Текст книги "Blood Song"

Автор книги: Anthony Ryan

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“Then we had best not linger, my lord.”

They struggled upward for another hour or so, the dark majesty of the Greypeaks an oppressive, dominating presence above. The summits seemed ever shrouded in mist, hiding the sun, the muted light making the landscape uniformly grey. Although it was late summer the air was chilled, possessed of a cloying dampness that seeped into their clothes.

“By the Father I hate this place,” Lord Mustor gasped when they had paused for a rest. He slumped against a rocky outcrop and slid to the ground, unstoppering a flask. “Water,” he said, noting the prince’s disapproving glare. “Truth be told, I had hoped I’d never see Cumbrael again at all.”

“You are the heir to the Lordship of this land,” Vaelin pointed out. “It seems an unlikely ambition never to return to it.”

“Oh, I was never meant to sit on the Chair. That honour would have been afforded Hentes, my murderous sibling, whom my father loved dearly. Must’ve broken the old bastard’s heart when he lost him to the priests. He was always the favoured son, you see. Best with the bow, best with the sword, quick of wit, tall and handsome. Sired three bastards of his own by his twenty-fifth year.”

“He doesn’t sound like the most devout of men,” Prince Malcius observed.

“He wasn’t.” Lord Mustor took a long gulp from his flask causing Vaelin to suspect it contained more than water. “But that was before he took an arrow in the face during a skirmish with some outlaws. My father’s surgeon removed the arrowhead but my brother took a fever and lay near death for several days, at one point it’s said his heart stopped beating. But the Father saw fit to spare him, and once recovered he was a changed man. The handsome carousing, wench-chasing warrior became a scarred, pious devotee of the ten books. Hentes True-blade they called him. He cut himself off from his old friends, shunned his many lovers, sought out the company of the most ardent and radical priests. He began to preach, passionate sermons describing the visions he had seen as he lay dying. He claimed the World Father had spoken to him, shown him the glorious path to redemption. Much of which apparently involves converting you foreign heathens to the teachings of the ten books, at sword point if necessary. My father had little choice but to send him away, along with his ever growing band of followers.”

“And you say he believes your god told him to assassinate your father?” the Prince asked.

“My brother’s beliefs are not always easily understood, even by his disciples. But the very notion of the Fief Lord of Cumbrael abasing himself to King Janus would have been anathema, especially since it resulted from what he sees as Brother Vaelin’s persecution of the holy warriors in the Martishe. So he invited my father to a meeting, under the pretence of seeking a return from exile, and there, with no guards to protect him, he killed him.”

He paused to drink again, his gaze lingering on Vaelin. “My sources write that your name is known in Cumbrael now, brother. Hentes may be the True-blade, but you are the Darkblade. It’s from the Fifth Book, the Book of Prophecy. Centuries ago a seer spoke of a near-invincible heretic swordsman: ‘He will smite the holy and strike down those who labour in the service of the World Father. Know him by his blade for it was forged in an unnatural fire and guided by the voice of the Dark.’”

Darkblade? Vaelin thought of the blood-song and what Nersus Sil Nin had told him of its origins. Perhaps they have it right. He got to his feet. “We’d best press on.”

“Well that’s a lot of fucking use!” Brother Commander Makril spat on the ground near Lord Mustor’s feet.

The Fief Lord drew back, a glimmer of fear in his eyes. “It was open ten years ago,” he said, a faint whine colouring in his voice.

Vaelin peered into the tunnel entrance, a narrow crack in a windswept cliff-face they would have barely noticed if Lord Mustor hadn’t pointed it out. In the gloom of the tunnel entrance he could just make out the source of Makril’s anger; a pile of huge boulders sealed the passage from floor to ceiling. The mass of rock was far too heavy to move with their small force. Makril was right, the tunnel was useless.

“I don’t understand it,” Lord Mustor was saying. “It was as well built as it could be. No-one save my father and I knew of its existence.”

Vaelin moved into the tunnel, running a hand over the surface of one of the boulders, feeling how it was smooth in one place and rough in another, his fingers finding the hard edges left by a chisel. “This stone has been worked loose. Recently, if I’m any judge.”

“It appears your greatest secret has been betrayed, my lord,” Prince Malcius observed. “If, as you say, your father favoured your brother over you, he may have felt it appropriate to share the secret with him.”

“What are we to do?” Lord Mustor asked plaintively. “There is no other way into the High Keep.”

“Except by siege,” the prince said. “And we have not the time, men or engines for that.”

