“When?” Vaelin asked. “When did you know?”
“Before you did, I expect. The prophecy was unusually unambiguous. ‘Born of the healer and the Lord of Battle.’ Who else could it be?”
“And what else did this prophecy tell you?”
“‘He will fall to the One Who Waits under a desert moon and his song be claimed by reborn malice.’” Harlick took another sip of tea. “I was not prepared to see that happen.”
“The Aspect told me there was another prophecy, one not quite so pessimistic. One you chose not to believe.”
“We all make choices. Some are harder than others.”
“So you hired assassins to prevent the prophecy’s ever coming true.”
“How would I go about hiring assassins? A scholar of the Grand Library is not so resourceful, especially since I knew my Aspect would be unsympathetic to my intent. But as it transpired, research revealed an interested party who had ample knowledge of such matters. A king’s First Minister is required to dirty his hands on numerous occasions, I expect.”
A king’s First Minister . . . “Artis Al Sendahl. Nortah’s father hired the men?”
“And required little persuasion, I assure you. He made a show of reluctance at first but a few whispers of my Dark knowledge and he was all enthusiasm, his duty to the Realm demanded it no less. Plus with the Battle Lord’s boy tragically taken from the Order, there would be no reason to keep his own son shackled to them.”
“But when your scheme failed . . .”
“We had made great efforts to conceal our involvement, but your Order is persistent. It took them two years or more to ferret out the truth, and when they did . . . my Aspect was not pleased. I expect the matter was communicated to the King in due course, hence Lord Al Sendahl’s execution, supposedly on charges of corruption.”
Janus’s words, from years ago: He wasn’t a thief of coin, he was a thief of power. Nortah’s father was executed for exercising the power to kill, a power reserved to the King.
“There was someone else there that night,” he said to Harlick. “The assassins spoke of another one. One they feared. Who was it?”
The scholar sipped some more tea. “I know of no other.” For the first time there was some fear there, just a small flare to the nostrils, a slight twitch to the mouth . . . and a discordant note from the blood-song.
“You know my gift,” Vaelin reminded him.
Harlick put down his tea cup and said nothing. Vaelin felt his fists begin to curl again, knowing he could beat it out of Harlick if he chose to, for all his apparent unconcern the man remained a coward at heart. “There are others,” he said. “Others in the Seventh Order who shared your belief. You did not act alone.” The blood-song’s murmur confirmed it as Harlick maintained his silence. “Even now,” Vaelin went on. “All these years later, you cling to your delusion. That what you did was right.”
“No,” Harlick replied. “All prophecies are false. I see that now. Those with the gift for scrying are usually mad, driven so by the swirl of visions clouding their thoughts and dreams. It is not the future they see, just possibility. And possibility is infinite. Wouldn’t you agree? But for chance it could well have been some malign soul from the Beyond standing before me now, possessing your gift and made Tower Lord no less. Fortune may have proved me wrong, but only by the most slender margin.”
“Not fortune,” Vaelin said. “Blood, most of it innocent, much of it spilled by my hand.”
Harlick gave only a slight nod by way of acknowledgment, regarding Vaelin in resigned expectation. “Thank you for allowing me my tea, my lord.”
Vaelin gave a mirthless laugh. “Oh, I’m not going to kill you, brother. Arrogant wretch though you may be, I have too much use for you. And there is a great deal for you to balance. You are hereby appointed Archivist of the North Tower.” He waved a hand at the hut’s contents, moving to the door. “Gather your things and be ready to leave by morning. We will have much to discuss at the tower. My lady?”
She paused to offer a stunned Harlick a bow of congratulation then followed him from the hut.
“I do not like that man,” she said as they walked back along the beach.
Vaelin glanced back at the hut, seeing the scholar’s wiry figure outlined in the doorway. “I doubt he likes himse—”
It hit him like a hammerblow, the screaming note of the song surging once more to an instant crescendo. He staggered, feeling blood flow from his nose, collapsing to the sand as the scream brought a vision . . . Flame, all is flame, all is pain and fury . . . A man dies, a woman dies, children die . . . And the scream never ends . . . The flames swirl, coalesce, two dark patches appear, forming into eye sockets as the flames shape themselves into a skull, then a face, perfect and beautiful . . . And familiar . . . Lyrna, formed of fire . . . Screaming.
