“Is there no hope?” Vaelin pleaded. “Nothing you can do?”

Makril barely glanced at him. “He’s had all the redflower we can give him. If we move him he dies. A healer from the Fifth Order could ease his passing but even they couldn’t halt it.”

Vaelin winced as a shout of pain came from the tent behind him.

“Here,” Makril held out his flask. “It’ll dull your hearing.”

“We can’t leave him to suffer like this.”

Makril looked up, meeting his eyes. The suspicion was still there, his instinctive knowledge of Vaelin’s guilt. After a moment he looked away and started to rise. “I’ll take care of it.”

“No.” Vaelin turned back to the tent. “No… it’s my duty.”

“The jugular. It’s the quickest way. I doubt he’ll even feel the cut.”

He nodded, walking back to the tent on numb legs. So the king has made me a murderer after all…

Al Hestian’s eyes were glazed and unfocused as Vaelin knelt beside him, only coming back to life when they caught the glimmer of the dagger’s blade. There was a moment of fear, then a sigh, whether of sorrow or relief Vaelin would never know. He met Vaelin’s eye, smiled and nodded. Vaelin held him, cradling his head in his arm, laying the blade against his neck.

Al Hestian spoke, forcing the words out through a fresh grimace of pain. “I’m… glad it was you… brother.”

Chapter 3

“And these letters were found on the body of this Black Arrow?”

The Aspect’s hands were splayed on the letters before him like two pale spiders, his long face intent as he stared up at Vaelin and Makril. Vaelin supposed they must look dreadful, grimy and worn from the twelve day trek back from the Martishe, but the Aspect seemed indifferent to their appearance. After listening to their report he demanded the letters, his eyes scanning them quickly.

“We believe the man may have been Black Arrow, Aspect,” Vaelin replied. “There is no way to know for sure.”

“Yes. Perhaps you shouldn’t be so quick with the killing blow next time, brother.”

“I was remiss. My apologies, Aspect.”

The Aspect dismissed the admission with a barely perceptible shake of his head. “You understand the import of these letters?”

“Sendahl read them to us,” Makril said.

“Did anyone outside the Order hear him?”

“We gave Al Hestian’s men a double rum ration that night. I doubt they could hear anything.”

“Good. Pass the word to your brothers: they are not to discuss this with anyone, including each other.” He gathered the letters together and placed them in a solid wooden chest on his desk, shutting it firmly and securing a heavy lock on the latch. “You must be tired, brothers. On behalf of the Order I thank you for your service in the Martishe. Brother Makril you are confirmed as a Brother Commander. You will reside with us here for the time being. Master Sollis is currently commanding a company on the southern shore, the local smugglers are becoming excessively violent in resisting the King’s excise men. You will take over his lessons. You still remember enough of the sword to teach it, I’m sure.”

“Of course, Aspect.”

“Brother Vaelin, report to the stables at the eighth hour on the morrow. You will accompany me to the palace.”

“Congratulations, brother,” Vaelin offered as they made their way towards the practice ground where Al Hestian’s regiment was encamped. There were no barracks available for them so the Aspect had granted permission to remain at the Order House. Vaelin suspected no provision had been made for them in the city because the King hadn’t expected any to return.

Makril paused, regarding him with silent scrutiny.

“A Commander and a Master,” Vaelin went on, discomfited by the tracker’s silence. “An impressive achievement.”

Makril stepped close to him, his nostrils flared, drawing the air in. Vaelin resisted the impulse to reach for his hunting knife.

“Never did like your scent, brother,” Markil said. “Something not quite natural about it. And now you stink of guilt. Why is that?” Without waiting for a reply he turned and walked off, a stocky figure in the gloom. He gave a brief, shrill whistle and his hound emerged from the shadows to pad alongside as he made his way to the keep.

The tower room he had shared with the others for so many years was now occupied by a fresh group of students so they had been obliged to camp with the reigment. He found his brothers clustered around the fire, regaling Frentis with tales of their time in the Martishe.

“…went straight through two men,” Dentos was saying. “A single arrow, I swear. Never seen nothing like it.”

Vaelin took a seat next to Frentis. Scratch, who had been curled up at his feet, rose and came to him, nuzzling his hand in search of petting. Vaelin scratched his ears, realising he had missed the slave-hound greatly but had no regrets about leaving him behind. The Martishe would have been a fine playground for him but Vaelin felt he had tasted enough human blood already.

