, how does a former brother become Chief Notary?”

“By the King’s grace. When he decreed the crown should resume stewardship of the Realm’s records, His Highness was wise enough to recognise the value of skills possessed by so many brothers of my Order.”

“You left your Order at the King’s command?”

Mertil’s expression became sombre. “It was no longer the Order I joined as a boy. The ascension of Aspect Tendris brought many changes. Instead of bookkeeping, novice brothers were being taught sword play. The crossbow instead of the pen. May the Departed forgive me, but I and many of my brothers were glad to leave.”

The young clerk hissed an obscenity, crouched over a sheet of velum at a writing desk, the quill shaking in his hand. “Oh give it here.” The Chief Notary nudged him aside, blotted away the spilled ink and began to write in smooth-flowing letters. “In my day they used to whip us if the flourishes were not all exactly the same length.” It was quickly done, signed by the Chief Notary himself. Vaelin appreciated his silent patience as he laboured over his own signature.

“I hope all is to your satisfaction, my lord.” Mertil bowed, handing over the scrolled warrant, tied with a red ribbon.

“My thanks, sirs.” Vaelin held out the two silvers but the Chief Notary shook his head.

“I had a nephew in the Blue Jays,” he said. “He was with you at Linesh. Thanks to you his mother got to welcome him home.”

Vaelin nodded. “Fine regiment the Blue Jays.”

The Chief Notary and the young clerk were both bowing as low as they could as he made for the door, resisting the impulse to run.

He found Alornis and Reva at the cross-roads of Gate Lane and Drovers Way. The streets were largely empty thanks to the fair but his experience at the notary’s office made him keep his hood in place. A large marble plinth was positioned in the centre of the cross-roads, covered in scaffolding from base to top. Alornis was standing on the highest platform, dressed in a mason’s apron, holding a rope threaded through a block and then to ground level where Reva placed various implements in the basket it was attached to.

“The big hammer!” Alornis called from the platform. “No the other one.”

“Your sister’s even more a tyrant than you,” Reva grumbled as Vaelin approached.

“Vaelin!” Alornis greeted him with a cheerful wave. “Master, my brother’s here!”

After a moment the head of an old man appeared over the edge of the platform. He was heavily bearded and dressed in the green robe of the Third Order, his brow furrowed like a ploughed field as he regarded Vaelin, grunted something then disappeared. Alornis gave a weak smile of apology.

“What did he say?” Vaelin asked.

“He thought you’d be taller.”

Vaelin laughed and held up the scroll. “I have something for you.”

She descended to street level by the expedient of taking a tighter hold of the rope and jumping off the platform, the heavy basket of tools acting as a counterweight. The old man’s surprisingly muscular arm appeared to haul the basket onto the platform above.

“So,” Alornis said after scanning the scroll, “ink and paper make me your sister where blood does not.”

“And a fee of two silvers, but they let me off.”

“So we can eat tonight?” Reva asked.

“I still need to petition the King,” Vaelin told Alornis.

“You really expect him to reverse his Word?”

His efforts will be wasted if he doesn’t, though I doubt I’ll like the price. “I’m certain he will.”

Something fell to the cobbles nearby with a loud clang followed by a bellow from above. “Wrong chisel!”

Alornis sighed. “He’s tetchier than usual today.” She raised her head to the platform. “Coming Master Benril!” She began to gather tools together from the base of the plinth. “You two should go home. I’ll be a few hours yet.”

“Actually, sister, I was hoping you could take Reva to the fair. She’s never seen it.”

Reva gave a quizzical grimace. “Couldn’t give a snot for your heathen celebration.”

“But my sister does. And I would feel better if she had protection.” He tossed her his purse. “And you can choose tonight’s dinner.”

“I can’t,” Alornis insisted. “Master Benril needs me . . .”

“I’ll help Master Benril.” Vaelin undid the ties on her apron and lifted it over her head. “Off with you both.”

She gave an uncertain glance at the top of the scaffolding. “Well, he hasn’t paid me for weeks.”

“Then it’s decided.” He shooed them away, watching them walk along Gate Lane, the blood-song sounding the same curious lilting note when Alornis took Reva’s hand, chatting away at her as if they had known each other since girlhood. He saw Reva flinch, but was surprised when she didn’t snatch her hand away.

“Chisel!” came an impatient shout from above.

