Текст книги "Blood Song"

Автор книги: Anthony Ryan

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“A lady, my lord?”

“Yes, Princess Lyrna.” He paused, sighing in sorrow. “Coming here was to be the means by which I would finally win the King’s favour. Our union would have had his blessing.”

Vaelin gritted his teeth to forestall a curse at his own stupidity. He had known since meeting Al Hestian that the King’s description of him had been fanciful at best but hadn’t realised the true reason for his mission here. He was to rid the Princess of an unsuitable match.

“The princess must have regretted seeing you ride into danger,” he said.

“She is a lady of great fortitude. She said love must risk all or perish.”

I have much to do and I will tolerate no obstacle…Vaelin felt a wave of self-loathing course through him. Princess, between us we have killed a very good man.

“I have a younger brother, Alucius,” Al Hestian was saying. “I would like him to have my sword. Tell him… tell him it would be best if he leaves it sheathed. I find war is not much to my liking…” He paused, face tensed as a tremor of pain swept through him. “Lyrna... Don’t tell her it was like thi-” He choked off, convulsed in pain, blood staining his chin. Vaelin reached for him but could only watch helplessly as Al Hestian writhed in his furs. Unable to bear it he fled the tent, finding Brother Makril by the fire, his flask in his hand, gulping Brother’s Friend.

“Is there no hope?” Vaelin pleaded. “Nothing you can do?”

Makril barely glanced at him. “He’s had all the redflower we can give him. If we move him he dies. A healer from the Fifth Order could ease his passing but even they couldn’t halt it.”

Vaelin winced as a shout of pain came from the tent behind him.

“Here,” Makril held out his flask. “It’ll dull your hearing.”

“We can’t leave him to suffer like this.”

Makril looked up, meeting his eyes. The suspicion was still there, his instinctive knowledge of Vaelin’s guilt. After a moment he looked away and started to rise. “I’ll take care of it.”

“No.” Vaelin turned back to the tent. “No… it’s my duty.”

“The jugular. It’s the quickest way. I doubt he’ll even feel the cut.”

He nodded, walking back to the tent on numb legs. So the king has made me a murderer after all…

Al Hestian’s eyes were glazed and unfocused as Vaelin knelt beside him, only coming back to life when they caught the glimmer of the dagger’s blade. There was a moment of fear, then a sigh, whether of sorrow or relief Vaelin would never know. He met Vaelin’s eye, smiled and nodded. Vaelin held him, cradling his head in his arm, laying the blade against his neck.

Al Hestian spoke, forcing the words out through a fresh grimace of pain. “I’m… glad it was you… brother.”

Chapter 3

“And these letters were found on the body of this Black Arrow?”

The Aspect’s hands were splayed on the letters before him like two pale spiders, his long face intent as he stared up at Vaelin and Makril. Vaelin supposed they must look dreadful, grimy and worn from the twelve day trek back from the Martishe, but the Aspect seemed indifferent to their appearance. After listening to their report he demanded the letters, his eyes scanning them quickly.

“We believe the man may have been Black Arrow, Aspect,” Vaelin replied. “There is no way to know for sure.”

“Yes. Perhaps you shouldn’t be so quick with the killing blow next time, brother.”

“I was remiss. My apologies, Aspect.”

The Aspect dismissed the admission with a barely perceptible shake of his head. “You understand the import of these letters?”

“Sendahl read them to us,” Makril said.

“Did anyone outside the Order hear him?”

“We gave Al Hestian’s men a double rum ration that night. I doubt they could hear anything.”

“Good. Pass the word to your brothers: they are not to discuss this with anyone, including each other.” He gathered the letters together and placed them in a solid wooden chest on his desk, shutting it firmly and securing a heavy lock on the latch. “You must be tired, brothers. On behalf of the Order I thank you for your service in the Martishe. Brother Makril you are confirmed as a Brother Commander. You will reside with us here for the time being. Master Sollis is currently commanding a company on the southern shore, the local smugglers are becoming excessively violent in resisting the King’s excise men. You will take over his lessons. You still remember enough of the sword to teach it, I’m sure.”

“Of course, Aspect.”

“Brother Vaelin, report to the stables at the eighth hour on the morrow. You will accompany me to the palace.”

“Congratulations, brother,” Vaelin offered as they made their way towards the practice ground where Al Hestian’s regiment was encamped. There were no barracks available for them so the Aspect had granted permission to remain at the Order House. Vaelin suspected no provision had been made for them in the city because the King hadn’t expected any to return.