CHAPTER TEN
Lyrna
The holdfast of Baron Hughlin Banders lay thirty some miles from the Asraelin border, a sprawling structure of varying architecture and mismatched brickwork, some new, some clearly ancient. It sat in the centre of a large estate of forest and rolling hills, well-stocked with deer. They arrived as evening was coming on, greeted a good distance from the main house by a company of knights, over fifty fully armoured men approaching in battle order. The company’s leader revealed a nose marked by a single horizontal scar as he raised his visor, his evident suspicion dissipating at sight of Lyrna. Despite his ruffian-like appearance he possessed the cultured vowels and manners of a blood-born knight.
“My most abject apologies, Highness,” he said, having dismounted to sink to one knee, head lowered. “Such a large party, we mistook your intent.”
“Do not concern yourself, my lord,” Lyrna replied. She had always found the elaborate manners of the Renfaelin knightly class somewhat tedious and was in scant mood to indulge them now. “I come in search of Baron Banders. Is he at home?”
“He is, Highness.” The knight rose and quickly remounted. “Allow me the honour of escorting you to his presence.”
Baron Banders was waiting at the door to his home, unarmoured but holding a scabbarded long sword. Behind him a young woman stared up at Lyrna, clutching the hand of a lanky youth, who, despite his height, couldn’t have been more than fourteen.
“Highness.” Banders’s tone and expression were both carefully neutral as he sank to one knee before her. “I bid you welcome. My home is yours.”
“And I’ll gladly stay the night, my lord,” she replied, slipping from Surefoot’s back to stride forward, extending a hand. “But I do require a promise from you first.”
His eyes widened a little at the hand she placed before his lips, famously a sign of great favour she rarely bestowed, before pressing a kiss to her fingers. “Promise, Highness?” he asked, rising as she stepped back.
“Yes, no banquets.” She smiled. “I should like only a quiet meal tonight, and the pleasure of your company of course.”
? ? ?
He introduced the young woman as Ulice, his ward, and the boy as Arendil, her son. No family names were offered but Lyrna’s eyes picked out the similarities between Banders’s and Ulice’s features with ease, the colour and set of their eyes were almost identical. The lack of a family name marked her as an unacknowledged bastard, though one enjoying her father’s care if not his name judging by the clothes she wore. Strangely the boy’s face showed only a slight similarity to his mother and none at all to his grandfather. His eyes were blue whilst theirs were brown and his hair, an untidy cascade of dark curls reaching to his shoulders, made a stark contrast to the sandy mane of his mother and the thinning grey crop adorning Banders’s pate.
They ate a well-cooked but not lavish meal in the main hall, Davoka clumsily dismembering her food with the alien cutlery the servants placed beside her plate with every course. She eyed Lyrna’s actions closely, attempting to copy her grip on the various utensils, mostly without success.
“Eat however you wish,” Lyrna told her. “There will be no offence.”
“You learned my ways,” Davoka replied, frowning in concentration. “I learn yours.”
“You speak Lonak!” Arendil exclaimed, staring at Lyrna in open astonishment. Banders thumped a hand onto the table and the boy quickly added, “Highness.”
“Speaks it better than me, sometimes,” Davoka said, chewing a mouthful of quail. “Knows words I don’t.”
“The princess’s accomplishments are a great example,” Ulice said. She had a shy demeanour, almost fearful, but the gaze she offered Lyrna was rich in honest admiration. “And now she brings a peace that has eluded men for centuries. Would that all ladies could be so accomplished.”
“I hear it’s a hard country north of the pass,” Banders said. “Never been there meself. Fought plenty of Lonak though.” His gaze shifted to Davoka, who grinned back as she chewed.
“Thankfully, those days are now behind us,” Lyrna said. She lifted her goblet, raising it in a formal toast. “Will you drink with me, my lord? To peace?”
