“The Emperor’s hospitality was generous, but lonely.”

“I’m sure.” Malcius reclined in his throne. “You know why I took your father’s estate, I presume?”

“You needed to ensure my loyalty.”

“I did. I see now it wasn’t necessary. But I had to be sure. You have no notion of the plots that surround my family. Every day word comes of a new group of conspirators, hatching murderous schemes in darkened rooms.”

“The Realm was always rich in wild rumour, Highness.”

“Rumour? If only it was just that. Two months ago they found a fellow in the palace grounds with a poisoned blade and the Catechism of the Faith tattooed on his back and chest, every word of it. I gave him a quick death, which is more than my father would have done, eh?”

Janus would have tortured him for a month, if he was feeling generous, two if he wasn’t. “Indeed, Highness. But one madman doesn’t make a plot.”

“There are others, be assured of that. And I must face them on my own, Aspect Arlyn wants no part of it. Since the war your former Order has regained much of its independence.”

“Even in your father’s day Aspect Arlyn was keen to draw a distinction between the Crown and the Faith.”

“The Faith.” The King’s voice was soft and faintly bitter. “When trouble brews in this Realm like as not you’ll find the Faith stirring the pot. Ardents and Tolerants at each other’s throats, Aspect Tendris and his ridiculous attempts to turn his bureaucrats into warriors. It’s supposed to unite us, instead it threatens to tear itself apart and this Realm with it.” His eyes fixed on Vaelin again. “And each side will wish to enlist your support.”

“Then each side will be disappointed.”

The King blinked, straightening in surprise. “I know you have left the Order behind, but the Faith too? What forced you to this? Did the Emperor make you worship the Alpiran gods?”

Vaelin suppressed a laugh. “Merely the hearing of a truth, Highness. The Faith was not tortured from me, nor do I look to any god for comfort.”

“It seems you are more of a danger to the harmony of the Realm than I realised.”

“I am a danger to no-one, provided they offer no harm to me or mine.”

Malcius sighed again then smiled. “Lyrna did always like you for your . . . complexity.”

Lyrna . . . It was strange, but it only occurred to him now that the princess had been absent from the court today. “She is at the fair, Highness?”

“No, gone north to conclude a treaty with the Lonak. If you can believe such a thing.”

Lyrna treating with the Lonak. The thought of it was absurd and appalling in equal measure. “You offered them peace?”

“Actually the offer came from their High Priestess. But she would only talk to Lyrna. A Lonak tradition apparently. Only the word of a woman can be trusted by the High Priestess, men are too easily corrupted.” He grimaced at the doubt on Vaelin’s face. “I had to take the chance. We’ve lost enough blood and treasure fighting the wolfmen, don’t you think?”

“Fighting us is what they live for.”

“Well, perhaps they want to start living for something else. As do I. This land needs to be reborn, Vaelin. Remade into something better. United once more, truly united, not forever riven by our borders and our faiths. The Edict of Toleration was but the first step. Reshaping our towns and cities is the next. Improving the fabric of the Realm will improve the souls of its subjects. I can do what my father never did despite all his wars and his scheming. I can bring peace, a lasting peace that will make this land great again. But I need your help.”

And so to the price. “You have my loyalty, Highness. However, I would be more secure in my service if I knew my sister was given her due.”

The King waved a hand. “Done, I’ll have the papers signed today. You can have all that your father owned. But you cannot remain here, not in Asrael.”

“In truth I had intended to ask your leave to depart the Realm, once my father’s estate is restored.”

The King frowned. “Depart? To where?”

“You recall Brother Frentis, I’m sure. I believe he still lives. I intend to find him.”

“Brother Frentis.” The King shook his head, voice heavy with sorrow. “He died at Untesh, Vaelin. They all did. Every man under my command.”

He was on a ship, bound somehow, his scars were burning . . . “Did you see it, Highness? Did you see him fall?”

The King’s gaze became distant, brow creased with reluctant memory. “Again and again we fought them off, Frentis at my side for much of it. And he was a sight to see, throwing himself into the thickest fight, saving us time and again. The men called him the Faith’s Fury. Without him the city would have fallen on the first day, not the third. I sent him to bolster the southern section that morning. The Alpirans were like a wave boiling over a harbour wall in a storm.”