Makril paused, regarding him with silent scrutiny.

“A Commander and a Master,” Vaelin went on, discomfited by the tracker’s silence. “An impressive achievement.”

Makril stepped close to him, his nostrils flared, drawing the air in. Vaelin resisted the impulse to reach for his hunting knife.

“Never did like your scent, brother,” Markil said. “Something not quite natural about it. And now you stink of guilt. Why is that?” Without waiting for a reply he turned and walked off, a stocky figure in the gloom. He gave a brief, shrill whistle and his hound emerged from the shadows to pad alongside as he made his way to the keep.

The tower room he had shared with the others for so many years was now occupied by a fresh group of students so they had been obliged to camp with the reigment. He found his brothers clustered around the fire, regaling Frentis with tales of their time in the Martishe.

“…went straight through two men,” Dentos was saying. “A single arrow, I swear. Never seen nothing like it.”

Vaelin took a seat next to Frentis. Scratch, who had been curled up at his feet, rose and came to him, nuzzling his hand in search of petting. Vaelin scratched his ears, realising he had missed the slave-hound greatly but had no regrets about leaving him behind. The Martishe would have been a fine playground for him but Vaelin felt he had tasted enough human blood already.

“The Aspect thanks us for our service,” he told them, stretching his hands out to the fire. “The letters we found are not to be discussed.”

“What letters?” Frentis asked. Barkus threw a half-eaten chicken leg at him.

“Did he say where we’re going next?” Dentos asked, passing him a cup of wine.

Vaelin shook his head. “I’m to accompany him to the palace tomorrow.”

Nortah snorted and gulped a mouthful of wine. “You don’t need the Dark to see the future for us.” His words were loud and slurred, chin stained red with spilled drink. “On to Cumbrael!” He got to his feet, raising his cup to the air. “First the forest then the Fief. We’ll bring the Faith to them all, the Denier bastards. Whether they like it or not!”

“Nortah-” Caenis reached up to pull him down but Nortah shrugged him off.

“It’s not as if we’ve slaughtered enough Cumbraelins already, is it? Only killed ten of them myself in that bloody forest. How about you, brother?” He swayed towards Caenis. “Bet you can beat that, eh? At least twice as many, I’d say.” He swung towards Frentis. “Should’ve been there, m’boy. We bathed in more blood than your friend One Eye ever did.”

Frentis’s face darkened and Vaelin gripped his shoulder as he tensed. “Have another drink, brother,” he told Nortah. “It’ll help you sleep.”

“Sleep?” Nortah slumped back to the ground. “Haven’t done much of that recently.” He held up his cup for Caenis to pour more wine, staring morosely into the fire.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a while, Vaelin grateful for the distraction provided by one of the soldiers at a neighbouring fire. The man had found a mandolin somewhere, probably looted from a Cumbraelin corpse in the forest, and played it with considerable skill, the tune melodious but sombre, the whole camp falling quiet to listen. Soon the player had an audience clustered around him and began to sing a tune Vaelin recognised as the Warrior’s Lament:

“A warrior’s song is a lonely tune

Full of fire and gone too soon

Warriors sing of fallen friends

Lost battles and bloody ends…”

The men applauded loudly when he finished, calling for more. Vaelin made his way through the small crowd. The player was a thin faced man of about twenty years. Vaelin recognised him as one of the thirty chosen men who had taken part in their final battle in the forest, the stitched cut on his forehead testified that he had done some fighting. Vaelin struggled to remember his name but realised with shame that he hadn’t bothered to learn the names of any of the men they had trained. Perhaps, like the king, he hadn’t expected any to live.

“You play very well,” he said.

The man gave a nervous smile. The soldiers had never lost their fear of Vaelin and few made any effort to speak to him, most taking care to avoid catching his eye.

“I was apprenticed to a minstrel, brother,” the man said. His accent differed to that of his comrades, the words precisely spoken, the tone almost cultured.

“Then why are you a soldier?”

The man shrugged. “My master had a daughter.”

The gathered men laughed knowingly.

“I think he taught you well, in any case,” Vaelin said. “What’s your name?”

“Janril, brother. Janril Norin.”

Vaelin spied Sergeant Krelnik in the crowd. “Wine for these men, sergeant. Brother Frentis will take you to Master Grealin in the vaults. Tell him I’ll meet the expense, and make sure he gives you the good stuff.”