Vaelin gathered all the chisels he could find into a leather toolbag and clambered up the successive ladders to the top of the scaffold. The old man was crouched against the plinth’s summit, hands roving over the marble surface. He didn’t turn when Vaelin dumped the tool bag at his side.

“My sister says you haven’t paid her,” he said.

“Your sister would pay to help me, brother.” Master Benril Lenial turned to regard him with the same deeply furrowed brow. “Or is it just my lord these days?”

“I’m no longer of the Sixth Order, if that’s your meaning.”

Master Benril grunted and turned back to the plinth.

“What will it be?” Vaelin asked.

“The Realm’s monument to the greatness of King Janus.” The old man’s tone said much about his enthusiasm for this project.

“A royal commission then.”

“I do this and he promises to leave me alone for two years so I can paint. It’s the only true art. This.” He smacked a palm against the marble. “This is mere masonry.”

“I knew a mason once. I would say he was as much an artist as any man could be.”

“And I would say you should stick to swinging your sword about.” He glanced back again. “Where is it anyway?”

“I left it at home wrapped in canvas, as it has been since I returned to the Realm.”

“So you’ve given up more than just the Faith, eh?”

“I’ve gained more than I’ve given up.”

Master Benril shifted about to face him, showing no signs of stiffness in his aged limbs. “What do you want?”

“My sister, I need to take her away from here. I want you to tell her to let me.”

Benril raised his extensive eyebrows. “You feel my word carries that much weight with her?”

“I know it. I also know there is no life for her here, not as my father’s daughter, or as your pupil.”

“Your sister’s gift is a great and wonderful thing. To prevent her from nurturing it would be a crime.”

“She can nurture it in safety, far from here.”

Benril ran a hand through the long grey mass of his beard. “I’ll agree not to speak against her leaving, but that’s all.”

Vaelin inclined his head. “My thanks, Master.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” The old man rose and went to the ladder. “I have a condition.”

“Hold still will you!”

Vaelin’s back ached and a cramp was starting to build in his neck. Benril had made him hold several poses now, each more theatrical than the last. This latest had him standing, back straight and head raised, staring off into the distance, holding a mop as if it were a sword. The old man had started and discarded numerous sketches already, the chalk never ceasing in his hand, his eyes flicking constantly between Vaelin and the dark brown parchment on his easel.

“You don’t hold a sword like this,” Vaelin advised.

“It’s called artistic licence,” Benril snapped back. “Lower your right arm.”

It was another half hour before five troopers of the King’s Mounted Guard trotted into the cross-roads, a riderless horse in tow. The captain in charge dismounted and strode forward to offer a smart salute, his polished breastplate providing Vaelin with a fine reflection of his ridiculous pose. “Lord Vaelin, may I say this is an honour?”

“I was expecting Captain Smolen,” Vaelin said.

The captain hesitated. “Lord Marshal Al Smolen is in the North, my lord.” He straightened with pride. “I bring warm greetings from His Highness . . .”

“All right.” Vaelin abandoned the pose and reached for his cloak. “Master Benril, it appears I’m needed at the palace. We’ll have to finish this another time.”

“Tell the King I need more coin for the blacksmith,” Benril said to the captain. “If he wants his monument before winter sets in that is.”

The captain stiffened. “I am not a messenger, brother.”

“I’ll tell him,” Vaelin assured Benril, pulling on his cloak. He paused to look at the master’s sketch, frowning in puzzlement. “I’m not that tall.”

“On the contrary, my lord.” Benril leaned closer to the parchment to add some shading to Vaelin’s cheekbones. “I think you stand very tall indeed.”

King Malcius Al Nieren wore a more ornate crown than the plain band favoured by his father, a ring of gold inlaid with an intricate floral design and featuring a centre-piece of four different gemstones, each presumably representing the four fiefs of the Realm. The eyes beneath the crown held a wariness not matched by the warm smile he offered Vaelin as he rose from one knee before the throne.

“Record,” the King intoned, making the three scribes positioned to the left of the throne dip their pens in readiness. “King Malcius Al Nieren welcomes his most loyal and honoured servant Lord Marshal Vaelin Al Sorna back to the Unified Realm. Be it known that all honours and titles previously his are restored.”

He came forward, arms wide, gripping Vaelin by the shoulders. Malcius had always struck Vaelin as a man of considerable vigour, a seasoned warrior possessed of a strong arm and a keen mind. The man who confronted him now was thinner, his complexion sallow beneath a dusting of powder, the hands on his shoulders trembling a little.

“By the Faith it’s good to see you, Vaelin!” the King said.