Vaelin emerged from the tunnel. “Is there a vantage point nearby where we can view the keep without being seen?”

It was a perilous climb up a narrow, rock strewn path but they made good time, despite Lord Mustor’s constant grumbling about his blistered feet. Eventually they came to a ledge shielded from the wind by a large outcrop of rock.

“Best stay low,” Lord Mustor advised. “I doubt any sentry will have eyes keen enough to see us, but we shouldn’t trust to chance.” He crept to the shoulder of the outcrop and pointed. “There, hardly the most elegant of architecture is it?”

The High Keep was hard to miss, its walls rose from the mountain like a blunted spear-point thrust up through the rock. Lord Mustor was right in noting the building’s lack of elegance. It was devoid of any decoration, unadorned by statuary or minarets, the smooth plane of the walls broken only by a scattering of arrow slits. A single banner bearing the holy white flame of the Cumbraelin god snapped atop a tall lance on the bastion above the gate. The only approach to the keep was a single narrow road rising steeply from the floor of the pass. They were level with the top of the wall and Vaelin could see the black specks of sentries atop the battlements.

“You see, Lord Vaelin?” Mustor said. “It’s unassailable.”

Vaelin edged closer, peering down at the base of the keep; irregular rock giving way to smooth walls. The rocks aren’t a problem, but the wall? “How tall did you say the walls are, my lord?”

“Are you sure you can do this?”

Gallis the climber lifted the coil of rope over his head, settling the weight on his shoulders and glanced up at the towering keep above. “I do like a challenge, milord.”

Vaelin pushed his doubts to the recess of his mind and handed the man a dagger. “Do this for me and I might forget I’m angry with you.”

“I’ll settle for that flagon of wine you promised me.” Gallis grinned, pushing the dagger into his boot and turning to the rock face, his hands exploring the granite for holds, dextrous fingers tracing over the irregular surface with intuitive precision. After a few seconds he took hold and began to climb, his body moving fluidly over the cliff, his hands and feet finding purchase seemingly of their own volition. Ten feet or so off the ground he paused to look down at Vaelin, smiling broadly. “Easier than a merchant’s house by far.”

Vaelin watched him ascend from the cliff to the wall, growing smaller the higher he climbed until he seemed like an ant struggling on the trunk of a great tree. He never faltered, never slipped. Satisfied he wasn’t actually going to fall Vaelin turned to the brothers and soldiers crouched in the darkness about him. They were a mixture of Nortah’s best archers and brothers from Makril’s command, twenty men in all. It was scant force against the numbers guarding the usurper but any more would increase the risk of detection. The rest of the regiment was waiting at the foot of the long uphill road to the keep’s gate, Brother Makril had the command and would lead a mounted charge with Prince Malcius when the gate was opened. Caenis would follow with the main body on foot. Vaelin had endured strenuous objections against leading the assault on the gate, Caenis stating flatly that his place was with the men.

“I was sent for the usurper,” Vaelin replied. “I intend to get him, alive if possible. Besides, I’d like the chance to talk to him. I’m sure he has many interesting things to say.”

“You mean you want to test his sword,” Makril said. “His Lordship’s tales made you wonder, did they? Want to know if he’s as good as you.”

Is that it? Vaelin wondered. In truth he felt no hunger for matching steel with the True-blade. In fact he harboured no doubts that he could defeat the man when he found him. But he did want to confront him, hear his voice. Lord Mustor’s story had indeed made him curious. The usurper believed he was doing the work of his god, like the Cumbraelin he had watched die in the Martishe. What drives them to this? What makes a man murder for his god? But there was something more, ever since he had first glimpsed the High Keep, the blood-song. It was faint at first, but grew in power as night fell. It was not a note of warning exactly, more an urgency, a need to discover what waited inside.

He beckoned Nortah and Dentos closer, his whispered words misting the air in the dark mountain chill. “Nortah, take your men along the battlements. Kill the sentries and cover the courtyard. Dentos, take the brothers to the gatehouse, get the gate raised and hold it until the regiment arrives.”

“And you brother?” Nortah asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I have business in the keep.” He glanced up at Gallis’s shrinking form. “Nortah, tell your men not to scream if they fall. The Departed won’t accept a coward into the Beyond. Luck to you, brothers.”

