Blood Song

Nortah paused next to a heavily built young man who, unlike the others, paid them no attention at all. He sat surrounded by piles of rushes, his hands moving deftly as he worked them together, interlacing the long stems with unconscious skill. A number of completed conical baskets lay nearby, each one seemingly identical.

“This is Weaver,” Nortah told Vaelin. “You have him to thank for your unbroken ribs.”

“You are a healer, sir?” Vaelin asked the young man.

Weaver stared up at Vaelin with blank eyes and a vague smile on his broad face. After a moment he blinked, as if recognising Vaelin for the first time. “All broken up inside,” he said in a rapid tumble of words Vaelin almost didn’t catch. “Bones and veins and muscles and organs. Needed fixing. Long time fixing.”

“You fixed me?” Vaelin asked.

“Fixed,” Weaver repeated. He blinked again and returned to his task, his fingers resuming their expert work without further pause. He didn’t look up as Nortah drew Vaelin away.

“He’s slow of mind?” Vaelin asked.

“No-one’s quite sure. He sits weaving his baskets all day, rarely speaks. The only time he’s not weaving is when he’s healing.”

“How can he have learned the healing arts?”

Nortah paused and rolled up the shirt sleeve on his left arm. There was a thin scar running along the forearm, faded and barely noticeable. “When I cut my way out of the Battle Lord’s tent one of his Crows caught me with a lance. I stitched it best I could but I’m no healer. By the time I made it into the mountains the gangrene had set in, the flesh around the cut was black and stinking. When I found myself among these people Weaver put down his rushes, came over and put his hands on my arm. It felt… warm, almost like burning. When he took his hands away the wound looked like this.”

Vaelin looked back at Weaver sitting surrounded by his rushes and baskets and felt the blood-song murmur again. “The Dark,” he said. Glancing around at the wary faces of the others the meaning of the song’s new tone became clear. “They all have it.”

Nortah leaned close, speaking softly. “So do you, brother. How else could you find me?” He grinned at the shock on Vaelin’s face. “You hid it so well, all these years. None of us had any idea. But you couldn’t hide it from her. She told me what you did for her, for which I thank you most humbly. After all, we’d never have met if you hadn’t. Come on, she’s waiting.”

They found Sella encamped in a large plaza in the centre of the city, smoke rising from a campfire above which a steaming pot of stew was suspended. She wasn’t alone, Spit snorting happily as she ran a hand over his flanks. His snorts turned to a familiar whinny of irritation as Vaelin approached, as if he resented the intrusion.

Sella’s embrace was warm and her smile wide, although he noted she wore gloves and avoided contact with his skin. Her hands moved with the clean fluency he remembered. You’re taller, she said.

“And you.” He nodded at Spit, now nuzzling a gorse bush with studied indifference to his master. “He likes you. Usually he hates everyone on sight.”

Not hate, her hands said. Anger. His memory is long for a horse. He remembers the plains where he grew up. Endless grass, boundless skies. Hungers to return.

She paused to press a kiss to Nortah’s lips as he pulled her close with easy familiarity, provoking a moment of unease. So, she has touched him.

Spit gave an abrupt whinny of alarm when Snowdance came bounding into view and would have fled if Sella hadn’t calmed him with a hand-stroke to his neck. She turned her gaze to the war-cat, halting her in mid-stride. Vaelin felt a whisper of the blood-song as Sella’s gaze remained locked on the cat. After the briefest pause Snowdance blinked, shaking her head in confusion, then bounded off in another direction, quickly disappearing into the ruins.

Wants to play with your horse, Sella said. She’ll stay away from him now. She moved to the campfire, lifting the stew pot from its tripod.

“Will you eat with us, brother?” Nortah asked.

Vaelin realised he was fiercely hungry. “Gladly.”

The stew was goat meat seasoned with thyme and sage which apparently grew in abundance amidst the ruins. Vaelin wolfed down a bowl with his customary lack of manners, noting Nortah’s wince of apology in Sella’s direction. She just smiled and shook her head.

“How’s Dentos?” Nortah asked.

“Bruised, you nearly broke his cheekbone.”

