Blood Song by Anthony Ryan
“When I first came here,” Erlin said, “the river stank so bad you couldn’t go near it. All the waste of this city would flow into it before they built the sewers. Now it’s so clean you can drink from it.”
“I saw you,” Vaelin said. “At the Summertide Fair, four years ago. You were watching a puppet show.”
“Yes. I had business there.” It was clear from his tone he wasn’t about to elaborate on what type of business.
“You risk much coming here. It’s likely Brother Makril is still out hunting you somewhere. He’s not a man to give up a hunt.”
“True enough, he caught me last winter.”
“Then how…?”
“It’s a very long tale. In short he cornered me on a mountainside in Renfael. We fought, I lost, he let me go.”
“He let you go?”
“Yes. I was fairly surprised myself.”
“Did he say why?”
“He didn’t say much of anything at all. Left me tied up through the night whilst he sat by the fire and drank himself unconscious. After a while I passed out from the beating he’d given me. When I woke in the morning my bonds were untied and he was gone.”
Vaelin remembered the tears shining in Makril’s eyes. Maybe he was a better man than I judged him to be.
“I saw you fight today,” Erlin told him.
Vaelin felt the ache at the base of his skull deepen. “You must be rich to have afforded a ticket.”
“Hardly. There’s a way into the Circle few know of, a passage under the walls that affords a good view of the arena.”
Silence stretched between them. Vaelin had no wish to discuss his test and was increasingly preoccupied with the suspicion that he was about to throw up again. “You said you had something to tell me,” he said, mainly in hope that further conversation would distract him from the burgeoning nausea in his gut.
“One of the men you killed, he had a wife.”
“I know. He told me.” He glanced at Erlin, noting the intense scrutiny in his eyes. “You knew him?”
“Not well. My acquaintance was with his wife. She has assisted me in the past. I count her as a friend.”
“She’s a Denier?”
“You would call her that. She calls herself Quester.”
“And her husband was also part of this…belief?”
“Oh no. His name was Urlian Jurahl. Once he had been called Brother Urlian. He was like you, a brother of the Sixth Order, but he gave it up to be with Illiah, his wife.”
Little wonder he fought so well. “I took him for a soldier.”
“He took the trade of a boat builder after leaving the Order, became highly regarded, ran his own yard building barges, the finest on the river some say.”
Vaelin shook his head in sorrow. I have served the Faith by killing an innocent builder of boats. “What was he doing in the arena? I know he wasn’t a murderer.”
“It happened during the riots. Some locals got wind of Illiah’s beliefs, quite how I don’t know, mayhap her son spoke of it when at play, children can be so trusting. They came for her, ten men with a rope. Urlian killed two and wounded three more, the rest ran off, but they came back with the City Guard. Urlian was overpowered and taken to the Blackhold, his wife too.”
“Their son?”
“He hid at his father’s bidding as the fight raged. He’s safe now. With friends of mine.”
“If Urlian was defending his wife, then it wasn’t murder. The magistrate would have seen that surely.”
“Surely. But the magistrate had some wealthy friends with an eye for an opportunity. Did you know the odds that you would survive your test were hardly worth a bet? The odds against were long indeed. With Urlian in the arena, it would be worth risking some gold on the long chance. They offered him a proposition, confess his crime and be chosen for the test, an easy thing to arrange as your masters would be quick to spot his skill. Once he had killed you he and his wife would be free.”
Vaelin realised he had sobered completely, the nausea fled in the face of the cold, implacable compulsion. “His wife is still in the Blackhold?”
“She is. By now she will have heard of her husband’s fate. I fear what her grief will make her do.”
“This magistrate and his wealthy friends, you have their names?”
“What would you do if I gave them to you?”
Vaelin fixed him with a cold stare. “Kill them all. That is your intention, isn’t it? To set me on this course for vengeance. Well, you’ll get it. Just give me the names.”