“Before you did, I expect. The prophecy was unusually unambiguous. ‘Born of the healer and the Lord of Battle.’ Who else could it be?”
“And what else did this prophecy tell you?”
“‘He will fall to the One Who Waits under a desert moon and his song be claimed by reborn malice.’” Harlick took another sip of tea. “I was not prepared to see that happen.”
“The Aspect told me there was another prophecy, one not quite so pessimistic. One you chose not to believe.”
“We all make choices. Some are harder than others.”
“So you hired assassins to prevent the prophecy’s ever coming true.”
“How would I go about hiring assassins? A scholar of the Grand Library is not so resourceful, especially since I knew my Aspect would be unsympathetic to my intent. But as it transpired, research revealed an interested party who had ample knowledge of such matters. A king’s First Minister is required to dirty his hands on numerous occasions, I expect.”
A king’s First Minister . . . “Artis Al Sendahl. Nortah’s father hired the men?”
“And required little persuasion, I assure you. He made a show of reluctance at first but a few whispers of my Dark knowledge and he was all enthusiasm, his duty to the Realm demanded it no less. Plus with the Battle Lord’s boy tragically taken from the Order, there would be no reason to keep his own son shackled to them.”
“But when your scheme failed . . .”
“We had made great efforts to conceal our involvement, but your Order is persistent. It took them two years or more to ferret out the truth, and when they did . . . my Aspect was not pleased. I expect the matter was communicated to the King in due course, hence Lord Al Sendahl’s execution, supposedly on charges of corruption.”
Janus’s words, from years ago: He wasn’t a thief of coin, he was a thief of power. Nortah’s father was executed for exercising the power to kill, a power reserved to the King.
“There was someone else there that night,” he said to Harlick. “The assassins spoke of another one. One they feared. Who was it?”
The scholar sipped some more tea. “I know of no other.” For the first time there was some fear there, just a small flare to the nostrils, a slight twitch to the mouth . . . and a discordant note from the blood-song.
“You know my gift,” Vaelin reminded him.
Harlick put down his tea cup and said nothing. Vaelin felt his fists begin to curl again, knowing he could beat it out of Harlick if he chose to, for all his apparent unconcern the man remained a coward at heart. “There are others,” he said. “Others in the Seventh Order who shared your belief. You did not act alone.” The blood-song’s murmur confirmed it as Harlick maintained his silence. “Even now,” Vaelin went on. “All these years later, you cling to your delusion. That what you did was right.”
“No,” Harlick replied. “All prophecies are false. I see that now. Those with the gift for scrying are usually mad, driven so by the swirl of visions clouding their thoughts and dreams. It is not the future they see, just possibility. And possibility is infinite. Wouldn’t you agree? But for chance it could well have been some malign soul from the Beyond standing before me now, possessing your gift and made Tower Lord no less. Fortune may have proved me wrong, but only by the most slender margin.”
“Not fortune,” Vaelin said. “Blood, most of it innocent, much of it spilled by my hand.”
Harlick gave only a slight nod by way of acknowledgment, regarding Vaelin in resigned expectation. “Thank you for allowing me my tea, my lord.”
Vaelin gave a mirthless laugh. “Oh, I’m not going to kill you, brother. Arrogant wretch though you may be, I have too much use for you. And there is a great deal for you to balance. You are hereby appointed Archivist of the North Tower.” He waved a hand at the hut’s contents, moving to the door. “Gather your things and be ready to leave by morning. We will have much to discuss at the tower. My lady?”
She paused to offer a stunned Harlick a bow of congratulation then followed him from the hut.
“I do not like that man,” she said as they walked back along the beach.
Vaelin glanced back at the hut, seeing the scholar’s wiry figure outlined in the doorway. “I doubt he likes himse—”
It hit him like a hammerblow, the screaming note of the song surging once more to an instant crescendo. He staggered, feeling blood flow from his nose, collapsing to the sand as the scream brought a vision . . . Flame, all is flame, all is pain and fury . . . A man dies, a woman dies, children die . . . And the scream never ends . . . The flames swirl, coalesce, two dark patches appear, forming into eye sockets as the flames shape themselves into a skull, then a face, perfect and beautiful . . . And familiar . . . Lyrna, formed of fire . . . Screaming.