He was first to follow Gallis up the rope, the wind a howling, unseen monster threatening to tear him from the wall at any moment. His arms were burning with the effort and his hands gripped the rope with ice numb fingers by the time he came upon Gallis. The one-time thief was perched just below the lip of the battlement, his fingertips clamped on the edge of the stone, legs braced against he wall. Vaelin could only marvel at the strength it must have taken to remain in such a position for so long. Gallis nodded as Vaelin dragged himself level with the iron grapple lodged on the battlement, his “Milord” of greeting lost to the wind. Vaelin took a one handed grip on the grapple and flexed the fingers of his right hand to regain some feeling. He turned to Gallis with a questioning glance.

“One,” Gallis mouthed, inclining his head at the battlement. “Looks bored.”

Vaelin inched himself up for a quick glance over the wall. The guard was a few yards away, huddled in his cloak in the shelter of a small alcove in the battlements, a flaming torch guttered in the wind above his head, scattering sparks into the black void. The sentry’s spear and bow were propped against the wall as he rubbed his hands vigorously, breath steaming in the air. Vaelin reached over his shoulder to draw his sword, breathed deeply then hauled himself over the wall in a single fluid motion. He had counted on surprise to prevent the guard calling out the alarm but was surprised himself when the man failed even to reach for his weapons, simply standing in shocked immobility as the star-silver blade took him in the throat.

Vaelin lowered the body to the rampart floor and beckoned Gallis over the wall. “Here,” he whispered, stripping the blood-sodden cloak from the corpse and tossing it to the climber. “Put this on and walk around a bit. Try to look Cumbraelin. If any of the other guards talk to you, kill them.”

Gallis grimaced at the blood dripping from the cloak but pulled it about his shoulders without complaint, tugging the hood over his head so his face was concealed in shadow. He strolled slowly out of the shelter of the small alcove and moved along the battlements, rubbing his hands beneath his cloak, giving every impression of being nothing more than a bored sentry walking a wall on a cold night.

Vaelin moved to the grapple and tugged hard on the rope, once then twice. It took an age before Nortah’s head appeared above the wall and even longer before the men followed him. Dentos was the last, struggling over the battlement and sinking slowly to the floor, the tremble in his hands not only a symptom of the cold, he had never liked heights.

Vaelin did a head count, grunting in satisfaction that there had been no fallers. “No time for rest, brother,” he whispered to Dentos, tugging him to his feet. “You know what to do. Keep it as quiet as you can.”

The two parties separated to pursue their missions, Nortah leading his bowmen along the battlements to the left, arrows notched, Dentos taking the brothers in the opposite direction towards the gate house. Soon there came the hard snap of bowstrings as Nortah’s men dealt with the sentries. There were a few stifled shouts of alarm but no screams and no answering clamour from the keep. Vaelin found the steps to the courtyard and hurried downwards. Lord Mustor’s description of the keep had been vague, the man’s memory for detail was somewhat dulled, but he had been clear on one thing: his brother would be in the Lord’s Chamber, the hub of the High Keep which could be reached by the door directly opposite the main gate.

Vaelin moved quickly, the blood-song louder now, an edge of warning colouring the tune: find him. He encountered two men upon opening the door, burly fellows leaning close to one another as they shared a candle flame, pipe smoke billowing. They were seated at a small table, a half-empty bottle of brandy and an opened book between them. The first died as he surged to his feet, the sword sweeping across his chest, slicing through flesh and bone in a silver blur. The second managed to get a hand to the dagger in his belt before Vaelin cut him down with a slash to the neck. It was an untidy blow and the man lingered for a moment, a scream rising from his ruined throat. Vaelin clamped his hand over the man’s mouth to smother the sound, blood gouting through his fingers, punching the sword blade hard into the man’s guts. He held him down as he twitched, watching the life fade from his eyes.

He wiped his bloodied hand on the man’s jerkin and took stock of his surroundings. A small room with a passage leading deeper into the keep and a stairway off to the left. Lord Mustor had told him the Lord’s Chamber was at ground level so he took the passage, moving slower now, each shadowed corner a potential threat. Soon he found himself before a large oaken door, slightly ajar, outlined by the torch-lit chamber beyond.

How many guards with him? he wondered, his hand already reaching out to push the door open. This is foolish. I should wait for the others… But the blood-song was so loud now, forcing him forward. FIND HIM!

There were no guards, just a large stone chamber, the walls shrouded in shadow beyond the six stone pillars that supported the ceiling. The man seated on a dais at the far end of the chamber was tall and broad-shouldered, his handsome face marred by a deep scar on his left cheek. A naked sword lay across his knees, a plain, narrow bladed weapon Vaelin recognised as Renfaelin from the absence of a guard; Cumbraelins were renowned bowsmiths but reputedly knew little of forging steel. The man said nothing as Vaelin entered, remaining seated and regarding him with silent intent, his eyes empty of fear.