There was an appreciative murmur from the men. Vaelin fished in his purse and dropped a few silvers into Janril’s hand. “Keep playing, Janril Norin. Something lively. Something fit for a celebration.”

Janril frowned. “What are we celebrating, brother?”

Vaelin clapped him on the shoulder. “Being alive man!” He raised his cup, turning to the assembled men. “Let’s drink to being alive!”

The King convened his Council of Ministers in a large chamber with a polished marble floor and ornate ceiling decorated in gold leaf and intricately moulded plaster, the walls adorned with fine paintings and tapestries. Immaculately turned out soldiers of the Palace Guard stood to attention in a wide circle around the long rectangular table where the Council sat. King Janus himself was markedly different from the ink spattered old man with whom Vaelin had made his bargain, seated at the centre of the table, an ermine lined cloak about his shoulders and a band of gold on his brow. His ministers were seated on either side, ten men dressed in varying degrees of finery, all staring intently at Vaelin as he finished his report with Aspect Arlyn at his side. At a smaller table nearby two scribes sat writing down every word spoken. The King insisted on precise recording of every meeting and each council member had been required to state his name and appointed role before sitting down.

“And the man who carried these letters,” the King said. “His identity remains unknown?”

“There were no captives to name him, Highness,” Vaelin replied. “Black Arrow’s men were not given to surrender.”

“Lord Molnar,” the King handed the letters to a portly man on his left who had stated his name as Lartek Molnar, Minister of Finance. “You know Fief Lord Mustor’s hand as well as I. Do you see a similarity?”

Lord Molnar examined the letters closely for a few moments. “Regretfully, Highness, the hand that penned these missives seems so similar to the Fief Lord’s that I can discern no difference between the two. More than that the way the letter is phrased. Even without a signature I would know it as the work of Lord Mustor.”

“But why?” asked Fleet Lord Al Junril, a large bearded man on the King’s right. “Faith knows I’ve scant love for the Fief Lord of Cumbrael, but the man’s no fool. Why sign his name to letters of free passage for a fanatic intent on fracturing our Realm?”

“Brother Vaelin,” Lord Molnar said. “You fought these heretics for several months, would you say they were well fed?”

“They did not seem weakened by hunger, my lord.”

“And their weapons, of good quality would you say?”

“They had finely crafted bows and well tempered steel, although some of their weapons were taken from our fallen soldiers.”

“So, well equipped and well fed, and this in the dead of winter when game would be scarce in the Martishe. I submit, Highness, that this Black Arrow must have had considerable support.”

“And now we know from where,” said a third minister, Kelden Al Telnar, Minister of Royal Works and, next to the King, the most finely dressed man at the table. “Fief Lord Mustor has condemned himself. Long have I warned that his observance of the peace was but a mask for future treachery. Let us not forget the Cumbraelins were forced into this Realm only after the bloodiest of defeats. They have never stopped hating us, or our beloved Faith. Now the Departed have guided brave Brother Vaelin to the truth. Highness, I implore you to act…”

The King raised a hand, silencing the man. “Lord Al Genril,” he turned to a grey-bearded man seated at his right hand. “You are my Lord of Justice and Chief Judge of my courts, and perhaps the wisest head at this council. Are these papers evidence enough for trial or merely investigation?”

The Lord of Justice stroked his silver-grey beard thoughtfully. “If we consider this as only a matter of law, Highness, I would say the letters require question and any charges would depend on the answers. If a man came before me charged with treason based solely on this evidence I could not send him to the gallows.”

Lord Al Telnar started to speak again but the King waved him to silence. “What questions, my lord?”

Lord Al Genril took up the letters and scanned them briefly. “I note that these letters grant the bearer free passage across the borders of Cumbrael and require any soldier or official of the Fief to render whatever assistance the bearer may require. And indeed, if the signature and seal are genuine, they have been signed by the Fief Lord himself. But they are not addressed to any individual. Indeed we do not even know the name of the man who carried them to his death. If they were penned by the Fief Lord did he intend them for use by Black Arrow or were they perhaps stolen and used for a different purpose?”

“So then,” Lord Molnar said. “You would have us put the Fief Lord to the question?”

The Chief Judge took several seconds to reply and Vaelin could see from the tension in his face that he recognised the grave import of his words. “I believe question is warranted, yes.”

The door to the chamber opened abruptly and Captain Smolen entered, coming to attention before the King and saluting smartly.