“The Aspect thanks us for our service,” he told them, stretching his hands out to the fire. “The letters we found are not to be discussed.”

“What letters?” Frentis asked. Barkus threw a half-eaten chicken leg at him.

“Did he say where we’re going next?” Dentos asked, passing him a cup of wine.

Vaelin shook his head. “I’m to accompany him to the palace tomorrow.”

Nortah snorted and gulped a mouthful of wine. “You don’t need the Dark to see the future for us.” His words were loud and slurred, chin stained red with spilled drink. “On to Cumbrael!” He got to his feet, raising his cup to the air. “First the forest then the Fief. We’ll bring the Faith to them all, the Denier bastards. Whether they like it or not!”

“Nortah-” Caenis reached up to pull him down but Nortah shrugged him off.

“It’s not as if we’ve slaughtered enough Cumbraelins already, is it? Only killed ten of them myself in that bloody forest. How about you, brother?” He swayed towards Caenis. “Bet you can beat that, eh? At least twice as many, I’d say.” He swung towards Frentis. “Should’ve been there, m’boy. We bathed in more blood than your friend One Eye ever did.”

Frentis’s face darkened and Vaelin gripped his shoulder as he tensed. “Have another drink, brother,” he told Nortah. “It’ll help you sleep.”

“Sleep?” Nortah slumped back to the ground. “Haven’t done much of that recently.” He held up his cup for Caenis to pour more wine, staring morosely into the fire.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a while, Vaelin grateful for the distraction provided by one of the soldiers at a neighbouring fire. The man had found a mandolin somewhere, probably looted from a Cumbraelin corpse in the forest, and played it with considerable skill, the tune melodious but sombre, the whole camp falling quiet to listen. Soon the player had an audience clustered around him and began to sing a tune Vaelin recognised as the Warrior’s Lament:

“A warrior’s song is a lonely tune

Full of fire and gone too soon

Warriors sing of fallen friends

Lost battles and bloody ends…”

The men applauded loudly when he finished, calling for more. Vaelin made his way through the small crowd. The player was a thin faced man of about twenty years. Vaelin recognised him as one of the thirty chosen men who had taken part in their final battle in the forest, the stitched cut on his forehead testified that he had done some fighting. Vaelin struggled to remember his name but realised with shame that he hadn’t bothered to learn the names of any of the men they had trained. Perhaps, like the king, he hadn’t expected any to live.

“You play very well,” he said.

The man gave a nervous smile. The soldiers had never lost their fear of Vaelin and few made any effort to speak to him, most taking care to avoid catching his eye.

“I was apprenticed to a minstrel, brother,” the man said. His accent differed to that of his comrades, the words precisely spoken, the tone almost cultured.

“Then why are you a soldier?”

The man shrugged. “My master had a daughter.”

The gathered men laughed knowingly.

“I think he taught you well, in any case,” Vaelin said. “What’s your name?”

“Janril, brother. Janril Norin.”

Vaelin spied Sergeant Krelnik in the crowd. “Wine for these men, sergeant. Brother Frentis will take you to Master Grealin in the vaults. Tell him I’ll meet the expense, and make sure he gives you the good stuff.”

There was an appreciative murmur from the men. Vaelin fished in his purse and dropped a few silvers into Janril’s hand. “Keep playing, Janril Norin. Something lively. Something fit for a celebration.”

Janril frowned. “What are we celebrating, brother?”

Vaelin clapped him on the shoulder. “Being alive man!” He raised his cup, turning to the assembled men. “Let’s drink to being alive!”

The King convened his Council of Ministers in a large chamber with a polished marble floor and ornate ceiling decorated in gold leaf and intricately moulded plaster, the walls adorned with fine paintings and tapestries. Immaculately turned out soldiers of the Palace Guard stood to attention in a wide circle around the long rectangular table where the Council sat. King Janus himself was markedly different from the ink spattered old man with whom Vaelin had made his bargain, seated at the centre of the table, an ermine lined cloak about his shoulders and a band of gold on his brow. His ministers were seated on either side, ten men dressed in varying degrees of finery, all staring intently at Vaelin as he finished his report with Aspect Arlyn at his side. At a smaller table nearby two scribes sat writing down every word spoken. The King insisted on precise recording of every meeting and each council member had been required to state his name and appointed role before sitting down.