Authors: Anthony Ryan
Sergeant Krelnik shook his head in stoic disgust and started whipping the men into line. “Let’s have some order here, scum! No use to the Realm Guard if you can’t stand up straight.” He continued to abuse them until they were arrayed in two uneven lines then turned to Vaelin, snapping off a salute. “Recruits for your inspection, my lord.”
My lord.
The title still sounded strange to his ears. He didn’t feel like a lord, he felt and looked like a brother of the Sixth Order. He had no lands, no servants, no wealth and yet the King had proclaimed him a lord. It felt like a lie, one of many.
He nodded to Sergeant Krelnik and walked along the line, finding it hard to meet the many frightened eyes that tracked his progress. Some men stood straighter than others, some were cleaner, some so thin and wasted it was remarkable they could still stand upright. And they all stank, a thick cloying stench he knew so well. These men stank of their own death.
He continued down the line until something made him pause, one set of eyes that didn’t follow him but remained fixed on the ground. He stopped and moved closer to the man. He was taller than most of the prisoners, broader too, the sagging flesh on his chest indicating a once muscular torso weakened by a long period of malnutrition. Just visible under the filth covering his forearm was the deep indentation of a badly healed scar.
“Still climbing?” Vaelin asked him.
Gallis looked up, reluctantly meeting his eyes. “On occasion, brother.”
“What was it this time? Another sackful of spice?”
There was a faint tick of amusement in Gallis’s haggard face. “Silver. From one of the big houses. Would’ve made it too if my lookout had kept his head.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Month or two. Can’t really keep track of time in the vaults. Was s’posed to get hung yesterday but the cart was full.”
Vaelin nodded at his scarred arm. “Does that give you any trouble?”
“Aches a little in the winter months. But I can still scale a wall better than any man. Don’t you worry.”
“Good. I can find a use for a climber.” Vaelin took a step closer, holding the man’s gaze. “But you should know I’m still unhappy at what you tried to do to Sister Sherin, so if you run…”
“Wouldn’t think of it, brother. I may be a thief but my word is iron.” Gallis made an effort to look soldierly, puffing out his chest and pulling his shoulders back. “Why, it’d be an honour to march with…”
“All right.” Vaelin waved him to silence and moved back, lifting his voice so they could all hear. “My name is Vaelin Al Sorna, Brother of the Sixth Order and Commander by the King’s word of the Thirty-Fifth Regiment of Foot. King Janus has graciously consented to commute your sentence to the privilege of serving in the Realm Guard. In return you will march and fight at his word for the next ten years. You will be fed, you will be paid and you will follow my orders without question. Any man guilty of indiscipline or drunkenness will be flogged. Any man who deserts will be executed.”
He scanned their faces for some reaction to his words but saw mostly dumb relief. Even the hardships of a soldier’s life were preferable to another hour in the dungeons. “Sergeant Krelnik.”
“My lord!”
“Get them back to the Order House. I have business in the city.”
The seat of the noble house of Al Hestian was in the northern quarter, the city’s richest district. It was an impressive red sandstone manse of many windows and extensive grounds surrounded by a solid wall topped with wicked iron spikes. The impeccably attired servant at the gate listened to Vaelin’s enquiry with practised disinterest before asking him to wait and going inside for instructions. He returned after a few minutes.
“Young master Al Hestian is in the garden at the rear of the house, my lord. He bids you welcome and asks that you join him presently.”
“And the Lord Marshal?”
“Lord Al Hestian was called to the palace this morning. He is not expected until this evening.”
Vaelin gave an inward sigh of relief. The ordeal ahead would have been even more onerous if he had had to face the father as well as the brother.
Once through the gate he found a squad of Palace Guardsmen loitering on the lawn, one holding the reins of a handsome white mare. His relief evaporated as he surmised the meaning of their presence. The guardsmen gave him a formal bow as he passed. It seemed word of his new rank had spread quickly. He returned the bow and hurried on, anxious to be done with this and return to the Order house where he could busy himself with training his regiment.