“You misunderstand me, Vaelin. I have no wish for vengeance. In any case you couldn’t kill them all. Wealthy men from noble families have many protectors, many guards. You might kill one, but not all. And Illiah would still be waiting her fate in the Blackhold once you have been cut down.”
“Then why tell me this when I can do nothing to set it right?”
“You can speak for her. Your word will carry much weight. If you went to your Aspect and explained…”
“She’s a Denier. They won’t help her unless she renounces her heresy.”
“She won’t do that. Her soul is bound to her beliefs more closely than you could imagine. I doubt she could renounce them even if she wished to. I know your Aspect to be a compassionate man, Vaelin, he will speak for her.”
“Even if he does, the Blackhold is no longer guarded by the Sixth Order since the last Conclave. It falls under the control of the Fourth. I have met Aspect Tendris and he will not help an unrepentant Denier.” Vaelin turned back to the river, frustration raging in his chest, Urlian’s pale face asking for his wife over and over again in his head.
“So there’s nothing you can do?” Erlin asked. He sounded resigned and Vaelin knew his visit had been a desperate act, undertaken at considerable risk.
“You put great trust in me coming here,” Vaelin said. “Thank you.”
“I’ve lived long enough to judge a man’s heart.” He stepped back from the river, offering Vaelin his hand. “I’m sorry to have burdened you with this. I’ll leave you in peace now.”
“As I grow older I’m learning that the truth is never a burden. It’s a gift.” Vaelin shook his hand. “Tell me the names.”
“I won’t set you on a path to your own death.”
“You won’t. Trust me. I’ve thought of something I can do.”
CHAPTER TEN
He chose the gate on the eastern wall, assuming it would be the least busy. Even given the lateness of the hour the main palace gate would be too well guarded, too many mouths to speak of how Vaelin Al Sorna had appeared demanding an audience with the King.
“Piss off, boy,” the sergeant at the gate told him, not bothering to emerge from the shelter of the guardhouse. “Go sleep it off.”
Vaelin realised he must smell like an alehouse. “My name is Brother Vaelin Al Sorna of the Sixth Order,” he said, forcing authority into his voice as if he had every right to be here. “I request an audience with King Janus.”
“Faith!” The sergeant sighed in exasperation. He came out to fix Vaelin with a fierce glare. “You know a man could find himself flogged for giving a false name to an officer of the Royal Guard?”
A younger guardsman appeared behind the sergeant, staring at Vaelin with a disconcertingly awed expression. “Uh, Sarge…”
“But it’s late, and I’m in a good mood.” The sergeant was advancing on Vaelin with balled fists, his grizzled face tensed with impending violence. “So it’ll just be a beating before I send you on your way.”
“Sarge!” the younger man said urgently, catching hold of his arm. “It’s him.”
The sergeant’s gaze swung to the younger man then back to Vaelin, looking him up and down. “You sure?”
“Was on duty at the Circle this morning wasn’t I? It’s really him.”
The sergeant’s fists uncurled but he didn’t appear any happier. “What’s your business with the King?”
“For him alone. He’ll see me if he’s told
The sergeant thought it over. His scars told of a lifetime of hard service and Vaelin realised he must resent any intrusion into what was no doubt a comfortable billet in which to await his pension. “My compliments and apologies to the captain,” the sergeant told the younger guardsman. “Wake him and tell him about our visitor.”
They stood regarding each other in wary silence after the guardsman had scampered off, hastily unlocking a small door set into the huge oak-wood gate and disappearing inside.
“Heard you killed five Denier assassins the night of the Aspect massacre,” the sergeant grunted eventually.
“It was fifty.”
It seemed an age before the door reopened and the young guardsman emerged followed by a trim young man, impeccably dressed in the uniform of a captain in the King’s Horse Guard. He gave Vaelin a brief look of appraisal before offering his hand. “Brother Vaelin,” he said in a slight Renfaelin accent. “Captain Nirka Smolen, at your service.”