“And you, Highness.” He glanced around as the King’s hands remained on his shoulders. There were numerous courtiers in attendance, it seemed the King had delayed the royal procession to the fair to honour his unexpected guest. To the right of the throne sat a young woman, hands clasped in her lap, a crown smaller but otherwise identical to the King’s on her head. She was handsome and slender, with a keen intelligence shining in her eyes, which were, like her husband’s, also wary.

“Rest assured,” the King said, dragging Vaelin’s attention away from the queen. “This Realm is fully aware of the debt it owes you.” His hands clutched Vaelin even tighter.

“Thank you, Highness.” He lowered his voice. “I . . . wondered if I may raise a small matter with you, regarding my father’s estate.”

“Of course, of course!” The King finally released him, drawing back. “But first, I must present you to my queen. She has been looking forward to meeting you since word reached us of your return.”

The queen rose as Vaelin went to one knee before her.

“Lord Vaelin,” the King said. “I present Queen Ordella Al Nieren. Please pledge your loyalty to her as you would me.”

Vaelin glanced up at him, finding his smile had faded somewhat. “Merely a formality,” Malcius said. “Required of all Swords of the Realm these past four years.”

Vaelin turned back to the queen, head lowered. “I, Lord Vaelin Al Sorna, hereby pledge my loyal service to Queen Ordella Al Nieren of the Unified Realm.”

“I thank you, my lord,” the queen said. She had a cultured voice with the soft vowels of southern Asrael, but there was something of an edge to it as she continued. “Do you pledge to follow my commands as you would your King?”

“I do, my Queen.”

“Do you pledge to protect me and my children as you would your King? To lay down your life in our defence should it be necessary? And to do so regardless of what lies or deceits are voiced against us?”

Vaelin became aware of how silent the court had become, feeling the weight of so many eyes on his kneeling form. This is not for me, he decided. This is for them. “I do, my Queen.”

“You honour me, my lord.” She held out her hand, which Vaelin duly kissed, finding her skin icy on his lips.

“Excellent!” Malcius clapped his hands together. “My love, be so good as to proceed to the fair with the court. I shall be along directly, once Lord Vaelin and I have concluded our business.”

Alone with Vaelin save for two guards at the door, Malcius took off his crown, hanging it on the arm of his throne with a weary sigh. “Sorry about all that,” he said. “A necessary piece of theatre, I’m afraid.”

“I meant what I said, Highness.”

“I’m sure you did. If only every Sword of the Realm were so sincere in their oaths, this would be a much easier land to govern.” He sat in his throne, crouching forward, elbows resting on his knees, meeting Vaelin’s gaze with tired eyes. “Got old, didn’t I?”

“We all did, Highness.”

“Not you, you barely look a day older. I was expecting some wizened creature from the depths of the Emperor’s dungeon. But here you are, looking like you could take on every knight at the fair with barely a laboured breath.”

“The Emperor’s hospitality was generous, but lonely.”

“I’m sure.” Malcius reclined in his throne. “You know why I took your father’s estate, I presume?”

“You needed to ensure my loyalty.”

“I did. I see now it wasn’t necessary. But I had to be sure. You have no notion of the plots that surround my family. Every day word comes of a new group of conspirators, hatching murderous schemes in darkened rooms.”

“The Realm was always rich in wild rumour, Highness.”

“Rumour? If only it was just that. Two months ago they found a fellow in the palace grounds with a poisoned blade and the Catechism of the Faith tattooed on his back and chest, every word of it. I gave him a quick death, which is more than my father would have done, eh?”

Janus would have tortured him for a month, if he was feeling generous, two if he wasn’t. “Indeed, Highness. But one madman doesn’t make a plot.”

“There are others, be assured of that. And I must face them on my own, Aspect Arlyn wants no part of it. Since the war your former Order has regained much of its independence.”

“Even in your father’s day Aspect Arlyn was keen to draw a distinction between the Crown and the Faith.”

“The Faith.” The King’s voice was soft and faintly bitter. “When trouble brews in this Realm like as not you’ll find the Faith stirring the pot. Ardents and Tolerants at each other’s throats, Aspect Tendris and his ridiculous attempts to turn his bureaucrats into warriors. It’s supposed to unite us, instead it threatens to tear itself apart and this Realm with it.” His eyes fixed on Vaelin again. “And each side will wish to enlist your support.”

“Then each side will be disappointed.”