My regiment,
he wondered at the fact of it. Barely in his nineteenth year and the King had given him a regiment and, although Caenis had been quick to reel off a list of famous warriors who had risen to command at an early age, to Vaelin it still seemed absurd. He had sought an explanation from the Aspect as they travelled back to the Order House after the meeting at the palace but his questions were met with a simple instruction to follow his orders. But the preoccupied frown on the Aspect’s brow told him the King’s actions had left him much to consider.
The gardens were a protracted maze of hedgerows and flower beds blossoming in the onset of spring. He found them sheltering from the sun under a maple tree. The princess was as lovely as ever, smiling radiantly and tossing her red-gold hair as she listened to the earnest youth on the bench beside her reading aloud from a small book. Vaelin saw only the faintest resemblance to his brother in Alucius Al Hestian, a thin boy of fifteen years or so, his youthful features delicate, almost feminine, topped by a main of black curls that cascaded over his shoulders. He wore black in mourning. Vaelin took a firm grip on the scabbard of the longsword he carried, drew in a deep draught of air and strode forward with all the confidence he could muster. As he drew nearer he could hear the lilting refrain of the boy’s words: “
I pray you weep no more my love, let no tears fall for my demise, lift your face to the sky above, and let the sun dry your eyes…”
He fell silent as Vaelin’s shadow fell upon them.
“My Lord Al Sorna!” Alucius rose to greet him, offering his hand without regard to the lordly formalities Vaelin was finding so irksome. “This is indeed an honour. My brother’s letters spoke so highly of you.”
Vaelin’s confidence withered and drifted away with the wind. “Your brother was an overly generous man at times, sir.” He shook the boy’s hand, and offered a short bow to Princess Lyrna. “Highness.”
She inclined her head. “A pleasure to see you again, brother. Or do you prefer ‘my lord’ these days?”
He met her gaze, a mounting rage threatening to spill unwise words from his lips. “Whatever pleases you, Highness.”
She made a show of contemplation, stroking her chin, her nails were painted pale blue and adorned with inlaid jewels that glittered in the sun. “I think I’ll keep calling you ‘brother’. It seems more… seemly.”
There was a barely perceptible edge to her voice. He couldn’t tell if she was angry, still smarting over his rejection, or simply mocking a man she thought a fool for passing up the chance to share in the power she craved.
“A fine verse, sir,” he turned to Alucius, seeking escape. “One of the classics?”
“Hardly.” The boy seemed a little embarrassed and quickly put aside the small book he was holding. “Merely a trifle.”
“Oh don’t be so modest, Alucius,” the princess chided him. “Brother Vaelin, you are honoured to witness a reading by one of the Realm’s most promising poets. I’m sure it will be a proud boast in years to come.”
Alucius gave sheepish shrug. “Lyrna flatters me.” His gaze fell on the longsword in Vaelin’s hand, sorrow clouding his face in recognition. “Is that for me?”
“Your brother wanted you to have it.” Vaelin held the sword out to him. “He asked that you leave it sheathed.”
The boy took the sword after a moment’s hesitation, gripping the hilt tightly, his expression suddenly fierce. “He was always more forgiving than I. Those who killed him will pay. I vow it.”
Boy’s words,
Vaelin thought feeling very old.
Words from a story, or a poem.
“The man who killed your brother is dead, sir. There is no vengeance to seek.”
“The Cumbraelins sent their warriors into the Martishe did they not? Even now they plot against us. My father has heard word of it. The Cumbraelin Fief Lord sent the heretics who slew Linden.”
Word flies fast from the palace indeed.
“The matter is in the King’s hands. I’m sure he will steer the Realm on the correct course.”
“The course to war is the only course I will follow.” The boy’s sincerity was intense, tears gleaming in his eyes.
“Alucius,” Princess Lyrna laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, her tone soothing. “I know Linden would never have wanted your heart to be burdened with hatred. Listen to Brother Vaelin’s words; there is no vengeance to be had. Cherish Linden’s memory and leave his sword in its sheath, as he wished.”
Her concern sounded so genuine Vaelin almost forgot his anger, but the vivid image of Linden’s marble white face as he pressed the knife against his neck dispelled any regard. However, her words seemed to have a calming effect on the boy, the anger draining from his face, although his tears continued.
