Blood Song (27 page)

“I think someone put a nail through their sword,” he groaned.

They put Nortah in bed and cleaned him up as best they could. Luckily his cuts didn’t seem serious enough to warrant stitches and they decided the best course of action was to bandage his head and leave him to sleep it off. Dentos was worse off, his nose seemingly broken again and he kept slipping in and out of consciousness. Vaelin decided he should go to the infirmary along with Barkus whose wound was beyond their skill to stitch. Dentos was put to bed by a harassed Master Henthal and Barkus allowed to go after his cut had been stitched and smeared with corr tree oil, a foul smelling but effective guard against infection. They had left him watching over Nortah to take their turn on the wall.

“Vanos Al Myrna,” Caenis said, “is not a man to be easily understood. But disloyalty is ever a difficult thing to fathom.”

“Disloyalty?”

“He was banished to the Northern Reaches twelve years ago. No one knows why for sure but it is said he questioned the King’s word. He was Battle Lord then and King Janus may be kindly and just but he could not tolerate disloyalty from one so high in his court.”

“And yet here he is.”

Caenis shrugged. “The King’s forgiveness is famed. And there have been rumours of a great battle in the north, beyond the forest and the plains. Al Myrna supposedly defeated an army of barbarians who came across the ice. I must confess I gave it little credence but perhaps he is here to report to the King on the victory.”

He was Battle Lord before my father,
Vaelin realised. He remembered now although he had been very young. His father came home and told his mother he would be Battle Lord. She had gone to her room and cried.

“And his daughter?” he asked, trying to dispel the memory.

“A Lonak foundling so they say. He came upon her lost in the forest. Apparently the Seordah allow him to travel there.”

“They must hold him in high esteem.”

Caenis sniffed. “The regard of savages means little, brother.”

“The Seordah with Al Myrna seemed to have little regard for our ways. Perhaps to him we’re the savages.”

“You give his words too much credence. The Order is of the Faith and the Faith cannot be judged by one such as him. Although, I confess I am curious as to why the Tower Lord should bring him here to gawk at us.”

“I don’t think that’s why he came. I suspect he had business with the Aspect.”

Caenis looked at him sharply. “Business? What could they possibly have to discuss?”

“You cannot be entirely deaf to word of the world outside these walls, Caenis. The Battle Lord has quit his post, the King’s Minister has been executed. Now the Tower Lord comes south. It must all mean something.”

“This was ever an eventful realm. It’s why our history is so rich in stories.”

Stories of war,
Vaelin thought.

“Perhaps,” Caenis went on, “Al Myrna had another reason for coming here, a personal reason.”

“Such as?”

“He said he and the Battle Lord had been comrades. Perhaps he wished to check on your progress.”

My father sent him here to see me?
Vaelin wondered.
Why? To check I’m still alive? See how tall I’ve grown? To count my scars?
He had to force down the familiar well of bitterness building in his chest.
Why hate a stranger? I have no father to hate.

Chapter 3

Only two boys were given their coins in the morning, both having been judged as displaying either cowardice or a chronic lack of skill during the battle. It seemed to Vaelin all the blood spilled and bones broken in the Test had hardly been worth the outcome, but the Order never questioned its rituals, they were of the Faith after all. Nortah recovered quickly, as did Dentos, although Barkus would have a deep scar on his back for the rest of his life.

As winter’s chill deepened their training became more specialised. Master Sollis’s sword scales acquired a daunting complexity and lessons with the pole-axe began to emphasise the discipline of close order drill. They were taught to march and manoeuvre in companies, learning the many commands that formed a group of individuals into a disciplined battle line. It was a difficult skill to learn and many boys earned the cane for failing to know right from left or continually falling out of step. It took several months of hard training before they truly felt they knew what they were doing and a couple more before the masters appeared satisfied with their efforts. All through this they had to keep up their riding practice, most of which had to be done in the evening during the shortening hours of dusk. They had found their own racing course, a four mile trail along the river bank and back around the outer wall which took in enough rough ground and obstacles to meet Master Rensial’s exacting standards. It was during one of their evening races that Vaelin met the little girl.