He ran a hand through his hair, once rich red-gold, now thinner and shot through with streaks of grey. Vaelin noted how his hand shook. “They wouldn’t kill me. No matter how many I cut down, how hard I hacked and cursed at them. When they finally bore me down they roamed the city killing every Realm Guard they could find, the deserters, the wounded, it didn’t matter. But me they kept alive. Only me.”

He was on a ship . . . “In any case, Highness. I believe my brother to be alive, and request your leave to search for him.”

The King gave a grim smile and shook his head. “No, my lord. I’m sorry, but no. I require a different service from you.”

Vaelin gritted his teeth. I could just leave, he thought. Leave this sad, tired man to his dreams and his phantom plots. An oath compelled before an audience of pampered sycophants is just another lie, like the Faith.

Malcius rose from his throne to point to a large embroidered map of the Realm on the wall, his finger tracking from Asrael to a large blank expanse above the Great Northern Forest. “There, my lord, is where I require your service.”

“The Northern Reaches?”

“Quite so. Tower Lord Al Myrna passed away last winter. His adopted daughter’s been running things since then, but since she’s a Lonak foundling of no breeding whatsoever, I can hardly allow such a state of affairs to continue.” The King straightened, speaking in formal tones. “Vaelin Al Sorna, I hereby name you Tower Lord of the Northern Reaches.”

He could refuse, state his unwillingness and walk from the palace without a hand raised against him. Malcius was effectively barred from acting against him for fear of raising rebellion the length of the Realm. But the notion evaporated when the blood-song gave a sudden and unexpected crescendo of assent. The music faded quickly but the meaning was clear enough: The path to Frentis lies in the Northern Reaches.

He bowed low to the King, replying in formal tones. “An honour I gladly accept, Highness.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lyrna

Why hasn’t she killed me?

Davoka’s eyes flared in warning, her hand firm on Lyrna’s mouth, it smelt of woodsmoke. Lyrna swallowed, did her best to stem the harsh torrent of her breathing and raised a questioning eyebrow. Davoka’s eyes flicked to her right. Lyrna strained to see but could only discern the dim greyness of the tent wall, still thumping in the mountain wind. She looked back at Davoka, both eyebrows raised now. The Lonak woman’s eyes were elsewhere, gaze tracking along the tent wall, the bare muscle of her arms tensed in readiness.

It was only the smallest sound, a faint whisper of parting cloth. Lyrna’s eyes picked out a pinprick of gleaming metal in the tent wall, growing into a knife point then a blade at least ten inches long. The whisper grew into a shout of ripping canvas as the knife slashed downward, the tent wall parting to reveal the face of a man, a Lonak warrior if Lyrna was any judge, shaven-headed and tattooed across the forehead, teeth bared in a killing snarl.

Davoka lunged, her knife taking the Lonak under the chin, his head jerking up and back as she forced it deeper, finding the brain. She pulled the knife free and threw her head back, her scream vast and savage. From outside came an instant clamour of alarm, shouted orders and the cacophony of men in combat.

Davoka hefted her spear, pushing her gore-covered knife into Lyrna’s hand. “Stay here, Queen.” Then she was gone, diving through the gash in the canvas into the blackness beyond.

Lyrna lay on her back, the bloody knife sitting in her open hand, wondering if a person’s heart could truly burst with overuse.

“HIGHNESS!” A rasping shout from outside. Brother Sollis.

“Here,” she croaked through a sand-dry throat, coughed and tried again. “I’m here! What is happening?”

“We are betrayed! Stay insi—” He broke off and there came a harsh clang of colliding steel followed by a grunt of pain. More shouts, voices raised in cries of challenge or shock. She could hear many Lonak voices amongst the riot of sound.

A sharp thwack jerked her gaze to the roof of the tent where a steel-tipped arrow dangled from the canvas, caught by its fletching.

GET UP! her mind screamed.

Another thwack, another arrow, lower this time, coming straight through the fabric to thump into the fur an inch from her leg, the shaft quivering.