“Apologies for waking you, Captain,” Vaelin said, slightly distracted by the neatness of the young man’s attire. Everything from the shine of his boots to the precise trim of his moustache spoke of a remarkable attention to detail. He certainly didn’t appear to be a man just woken from his bed.
“Not at all.” Captain Smolen gestured at the open door. “Shall we?”
Vaelin’s boyhood memories of gleaming opulence were not matched by the interior of the eastern wing of the palace. After crossing a small courtyard, he was led into a warren of corridors crammed with a variety of dust-covered chests and cloth-wrapped paintings.
“This wing is used mostly for storage,” Captain Smolen explained, seeing his bemused expression. “The King receives many gifts.”
He followed the captain through a series of corridors and chambers until they came to a large room with a chequered floor and several grand paintings on the wall. He found his attention immediately drawn to the paintings, each was at least seven feet across and depicted a battle. The setting changed with each painting but the same figure was at the centre of every one: a handsome, flame-haired man astride a white charger, sword held high above his head. King Janus. Though Vaelin’s memory of the King was dim, he didn’t remember his jaw being quite so square or his shoulders quite so broad.
“The six battles that united the Realm,” Captain Smolen said. “Painted by Master Benril Lenial. It took him over three years.”
Vaelin remembered Master Benril’s drawings in Aspect Elera’s rooms, the fine detail with which each was rendered, the way the exposed viscera seemed to come out of the parchment. He saw none of the same clarity now. The colours were bright but not vibrant, the battling warriors clearly depicted but stilted somehow, not as if they were fighting at all, simply standing in a pose.
“Not his best, is it?” Captain Smolen commented. “He was commanded to it, you see. I suspect he had little love for his subject. Have you ever seen his fresco in the Great Library commemorating the victims of the Red Hand? It’s quite breath-taking.”
“I’ve never seen the Great Library,” Vaelin replied, thinking Captain Smolen would probably find much in common with Caenis.
“You should, it’s a credit to the Realm. I’ll need your weapons.”
Vaelin unclipped his cloak with the four throwing knives secured within its folds, unbuckled his sword, unhooked his hunting knife from his belt and removed the narrow-bladed dagger from his left boot.
“Nice.” Captain Smolen admired the dagger. “Alpiran?”
“I don’t know, I took it from a dead man.”
“These will be waiting for you here.” Smolen laid his weapons out on a nearby table. “No-one will touch them.” With that he moved to a bare patch of wall and pushed, a section of the wall swinging inwards revealing a dark stairwell. “Follow the stairs to the top.”
“He’s in there?” Vaelin asked. He had expected to be led to a throne room or audience chamber.
“He is indeed. Best not keep him waiting.”
Vaelin nodded his thanks and entered the stairwell. Oil lamps set into the wall cast a dim light on the steps, the gloom deepening when Smolen closed the door behind him. As instructed he climbed the stairs, the fall of his boots on the stone steps loud in the confined space. The door at the top was slightly ajar, outlined in bright lamplight from the room beyond. It creaked loudly when Vaelin pushed it open but the man seated at the desk before him didn’t look up. He sat crouched over a roll of parchment, his quill scratching over it, leaving a spidery script in its wake. The man was old, in his sixties, but still broad in the shoulder. His long hair hung over his face; once red, it was now grey but still had a faint tinge of copper. He wore a plain shirt of white linen, the sleeves stained with ink, his only adornment a gold signet ring on the third finger of his right hand, a signet ring bearing the symbol of a rearing horse.
“Highness—” Vaelin began, sinking to one knee.
The King raised his left hand, motioning for him to rise then pointing at a nearby chair. His quill didn’t stop on the parchment. Vaelin moved to the chair, finding it piled high with books and scrolls. He hesitated then carefully gathered them together and placed them on the floor before sitting down.
He waited.