Now he stood confronted by his quarry the blood-song lost its shrillness, diminishing to a soft but steady murmur at the back of his mind. Am I where it wants me to be? he thought. Or where I need to be? In either case, he saw little reason for preamble.

“Hentes Mustor!” he said, striding forward. “You are called by the King’s Word to answer charges of treason and murder. Give up your sword and stand ready to be shackled.”

Hentes Mustor remained seated as Vaelin approached, neither speaking nor reaching for his weapon. It was only when Vaelin came within the last few yards that he noticed a chain coiled around his left wrist and traced the dark links of iron from his hand to the shadows between the pillars. Mustor’s hand jerked in a quick, skilful motion, the chain snapping like a whip, striking sparks from the flagstones as a figure was dragged from the darkness, a slender figure, gagged with wrists shackled. She stumbled to her knees before Mustor and Vaelin had time to note the grey robe she wore and the dark tumble of her hair before the usurper was on his feet with his sword at her throat.

“Brother,” he said in a soft, almost sorrowful voice. “I believe this young woman is known to you.”

Her eyes were bright, fearful, pleading. Her shouts stopped by the gag but the meaning was clear in the emphatic, frantic shake of her head. Her eyes locked onto his and he read them clearly. Do not sacrifice yourself for me! The gag and the passage of years meant nothing. He would have known her anywhere. Sherin!

Chapter 6

“Your sword, brother,” Hentes Mustor said in his soft voice.

There should have been rage, desperate, bloody rage sending a throwing knife into Mustor’s arm and a sword cleaving deep into his neck. But something choked it off as it rose in his breast. It wasn’t just caution, although the man was quick, far quicker than Gallis the climber had been all those years ago, it was something more. For a second he was lost in confusion then it came to him: the blood-song’s tune hadn’t changed. The same soft, steady murmur still sang in his head, devoid of the warning or wrongness he knew so well.

His sword landed with a clatter at Mustor’s feet, the sound mingling with Sherin’s muffled sob of despair.

“And so,” Mustor kicked the sword away into the shadows, his tone heavy with reverence. “The truth of His word is shown again.” His eyes fixed on Vaelin. “Your other weapons, throw them away. Slowly.”

Vaelin did as he was bid, his knives and the dagger in his boot tossed into the shadows. “Now I am disarmed,” he said. “Is there any reason to threaten my sister so?”

Mustor glanced at Sherin’s reddened face, as if remembering she was there. “Your sister. He told me that’s not how you think of her. She is your love, is she not? The key by which your faith can be unlocked.”

“My faith cannot be unlocked, my lord. I’ve given you my sword, that’s all.”

“Yes.” Mustor nodded, his voice flat with certainty. “As He said you would.”

Is he mad? Vaelin wondered. The man was a patent fanatic but did that make him insane? He recalled Sentes Mustor’s story of his brother’s conversion. He claimed the World Father had spoken to him… “Your god? He told you I would come here?”

“He is not my god! He is the World Father who created all and knows all in His love, even heretics like you. And I am blessed by His voice. He warned me of your coming and that your Dark skill with the blade would undo me, though in my sinful pride I longed to face you without this trickery. He guided me to the mission where this woman could be found. And it was all as He foretold.”

“Did he foretell that you would kill your father?”

“My father…” The certainty faded from Mustor’s eyes and he blinked, his expression guarded. “My father lost his way. He turned away from the World Father's love.”

“He didn’t turn away from you. He gave you this keep did he not? Gave you letters of safe passage to ensure you could travel here unmolested. He even told you the most cherished secret of your family: the passage through the mountain. He did all this to ensure you would be safe. You are to be envied to have been so loved. And you repaid him with a blade in his heart.”

“He strayed from the law of the Ten Books. His toleration of your heretic dominion could not be borne forever. I had no choice but to act…”

“A strange god that loves you so much he makes you murder your own father.”

“SHUT UP!” Mustor screamed in a voice that almost sobbed with sorrow, flinging Sherin away as he advanced on Vaelin, sword levelled. “Shut your mouth! I know what you are. Don’t think He did not tell me. You are a practitioner of the Dark. You shun the Father’s love. You know nothing.”