“I beg your forgiveness, my lord,” he stammered. “I must be alone now. I should… I should like to speak to you again, about my brother and your time with him.”
“You can find me at the House of the Sixth Order, sir. I would be glad to answer any questions you have.”
Alucius nodded, turned to press a brief kiss against the princess’s cheek and walked back to the house, still weeping.
“Poor Alucius,” the princess sighed. “He does feel things so, ever since we were children. You realise he intends to ask for a commission in your regiment?”
Vaelin turned to her, finding her smile gone, her flawless face serious and intent. “I had not.”
“There are rumours of war. He has visions of following you to the Cumbraelin capital where together you will visit justice upon the Fief Lord. It would please me greatly if you were to refuse him. He is just a boy, and even as a man I doubt he would ever be much of a soldier, just a pretty corpse.”
“There are no pretty corpses. If he asks I will refuse him.”
Her face softened, rosebud lips curving in a soft smile. “Thank you.”
“I couldn’t accept if I wanted to. My Aspect has decided all the officers in the regiment will be brothers of the Order.”
“I see.” Her smile became rueful, acknowledging his refusal to engage with her game of favours. “Will there be war do you think? With the Cumbraelins?”
“The King thinks not.”
“What do you think, brother?”
“I think we should trust the King’s judgement.” He bowed stiffly and turned to go.
“Recently I had the good fortune to meet a friend of yours,” she went on, making him pause. “Sister Sherin is it not? She runs a healing house for the Fifth Order in Warnsclave. I went to make a gift of alms on behalf my father. Sweet girl, though terribly dedicated. I mentioned that we had become friends and she asked to be remembered to you. Although, she seemed to think you may have forgotten her.”
Say nothing,
he told himself.
Tell her nothing. Knowledge is her weapon.
“Do you have no reply for her?” she pressed. “I could have the King’s Messenger carry it. I do so hate to see friendships end needlessly.”
Her smile was bright now, the same smile he remembered from their talk in her private garden, the smile that told of an unassailable confidence and knowledge far beyond her years. The smile that told him she thought she knew his mind.
“I’m glad fate has brought us together once more,” she continued when he didn’t answer. “I’ve been thinking recently, pondering a problem which may interest you.”
He said nothing, meeting her gaze and refusing to play whatever game she had in mind.
“Puzzles are a hobby of mine,” she went on, “I once solved a mathematical riddle which had confounded the Third Order for over a century. I never told anyone of course, it doesn’t do for a princess to outshine brilliant men.” Her voice had changed again, taking on a bitter edge.
“Your keenness of mind does you credit, Highness,” he said.
She inclined her head, apparently deaf to the emptiness of the compliment. “But what has puzzled me lately is an event in which you were closely involved; the Aspect massacre, although why it’s called that when only two of them died I can’t imagine.”
“Why should such an unpleasant event concern you, Highness?”
“It’s the mystery of course. The enigma. Why would the assassins attack the Aspects on that particular night, a night when novice brothers from the Sixth Order are present in three of the Order Houses? It seems a singularly poor strategy.”
Despite himself his interest was piqued.
She has something to share. Why? What advantage does she gain by this?
“And what conclusions have you drawn, Highness?”
“There’s an Alpiran game called
Keschet
, which means cunning in our language. It’s highly complex, twenty-five different pieces played on a board of one hundred squares. The Alpirans have a great love of strategy, in business and in war. Something I hope my father remembers in times to come.”
“Highness?”
She waved a hand. “No matter. Games of
Keschet
can last for days and wise men have been known to devote their whole lives to mastering its intricacies.”
“A task I’m sure you’ve already accomplished, Highness.”
She shrugged. “It wasn’t so hard, it’s all in the opening. There are only about two hundred variations, the most successful being the Liar’s Attack, a series of moves designed to appear essentially defensive but which in fact conceal an offensive sequence bringing victory in only ten moves, if done right. The success of the attack is dependent on fixing the opponent’s attention on a separate overt move in another region of the board. The key is in the narrow focus of the hidden offensive, it has but one objective, to remove the Scholar, not the most powerful piece on the board but crucial to a successful defence. The opponent, however, has been convinced that he’s facing a varied attack on a broad front.”