The only sound in the room came from the scratch of the King’s quill. Vaelin wondered if he should speak again but something told him it was best to keep silent. Instead he surveyed the room. He had thought Aspect Elera’s room to have been the most book-filled space he had ever seen but the King’s room put it to shame. They lined the walls in great stacks rising nearly to the ceiling. In between the stacks were boxes of scrolls, some flaked and withered with age. The only decoration in the room was a large map of the Realm above the fireplace, its surface partly covered with short notations in a spidery script. Oddly some of the notations were written in red ink and others black. Down one edge of the map was a list of some kind, each item had been written in black but crossed through in red. It was a long list.
“You have your father’s face but your mother’s way of looking at things.”
Vaelin’s gaze snapped back to the King. He had laid his quill aside and reclined in his chair. His green eyes were bright and shrewd in his craggy, weathered face. Vaelin found he couldn’t stop his eyes straying to the livid red scars on the King’s neck, the legacy of his childhood brush with the Red Hand.
“Highness?” he stammered.
“Your father was clever in the ways of war but in most other things I have to say he was as dumb as a rock. Your mother on the other hand was clever in almost everything. You had her look just now, when you were looking at my map.”
“I’m sure she would have been gratified to know you held such a high opinion of her, Highness.”
The King raised an eyebrow. “Don’t flatter me, boy. I have servants aplenty for that. Besides, you’re no good at it. In that, at least, you are like your father.”
Vaelin felt himself flush and bit back an apology. He’s right, I’m no courtier. “Forgive my intrusion, Highness. I have come to ask for your help.”
“Most people who come before me do. Although, usually with obscenely expensive gifts and several hours’ worth of grovelling. Will you grovel for me, young brother?” The King’s mouth had curved in a small, humourless smile.
“No.” Vaelin found his trepidation was quickly disappearing in the face of a cold anger. “No, Highness. I will not.”
“And yet you come here at this forsaken hour and demand favours.”
“I demand nothing.”
“But you do want something. What is it, I wonder? Money? I doubt it. It meant little to your parents, I daresay it means little to you. Help with a marriage proposal perhaps? Got your eye on some wench but her father doesn’t want a penniless Order boy for a son-in-law?” The King angled his
“Justice,” Vaelin said. “Justice for a murdered man, justice for his family.”
“Murdered, eh? By whom?”
“By me, Highness. Today I killed a man in the Test of the Sword. He was innocent, a victim of a false conviction brought simply to make him face me in the test.”
The humour faded from the King’s face, replaced with something much more serious but otherwise unreadable. “Tell me.”
Vaelin told him all of it, Urlian’s arrest, his wife’s imprisonment in the Blackhold, the names of those responsible: Jentil Al Hilsa, the magistrate who had condemned Urlian, and Mandril Al Unsa and Haris Estian, the two wealthy men who had sought to profit from his death.
“And how do you come by this intelligence?” the King asked when he had finished.
“A man came to me tonight, a man I trust.” Vaelin paused, gathering his will for the risk he knew he had to take. “A man who knows much of the troubles besetting Deniers in the Realm.”
“Ah. For a member of an Order, you choose unusual friends.”
“The Faith teaches us that a man’s mind should be open to truth, wherever he finds it.”
“It seems you have your mother’s way with words as well.” The King pulled a fresh piece of parchment from a stack on his desk, dipped his quill in a bottle of black ink and wrote a short passage. He then wiped the quill on his shirtsleeve, dipped it in a pot of red ink and wrote a list below the black text. He completed the document with an elaborate signature, then took a candle and a block of sealing wax, touching the flame to the wax to melt a droplet onto the bottom of the parchment. He blew softly on the wax for a moment then pressed his signet ring into it.
“Every time I sign my name to one of these,” he said putting his quill aside, “I have to amend my map.” Vaelin turned back to the chart on the wall, looking again at the list, black words crossed through with red. Names, he realised. Names of men he’s killed. Nortah’s father must be there somewhere.