“He damn near broke mine. The Crows didn’t get him then?”

“He made it safely back to the High Keep.”

“I’m glad. He and the others, were they angry?”

“No they were worried. I was angry.”

Nortah’s smile was tight, almost wary. “Did you come here to kill me, brother?”

Vaelin met his gaze squarely. “I knew you wouldn’t let me take you back.”

“You were right. And now?”

Vaelin pointed to the medallion chain around Nortah’s neck and gestured for him to hand it over. Nortah hesitated briefly then took out the small metal icon of the blind warrior, hooking the chain over his head and tossing it into Vaelin’s palm.

“Now there is no need,” Vaelin said, putting the chain around his own neck. “Since you unwisely fled into Lonak territory weakened by your wound. Having fought off several Lonak attacks you sadly fell victim to an unnamed but famously savage beast known to dwell near the fallen city.” He touched a hand to the medallion. “I could scarcely recognise your remains but for this.”

Will they believe you? Sella asked.

Vaelin shrugged. “They believed what I told them about you. Besides, it’s the King’s belief that matters, and I suspect he will choose to take my word without further investigation.”

“So you do have the King’s ear,” Nortah mused. “We always suspected. Did the Battle Lord live?”

“So it seems. The Realm Guard have returned to Asrael and Lord Mustor is now installed as Fief Lord in the Cumbraelin capital.”

“And the Cumbraelin prisoners?”

Vaelin hesitated. He had heard the story from Brother Artin and wasn’t sure how Nortah would react to the news, but decided he deserved to hear the truth. “The Battle Lord is popular with the Crows, as you know. After what you did to him they rioted, the prisoners were slaughtered to a man.”

Nortah’s face sagged with sorrow. “All for nothing then.”

Sella reached over to clasp his hand briefly. Not for nothing, her hands told him. You found me.

Nortah forced a smile and got to his feet. “I should hunt.” He planted a kiss on her cheek and shouldering his bow and quiver. “We’re running short of meat, and I suspect you both have much to discuss.”

Vaelin watched him walk off towards the northern edge of the city. After a moment Snowdance emerged to pad alongside him.

I know what you’re thinking, Sella said when he turned back.

“You touched him,” Vaelin replied.

Not how you think, her hands insisted. You have something of mine.

Vaelin nodded, fishing inside his collar for the silk scarf she had given him. He untied it from his neck and handed it to her, feeling oddly reluctant. It had been his talisman for so long its absence felt strange, unnerving.

Sella smiled sadly as she laid the scarf out on her knees, her fingers tracing over the delicate gold thread pattern. Mother wore this all her life, she signed. When she passed it came to me. Its message is precious to those who believe as we do. See. She pointed at the sigil woven into the silk, a crescent encircled by a ring of stars. The moon, the sign of calm reflection, from where reason and balance are derived. Here. She pointed to a golden circle ringed with flame. The sun, source of passion, love, anger. Her finger traced to the tree in the centre of the scarf. We exist here, between the two. Grown from the earth, warmed by the sun, cooled by the moonlit night. Your brother’s heart had been pulled too far into the realm of the sun, fired with anger and regret. Now he has cooled and he looks to the moon for guidance.

“By his own choice or by your touch?”

Her smile became shy. I feared him when Snowdance called to me with news of his coming. We found him fallen from his horse, raving with fever from his wound. The others wanted to kill him but I wouldn’t let them. I knew what he was, a man with his skills may have been useful to us, and so I touched him. She paused, looking down at her gloved hands. Nothing happened. For the first time, no rush of power, no sense of control. A slow flush crept up her cheeks. I can touch him.

Something for which I’m sure he’s very grateful, Vaelin thought fighting a pang of envy. “He does not do your bidding? He is not…” he fumbled for the right words, “enslaved?”

Mother told me it would be this way. One day I would meet someone who would be immune to my touch, and we would be bound together. It is always this way for those with our gift. Your brother is as free as he ever was. Her smile faded, sympathy colouring her eyes. More free than you, I think.

Vaelin looked away. “He told me what Weaver did for him,” he said, desiring a change of subject. “All the people here are touched by the Dark are they not?”