The King blinked, straightening in surprise. “I know you have left the Order behind, but the Faith too? What forced you to this? Did the Emperor make you worship the Alpiran gods?”

Vaelin suppressed a laugh. “Merely the hearing of a truth, Highness. The Faith was not tortured from me, nor do I look to any god for comfort.”

“It seems you are more of a danger to the harmony of the Realm than I realised.”

“I am a danger to no-one, provided they offer no harm to me or mine.”

Malcius sighed again then smiled. “Lyrna did always like you for your . . . complexity.”

Lyrna . . . It was strange, but it only occurred to him now that the princess had been absent from the court today. “She is at the fair, Highness?”

“No, gone north to conclude a treaty with the Lonak. If you can believe such a thing.”

Lyrna treating with the Lonak. The thought of it was absurd and appalling in equal measure. “You offered them peace?”

“Actually the offer came from their High Priestess. But she would only talk to Lyrna. A Lonak tradition apparently. Only the word of a woman can be trusted by the High Priestess, men are too easily corrupted.” He grimaced at the doubt on Vaelin’s face. “I had to take the chance. We’ve lost enough blood and treasure fighting the wolfmen, don’t you think?”

“Fighting us is what they live for.”

“Well, perhaps they want to start living for something else. As do I. This land needs to be reborn, Vaelin. Remade into something better. United once more, truly united, not forever riven by our borders and our faiths. The Edict of Toleration was but the first step. Reshaping our towns and cities is the next. Improving the fabric of the Realm will improve the souls of its subjects. I can do what my father never did despite all his wars and his scheming. I can bring peace, a lasting peace that will make this land great again. But I need your help.”

And so to the price. “You have my loyalty, Highness. However, I would be more secure in my service if I knew my sister was given her due.”

The King waved a hand. “Done, I’ll have the papers signed today. You can have all that your father owned. But you cannot remain here, not in Asrael.”

“In truth I had intended to ask your leave to depart the Realm, once my father’s estate is restored.”

The King frowned. “Depart? To where?”

“You recall Brother Frentis, I’m sure. I believe he still lives. I intend to find him.”

“Brother Frentis.” The King shook his head, voice heavy with sorrow. “He died at Untesh, Vaelin. They all did. Every man under my command.”

He was on a ship, bound somehow, his scars were burning . . . “Did you see it, Highness? Did you see him fall?”

The King’s gaze became distant, brow creased with reluctant memory. “Again and again we fought them off, Frentis at my side for much of it. And he was a sight to see, throwing himself into the thickest fight, saving us time and again. The men called him the Faith’s Fury. Without him the city would have fallen on the first day, not the third. I sent him to bolster the southern section that morning. The Alpirans were like a wave boiling over a harbour wall in a storm.”

He ran a hand through his hair, once rich red-gold, now thinner and shot through with streaks of grey. Vaelin noted how his hand shook. “They wouldn’t kill me. No matter how many I cut down, how hard I hacked and cursed at them. When they finally bore me down they roamed the city killing every Realm Guard they could find, the deserters, the wounded, it didn’t matter. But me they kept alive. Only me.”

He was on a ship . . . “In any case, Highness. I believe my brother to be alive, and request your leave to search for him.”

The King gave a grim smile and shook his head. “No, my lord. I’m sorry, but no. I require a different service from you.”

Vaelin gritted his teeth. I could just leave, he thought. Leave this sad, tired man to his dreams and his phantom plots. An oath compelled before an audience of pampered sycophants is just another lie, like the Faith.

Malcius rose from his throne to point to a large embroidered map of the Realm on the wall, his finger tracking from Asrael to a large blank expanse above the Great Northern Forest. “There, my lord, is where I require your service.”

“The Northern Reaches?”

“Quite so. Tower Lord Al Myrna passed away last winter. His adopted daughter’s been running things since then, but since she’s a Lonak foundling of no breeding whatsoever, I can hardly allow such a state of affairs to continue.” The King straightened, speaking in formal tones. “Vaelin Al Sorna, I hereby name you Tower Lord of the Northern Reaches.”

He could refuse, state his unwillingness and walk from the palace without a hand raised against him. Malcius was effectively barred from acting against him for fear of raising rebellion the length of the Realm. But the notion evaporated when the blood-song gave a sudden and unexpected crescendo of assent. The music faded quickly but the meaning was clear enough: The path to Frentis lies in the Northern Reaches.

He bowed low to the King, replying in formal tones. “An honour I gladly accept, Highness.”