“Found him have you?” the King asked.

“I have Highness.”

“Whorehouse or redflower palace?”

Captain Smolen’s only sign of discomfort was to blink twice. “The former, Highness.”

“Is he in a fit state to talk?”

“He has made efforts to sober himself, Highness.”

The King sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily. “Very well. Bring him in.”

Captain Smolen saluted and strode from the room, returning a few seconds later with a man dressed in expensive but soiled clothes. He walked with the precise gait of one who worries he might tip over at any moment, the redness of his eyes and sallowness of his stubbled complexion bespoke several hours of excess. He looked to be in his forties but Vaelin guessed him to be younger, a man aged by indulgence. He halted next to Aspect Arlyn, greeted him with a cursory nod, then bowed extravagantly, but unsteadily, to the King. “Highness. As ever I am honoured by your summons.” Vaelin noted the man’s accent: Cumbraelin.

The King turned to his scribes. “Let the record show that his Honour, Lord Sentes Mustor, heir to the Fiefdom of Cumbrael and appointed representative of Cumbraelin interests to the Court of King Janus, is now in attendance.” He turned a level gaze on the Cumbraelin. “Lord Mustor. And how are you this morning?”

Lord Al Telnar gave a muted snort of amusement.

“Very well, Highness,” Lord Mustor replied. “Your city has always been very kind to me.”

“I am glad. Aspect Arlyn you know of course. This young man is Brother Vaelin Al Sorna, recently returned from the Martishe forest.”

Lord Mustor’s gaze was guarded as he turned to Vaelin, nodding a formal greeting, but his tone remained cheerful, if forced. “Ah, the blade that won me ten golds at the Test of the Sword. Well met young sir.”

Vaelin nodded back but said nothing. Mention of the Test of the Sword tended to darken his mood.

“Brother Vaelin has brought us some documents.” The King took the letters from Lord Al Genril. “Documents that raise questions. I believe your opinion of their content would be valuable in discerning their intent.” Vaelin took note of Lord Mustor’s momentary hesitation before stepping forward to take the papers from the King’s hand.

“These are letters of free passage,” he said after scanning the pages.

“And they are signed by your father, are they not?” the King asked.

“That… would appear to be the case, Highness.”

“Then perhaps you can explain how Brother Vaelin came to find them on the body of a Cumbraelin heretic in the Martishe forest.”

Lord Mustor’s gaze swung to Vaelin, his reddened eyes suddenly fearful, then back to the King. “Highness, my father would never place documents of such import in the hands of a rebel. I can only imagine they were stolen somehow. Or perhaps forged…”

“Perhaps your father could provide a more absolute explanation.”

“I-I have no doubt he could Highness. If you would care to write to him…”

“I would not. He will come here.”

Lord Mustor took an involuntary step backwards, fear now obvious in his face. Vaelin could tell the situation dwarfed him, he was being tested and found wanting. “Highness…” he stammered. “My father… it is not right…”

The King let out a long sigh of exasperation. “Lord Mustor, I fought two wars against your grandfather and found him an enemy of considerable courage and cunning. I never liked him but I did respect him greatly and I feel he would be grateful he is no longer here to see his grandson gabble like the whoring drunkard he is when his fief stands on the brink of war.”

The King raised a hand to beckon Captain Smolen over. “Lord Mustor will be our guest in the palace until further notice,” the King told him. “Please escort him to suitable quarters and ensure he is untroubled by unwanted visitors.”

“You know my father will not come here,” Lord Mustor stated flatly. “He will not be put to the question. Imprison me here if you must but it will make no difference. A man doesn’t place his favoured son in the hands of his enemy.”

The King paused, regarding the Cumbraelin lord with a narrow gaze. Surprised you, Vaelin realised. Didn’t think he had the stomach to speak up.

“We’ll see what your father does,” the King said. He nodded to Captain Smolen and Lord Mustor was led from the room, two guards following close behind.

The King turned to one of his scribes. “Draft a letter to the Fief Lord of Cumbrael commanding his presence here within three weeks.” He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “This meeting is over. Aspect Arlyn, Brother Vaelin, please join me in my rooms.”

Everything in the King’s quarters gave an overwhelming impression of order, from the angle of the finely woven carpets on the tiled marble floor to the papers on the large oaken desk. Vaelin found nothing to compare to the cramped, hidden room of books and scrolls he had been led to eight months before. That was where he worked, he realised. This is where he wants people to think he works.