CHAPTER TEN
Lyrna
The holdfast of Baron Hughlin Banders lay thirty some miles from the Asraelin border, a sprawling structure of varying architecture and mismatched brickwork, some new, some clearly ancient. It sat in the centre of a large estate of forest and rolling hills, well-stocked with deer. They arrived as evening was coming on, greeted a good distance from the main house by a company of knights, over fifty fully armoured men approaching in battle order. The company’s leader revealed a nose marked by a single horizontal scar as he raised his visor, his evident suspicion dissipating at sight of Lyrna. Despite his ruffian-like appearance he possessed the cultured vowels and manners of a blood-born knight.
“My most abject apologies, Highness,” he said, having dismounted to sink to one knee, head lowered. “Such a large party, we mistook your intent.”
“Do not concern yourself, my lord,” Lyrna replied. She had always found the elaborate manners of the Renfaelin knightly class somewhat tedious and was in scant mood to indulge them now. “I come in search of Baron Banders. Is he at home?”
“He is, Highness.” The knight rose and quickly remounted. “Allow me the honour of escorting you to his presence.”
Baron Banders was waiting at the door to his home, unarmoured but holding a scabbarded long sword. Behind him a young woman stared up at Lyrna, clutching the hand of a lanky youth, who, despite his height, couldn’t have been more than fourteen.
“Highness.” Banders’s tone and expression were both carefully neutral as he sank to one knee before her. “I bid you welcome. My home is yours.”
“And I’ll gladly stay the night, my lord,” she replied, slipping from Surefoot’s back to stride forward, extending a hand. “But I do require a promise from you first.”
His eyes widened a little at the hand she placed before his lips, famously a sign of great favour she rarely bestowed, before pressing a kiss to her fingers. “Promise, Highness?” he asked, rising as she stepped back.
“Yes, no banquets.” She smiled. “I should like only a quiet meal tonight, and the pleasure of your company of course.”
? ? ?
He introduced the young woman as Ulice, his ward, and the boy as Arendil, her son. No family names were offered but Lyrna’s eyes picked out the similarities between Banders’s and Ulice’s features with ease, the colour and set of their eyes were almost identical. The lack of a family name marked her as an unacknowledged bastard, though one enjoying her father’s care if not his name judging by the clothes she wore. Strangely the boy’s face showed only a slight similarity to his mother and none at all to his grandfather. His eyes were blue whilst theirs were brown and his hair, an untidy cascade of dark curls reaching to his shoulders, made a stark contrast to the sandy mane of his mother and the thinning grey crop adorning Banders’s pate.
They ate a well-cooked but not lavish meal in the main hall, Davoka clumsily dismembering her food with the alien cutlery the servants placed beside her plate with every course. She eyed Lyrna’s actions closely, attempting to copy her grip on the various utensils, mostly without success.
“Eat however you wish,” Lyrna told her. “There will be no offence.”
“You learned my ways,” Davoka replied, frowning in concentration. “I learn yours.”
“You speak Lonak!” Arendil exclaimed, staring at Lyrna in open astonishment. Banders thumped a hand onto the table and the boy quickly added, “Highness.”
“Speaks it better than me, sometimes,” Davoka said, chewing a mouthful of quail. “Knows words I don’t.”
“The princess’s accomplishments are a great example,” Ulice said. She had a shy demeanour, almost fearful, but the gaze she offered Lyrna was rich in honest admiration. “And now she brings a peace that has eluded men for centuries. Would that all ladies could be so accomplished.”
“I hear it’s a hard country north of the pass,” Banders said. “Never been there meself. Fought plenty of Lonak though.” His gaze shifted to Davoka, who grinned back as she chewed.
“Thankfully, those days are now behind us,” Lyrna said. She lifted her goblet, raising it in a formal toast. “Will you drink with me, my lord? To peace?”