Still the blood-song’s tune failed to change, even as the usurper’s blade came within a hand’s breadth of his chest. “Are you ready?” Mustor asked. “Are you ready to die, Darkblade?”

Vaelin noted the way Mustor’s sword-tip trembled, the moist redness of his eyes and the hard clench of his jaw. “Are you ready to kill me?”

“I will do what I must.” His voice was grating now, forced out through clenched teeth. His whole body appeared to tremble, his chest heaving, seeming to Vaelin like a man at war with himself. The sword tip wavered but did not move, neither forward nor back.

“Forgive me, my lord,” he said. “But I doubt you have any killing left in you.”

“Just one more,” Mustor whispered. “Just one more, He told me. Then at last I could rest. The Eternal Fields would finally be opened to me where I was denied before.”

From beyond the door came the first sounds of battle, many voices raised in alarm soon drowned in the clatter of iron-shod hooves and the hard ring of clashing steel.

“What?” Mustor seemed bewildered, his gaze flicking continually between Vaelin and the door. “What is this? Do you seek to distract me with some Dark illusion?”

Vaelin shook his head. “My men are storming the keep.”

“Your men?” His face took on an expression of deep confusion. “But you came alone. He said you would come alone.” His sword fell to his side as he stumbled back a few steps, his gaze distant, unfocused. “He said you would come alone…”

Kill him now! A voice shouted in Vaelin’s mind, a voice he had thought lost in the Martishe, the voice that had endlessly mocked his preparations for Al Hestian’s murder. He’s within reach, take his sword away and break his neck!

The voice was right, it would be an easy kill. Whatever madness or disturbance clouded Mustor’s thoughts had left him defenceless. But the blood-song’s tune was unchanged… And his words raised so many questions.

“You have been deceived, my lord,” Vaelin told Mustor softly. “Whatever voice speaks in your mind has played you false. I came here with a full regiment of foot and a company of mounted brothers. And I doubt my death, or any death, would buy you a place in the Beyond.”

Mustor staggered, almost falling to the floor. He froze, only for a moment, but it was a moment of complete stillness, standing as if carved from ice. When he moved again the depth of confusion marring his features had vanished, replaced by the face of a man in full possession of his faculties, one eyebrow raised in amused consternation, but the eyes cold with hatred. A voice Vaelin had heard before issued from Mustor’s lips in a tone of calm certainty. “You do continue to surprise me, brother. But this ends nothing.”

Then it was gone, Mustor’s face once again the mask of confusion from a second before. It was clear to Vaelin that Mustor had no knowledge of what had just transpired. Something lives in his mind, he realised. Something that can speak with his voice. And he doesn’t know.

“Hentes Mustor,” he said. “You are called by the King’s word to answer charges of treason and murder.” He held out his hand. “Your sword, my lord.”

Mustor looked down at the sword in his hand, turning the blade so it gleamed in the torch light. “I washed it and washed it. Ground the blade on the stone for hours. But I can still see it, the blood…”

“Your sword, my lord,” Vaelin repeated, stepping closer, hand outstretched.

“Yes…” Mustor said faintly. “Yes. Best if you take it…” He reversed his hold on the hilt and lifted the sword towards Vaelin’s hand.

There was a sound like the beating of a hawk’s wing, a soft rush of air on Vaelin’s cheek and a blur of spinning steel. The blood-song roared, full of wrong and warning, making him stagger with the force of it. He found himself instinctively reaching for the empty scabbard on his back and felt an instant of complete and utter helplessness as Hentes Mustor took the axe full in the chest. The impact lifted him off his feet, laying him arms outstretched on the chamber floor.

“Got the bastard!” Barkus exclaimed, advancing from the shadows. “A fine throw, if I say so-”

Vaelin’s blow caught him on the jaw, spinning him to the floor. “He was giving up!” Anger boiled in him, stoked by the blood-song, making his hands itch for his weapons. “He was surrendering, you stupid bloody oaf!”

“Thought-” Barkus coughed red spit on the floor. “Thought he was going to kill you… Had a sword, you didn’t… Saw the sister lying there. I didn’t know.” He seemed more bewildered than angry.

The certain, awful truth that Vaelin had been entirely willing to kill Barkus in that moment shocked the anger from him. He reached down, offering his hand. “Here.”

Barkus stared up at him for a moment, a red swelling already forming on his jawline. “That really hurt, you know.”

“I’m sorry.”