“Sit, please brothers,” the King gestured at two chairs as he settled behind his desk. “I can send for refreshment if you wish.”

“We are content, Highness,” Aspect Arlyn replied in a neutral tone. He remained standing, obliging Vaelin to follow suit.

The King’s gaze lingered on the Aspect for a moment before he turned to Vaelin, his lips forming a smile beneath his beard. “Note the tone, my boy. No respect but no defiance either. You’d do well to learn it. I suspect your Aspect is angry with me. Why can that be I wonder?”

Vaelin looked at the Aspect who stood expressionless, offering no reply.

“Well?” the King pressed. “Tell me, brother. What could have aroused the anger of your Aspect?”

“I cannot speak for my Aspect, Highness. The Aspect speaks for me.”

The King snorted a laugh and smacked his palm on the desk. “You hear it, Arlyn? His mother’s voice. Clear as a bell. Don’t you find it chilling at times?”

Aspect Arlyn’s tone was unchanged. “No, Highness.”

“No.” The King shook his head, chuckling slightly and reaching for a wine decanter on his desk. “No, I don’t suppose you do.” He poured himself a glass of wine and settled back into his chair. “Your Aspect,” he told Vaelin, “is angry because he believes I have set the Realm on the road to war. He believes, with some justification I might add, that the Fief Lord of Cumbrael will happily let me hack his drunken son’s head from his shoulders before setting foot outside his own borders. This in turn will force me to send the Realm Guard into his fief to root him out. Battles and bloodshed will result, towns and cities will burn, many will die. Despite his vocation as a warrior, and therefore a practitioner of death in all its many forms, the Aspect believes this to be a regrettable action. And yet he will not tell me so. It has always been his way.”

Silence reigned as the two men matched stares and Vaelin experienced a sudden revelation: They hate each other. The King and the Aspect of the Sixth Order detest the sight of one another.

“Tell me, brother,” the King went on, addressing Vaelin but keeping his eyes on the Aspect. “What do you think the Fief Lord will do when he hears I have taken his son and commanded his presence?”

“I do not know the man, Highness…”

“He’s not a complicated fellow, Vaelin. Reckon it out. I daresay you’ve enough of your mother’s wit for that.”

Vaelin found himself disliking the way the King’s tongue twisted around the mention of his mother but forced out a reply “He will be… angry. He will see your action as a threat. He will be put on guard, gathering his forces and watching his borders.”

“Good. What else will he do?”

“It seems he has but two choices, to follow your command or ignore it and face war.”

“Wrong, he has a third choice. He can attack. With all his might. Do you think he will do that?”

“I doubt Cumbrael would have the strength to face the Realm Guard, Highness.”

“And you would be correct. Cumbrael has no actual army beyond a few hundred guardsmen loyal to the Fief Lord. What it does have is thousands of peasant bowmen it can call upon in time of need. A formidable force, having ridden through an arrow storm or two in my time, I would know. But no cavalry, no heavy infantry. No chance, in fact, of attacking Asrael or matching the Realm Guard in open field. The Fief Lord of Cumbrael is far from being an admirable character but he does have enough of his father’s brains to heed a reminder of his weakness.”

The King smiled again, turning away from the Aspect and waving a hand in placation. “Oh don’t worry Arlyn. In a fortnight or so the Fief Lord will send his messenger with a suitably grovelling apology for not attending in person and a plausible, if not very convincing, explanation for the letters, probably attached to a chest full of gold. I will be persuaded by my wise and peace-loving son to withdraw my command and release the drunkard. Thereafter, I doubt the Fief Lord will be giving any more letters of free passage to denier fanatics. More importantly he’ll have remembered his place in this Realm.”

“Am I to take it, Highness,” the Aspect said, “that you are convinced the Fief Lord is the author of the letters?”

“Convinced? No. But it seems likely. The man may not be a fanatic like the fools Brother Vaelin dispatched in the Martishe but he does have a weakness for his god. Probably fretting over his place in the Eternal Fields now he’s passed his fiftieth year. In any case, whether he wrote the letters or not makes little difference, the problem lies in the mere fact of their existence. Once they came to light I had little choice but to act. At least this way the Fief Lord will feel a debt to my son when he ascends the throne.”