He had misjudged a jump over a fallen birch trunk and Spit, with characteristic bad grace, had reared, dumping him from the saddle to connect painfully with the frosted earth. He heard the others laughing as they spurred on ahead.

“You bloody nag!” Vaelin raged, climbing to his feet and rubbing at a bruised backside. “You’re fit for nothing but the tallow mill.”

Spit bared his teeth in spite and dragged a hoof along the ground before trotting off to chew ineffectually at some bushes. In one of his more coherent moments Master Rensial had cautioned them against ascribing human feelings to an animal that had a brain no larger than a crab apple. “Horses feel only for other horses,” he told them. “Their cares and wants are not ours to know, no more than they can know a man’s thoughts.” Watching Spit carefully show him his backside Vaelin thought if that was true then his horse had an uncanny ability to project the human quality of indifference.

“Your horse doesn’t like you much.”

His eyes found her quickly, hands involuntarily moving to his weapons. She was about ten years old, wrapped in furs against the cold, her pale face poking out to peer at him with unabashed curiosity. She had emerged from behind a broad oak, mitten clad hands clasping a small bunch of pale yellow flowers he recognised as winterblooms. They grew well in the surrounding woods and sometimes people from the city came to pick them. He didn’t understand why since Master Hutril said they were no use as either medicine or food.

“I think he’d rather be back on the plains,” Vaelin replied, moving to the fallen birch trunk and sitting down to adjust his sword belt.

To his surprise the little girl came and sat next to him. “My name’s Alornis,” she said. “Your name is Vaelin Al Sorna.”

“That it is.” He was growing accustomed to recognition since the Summertide Fair, drawing stares and pointed fingers whenever he ventured close to the city.

“Mumma said I shouldn’t talk to you,” Alornis went on.

“Really? Why’s that?”

“I don’t know. I think Dadda wouldn’t like it.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t.”

“Oh I don’t always do what I’m told. I’m a bad girl. I don’t do things girls should.”

Vaelin found himself smiling. “What things are these?”

“I don’t sew and I don’t like dolls and I make things I’m not supposed to make and I draw pictures I’m not supposed to draw and I do cleverer things than boys and make them feel stupid.”

Vaelin was about to laugh but saw how serious her face was. She seemed to be studying him, her eyes roaming his face. It should have been uncomfortable but he found it oddly endearing. “Winterblooms,” he said, nodding at her flowers. “Are you supposed to pick those?”

“Oh, yes. I’m going to draw them and write down what they are. I have a big book of flowers I’ve drawn. Dadda taught me their names. He knows lots about flowers and plants. Do you know about flowers and plants?”

“A little. I know which ones are poison, which are useful for healing or eating.”

She frowned at the flowers in her mittens. “Can you eat these?”

He shook his head. “No, nor heal with them. They’re not much good for anything really.”

“They’re part of nature’s beauty,” she told him, a small line appearing in her smooth brow. “That makes them good for something.”

He laughed this time, he couldn’t help it. “True enough.” He glanced around for sign of the girl’s parents. “You aren’t here alone?”

“Mumma’s in the woods. I hid behind that oak so I could see you ride past. It was very funny when you fell off.”

Vaelin looked over at Spit who artfully swung his head in the other direction. “My horse thought so too.”

“What’s his name?”

“Spit.”

“That’s ugly.”

“So is he, but I have a dog that’s uglier.”

“I’ve heard about your dog. It’s as big as a horse and you tamed it after fighting it for a day and a night during the Test of the Wild. I’ve heard other stories too. I write them down but I have to hide the book from Mumma and Dadda. I heard you defeated ten men on your own and have already been chosen as the next Aspect of the Sixth Order.”

Ten men?
he wondered.
Last I heard it was seven. By my thirtieth year it’ll be a hundred.
“It was four,” he told her, “and I wasn’t on my own. And the next Aspect cannot be chosen until the death or resignation of the current Aspect. And my dog isn’t as big as a horse, nor did I fight him for a day and a night. If I fought him for five minutes I’d lose.”

“Oh.” She seemed a little crestfallen. “I’ll have to change my book.”

“Sorry.”