Barkus took his hand, hauling himself upright. Vaelin looked over at Mustor’s body and the dark pool now spreading out from it. “See to our sister,” he told Barkus, moving to the body, Barkus’s hateful axe still buried in his chest. Is this why I couldn’t touch it? Did the song know this is what it would be used for?

He had hoped there would be some vestige of life lingering in Mustor’s breast, enough breath to impart a final answer to the mystery of his murderous and deceitful god. But there was no light in Mustor’s eyes, no movement in his slack features. Barkus’s axe had done its work all too well.

He knelt next to the body recalling the man’s fevered words: the Eternal Fields would finally be opened to me where I was denied before. He laid his hand on Mustor’s chest, reciting softly, “What is death? Death is but a gateway to the Beyond. It is both ending and beginning. Fear it and welcome it.”

“I hardly think that’s appropriate.” Sentes Mustor, undisputed Fief Lord of Cumbrael, was looking down at his brother’s body with a mixture of anger and distaste. A naked, untarnished sword dangled from his hand and his chest heaved with unaccustomed exertion. Vaelin was impressed he had made his way here so quickly, apparently by failing to trouble himself with any part of the battle. “He would want the Prayer of Leaving from the Tenth Book,” Lord Mustor said. “The words of World Father…”

“A god is a lie,” Vaelin quoted harshly. He rose, offering the Fief Lord the most cursory of bows. “I think your brother knew that.”

“How many?”

“Eighty-nine in all.” Caenis nodded at the bodies laid out in the courtyard below. “No quarter asked and none given. Just like the Martishe.” He turned back to Vaelin, his expression sombre. “We lost nine men. Another ten injured. Sister Gilma’s seeing to them.”

“Impressive,” Prince Malcius commented. He had his fur trimmed cloak tight about his shoulders, his red hair fluttered in the chill wind sweeping the battlements. “To lose so few against so many.”

“Between our pole-axes and Brother Nortah’s archers on the walls…” Caenis shrugged. “They had little chance, Highness.”

“Does the Fief Lord have any instructions regarding the Cumbraelin dead?” Vaelin asked the prince. Lord Mustor had been notably absent since the conclusion of the battle, apparently busying himself with a close inspection of the keep’s wine cellar.

“Burn them or throw them from the walls. I doubt he’s sober enough to care much either way.” There was a hard edge to the prince’s voice this morning. Vaelin knew he had been at the forefront of the charge through the gate, Alucius Al Hestian close behind him. There had been a brief but frenzied defence of the courtyard by twenty or so of the usurper’s followers, Alucius tumbling from his horse and disappearing under the crush. After the battle he was pulled from beneath a pile of bodies, alive but unconscious, his short sword dark with dried blood and a large lump on his head. He was in Sister Gilma’s care now and still hadn’t woken.

Make him play with a sword for ten days and lie to him that he’s a warrior, Vaelin thought heavily. Better if I’d tied him to his saddle on the first day and set the horse on the road back to the city. Vaelin pushed the guilt away and turned to Caenis.

“Do you know anything about how the Cumbraelins treat their dead?”

“Burial, usually. Sinners are dismembered and left in the open to rot.”

“Sounds fair,” Prince Malcius grunted.

“Form a party,” Vaelin told Caenis. “Cart them to the base of the mountain and have them buried. The map shows a village five miles to the south of the pass. Send a rider for the local priest. He can say the appropriate words.”

Caenis cast an uncertain glance at the prince. “The usurper too?”

“Him too.”

“The men won’t like it…”

“I could give a dog’s fart for what they like!” Vaelin flushed, fighting down the anger he knew came from his guilt over Alucius. “Ask for volunteers,” he told Caenis with a sigh. “Double rum ration and a silver for the first twenty to step forward.” He bowed to Prince Malcius. “With your permission, Highness. I have other business…”

“You dispatched your best riders I take it?” the prince asked.

“Brother Nortah and Brother Dentos. With a fair wind the King’s command will be in the Battle Lord’s hands within two days.”

“Good. I should hate for all of this to have been for nothing.”

Vaelin thought of Alucius’s earnest face, red from exertion after another clumsy hour attempting to master the blade. “And I Highness.”

His skin was pallid and clammy to the touch, black hair clinging to his sweat-damp scalp. The regular, untroubled rise and fall of his chest did nothing to assuage Vaelin’s guilt.

“He will be well again soon enough.” Sister Sherin placed a hand on Alucius’s forehead. “The fever broke quickly, the lump on his head is already diminished and see.” She gestured at his closed eyes and Vaelin saw the impression of his pupils moving beneath the lids.