The King quickly downed the rest of his wine and rose from his desk. “Enough statecraft, I have other business with you brothers. Come.” He beckoned them into a smaller adjoining room no less ornately decorated, but in place of paintings or tapestries the walls were adorned with swords, a hundred or more gleaming blades. A few were of the Asraelin pattern but there were many others the style of which Vaelin had never seen. Great two handed broad swords nearly six feet in length. Sickle-like sabres with blades that curved almost in a semi-circle. Long needlelike rapiers with no edge and bowl shaped guards. Swords with blades fashioned of gold or silver despite the fact that such metals were too soft to ever make useful weapons.

“Pretty aren’t they?” the King commented. “Been collecting them for years. Some are gifts, some are the spoils of war, some I bought simply because I liked the look of them. Every so often I give one away,” he turned to Vaelin, smiling again, “to a young man like you, brother.”

Vaelin experienced a sudden resurgence of the unease that had gripped him during his first meeting with the King. The unsettling knowledge that he was a small part of a larger unseen design. The wrongness, what Nersus Sil Nin had called the blood-song, was singing faintly at the back of his mind. If he gives me a sword…

“I am a brother of the Sixth Order, Highness,” he said, trying to match the Aspect’s neutral tone. “Royal honours are not for one such as me.”

“Royal honours are precisely for one such as you, young hawk,” the King replied. “Sadly, I’m usually obliged to hand them out to the undeserving. Today will be a welcome change.” He gestured expansively at the collection of swords around them. “Choose.”

Vaelin turned to the Aspect seeking guidance.

Aspect Arlyn’s eyes had narrowed slightly but his expression was otherwise unchanged. He remained silent for a moment and when he spoke his tone was the same as before, void of both deference and defiance. “The King honours you, brother. In so doing he honours the Order. You will accept.”

“But can it be right, Aspect? Can a man be both a brother and a Sword of the Realm?”

“It has happened before. Many years ago.” The Aspect’s gaze shifted from the King to Vaelin and softened somewhat but his voice held no room for further discussion. “You will accept the King’s honour, brother Vaelin.”

I don’t want it! he thought fiercely. It’s payment, payment for a murder. This scheming old man wishes to bind me to him even more.

But he could see no escape. The Aspect had commanded him. The King had honoured him. He had to take the sword.

Swallowing a sigh of frustration he scanned the walls, eyes flicking from one blade to another. He toyed with the idea of choosing one of the golden blades, he could always sell it later, but decided a weapon of some practical use would be the wisest choice. He saw little point in taking an Asraelin sword, it could hardly be better than his own star-silver blade, and the more exotic weapons seemed too unwieldy to his eye. His gaze finally fell on a broad bladed short sword with a simple plain bronze guard and wooden hilt. He took it down from the wall and tried a few experimental swings, finding it well balanced with a comfortable weight. The edge was keen, the steel bright and unscarred.

“Volarian,” the King said. “Not very pretty but a solid weapon, useful in the press of battle when a man can’t raise his arm. A good choice.” He held out his hand and Vaelin passed him the sword. “Normally there would be a ceremony, lots of oaths and kneeling but I think we can dispense with that. Vaelin Al Sorna I name you Sword of the Realm. Do you pledge your sword in service to the Unified Realm?”

“I do, Highness.”

“Then use it well.” The King handed him the sword. “Now, as Sword of the Realm I must find you a commission. I name you commander of the Thirty-Fifth Regiment of Foot. Since the Aspect has been gracious enough to allow the use of the Order house to accommodate my regiment I think it only proper that the Order retain command of it. You will train the soldiers and command them in war, when the time comes.”

Vaelin looked to the Aspect for some reaction but saw nothing but the same rigid lack of expression.

“Forgive me Highness, but if the regiment is to come under Order control then Brother Makril would seem a better choice…”

“The famous denier hunter? Oh, I don’t think so. Could hardly give him a sword could I? Only one ennobled by the Crown can command a regiment of the Realm Guard. How long before they’re ready do you think?”

“Our losses in the Martishe were heavy, Highness. The men are weary and haven’t been paid for weeks.”

“Really?” The King looked at the Aspect with raised eyebrows.

“The Order will meet the cost,” the Aspect said. “It would only be right if the regiment is to be ours to command.”

“Very generous, Arlyn. As for the losses you can have your choice from the dungeons plus any men you can recruit from the streets. I daresay more than a few boys will come seeking service in a regiment commanded by the famous Brother Vaelin.” He chuckled ruefully. “War is always an adventure to those who’ve never seen it.”