She gave a small shrug. “When I was little Mumma said you were going to come live with us and be my brother but you never did. Dadda was very sad.”

The wave of confusion that swept through him was sickening. For a moment the world seemed to move around him, the ground swaying, threatening to tip him over. “What?”

“ALORNIS!” A woman was hurrying towards them from the woods, a handsome woman with curly black hair and a plain woollen cloak. “Alornis come here!”

The girl gave a small pout of annoyance. “She’ll take me away now.”

“I’m sorry, brother,” the woman said breathlessly as she approached, catching hold of the girl's hand and pulling her close. Despite the woman’s evident agitation Vaelin noted her gentleness with the girl, both arms closing over her protectively. “My daughter is ever curious. I hope she didn’t bother you overly.”

“Her name is Alornis?” Vaelin asked her, his confusion giving way to an icy numbness.

The woman’s arms tightened around the girl. “Yes.”

“And your name, lady?”

“Hilla.” She forced a smile. “Hilla Justil.”

It meant nothing to him.
I do not know this woman.
He saw something in her expression, something besides the concern for her daughter.
Recognition. She knows my face.
He switched his gaze to the little girl, searching her face carefully.
Pretty, like her mother, same jaw, same nose…different eyes. Dark eyes.
Realisation dawned with the force of an icy gale, dispelling the numbness, replacing it with something cold and hard. “How many years do you have, Alornis?”

“Ten and eight months,” she replied promptly.

“Nearly eleven then. I was eleven when my father brought me here.” He noticed her hands were empty and saw she had dropped her flowers. “I always wondered why he did that.” He reached down to gather the winterblooms, being careful not to break the stems, and went over to crouch in front of Alornis. “Don’t forget these.” He smiled at her and she smiled back. He tried to fix the image of her face in his head.

“Brother…” Hilla began.

“You shouldn’t linger here.” He straightened and went over to Spit, grasping his reins tight. The horse plainly read his mood because he allowed himself to be mounted without demur. “These woods can be treacherous in winter. You should seek flowers elsewhere in future.”

He watched Hilla clutching her daughter and fighting to master her fear. Finally she said, “Thank you, brother. We shall.”

He allowed himself a final glance at Alornis before spurring Spit into a gallop. This time he vaulted the log without the slightest hesitation and they thundered into the woods leaving the girl and her mother behind.

I always wondered why he did that… Now I know.

The months passed, winter’s frost became spring’s thaw and Vaelin spoke no more than he had to. He practised, he watched the birth of Scratch’s pups, he listened to Frentis’s joyous tales of life in the Order, he rode his bad tempered horse and he said almost nothing. Always it was there, the coldness, the numb emptiness left by his meeting with Alornis. Her face lingered in his mind, the shape of it, the darkness of her eyes.
Ten and eight months…
His mother had died little under five years ago.
Ten and eight months.

Caenis tried to talk to him, seeking to draw him out with one of his stories, the tale of the Battle of the Urlish Forest where the armies of Renfael and Asrael met in bloody conflict for a day and a night. It was before the Realm was made, when Janus was a Lord and not a King, when the four Fiefs of the Realm were split and fought each other like cats in a sack. But Janus united them, with the wisdom of his word and the keenness of his blade, and the power of his Faith. It was this that brought the Sixth Order into the battle, the vision of a Realm ruled by a King that put the Faith before all things. It was the charge of the Sixth Order that broke the Renfaelin line and won the day. Vaelin listened to it all without comment. He had heard it before.

“…and when they brought the Renfaelin Lord Theros before the King, wounded and chained, he spat defiance and demanded death rather than kneel before an upstart whelp. King Janus surprised all by laughing. ‘I do not require you to kneel, brother,’ he said. ‘Nor do I require you to die. Scant use you would be to this Realm dead.’ At this Lord Theros replied...”

“‘Your Realm is a madman’s dream,’” Vaelin cut in. “And the King laughed again and they spent a day and a night arguing until argument became discussion and finally Lord Theros saw the wisdom of the King’s course. Ever since he has been the King’s most loyal vassal.”

Caenis’s face fell. “I’ve told you this before.”