Blood Song (80 page)

Scratch’s weight bore him down effortlessly, his harsh tongue scraping over face and chin with desperate affection. “Alright daft dog!” he groaned, pushing the slave-hound away with some difficulty. “I’m alright.”

“Really?” Sherin was standing in the doorway, arms folded, her expression an echo of the severity he remembered from their first meeting. “Because you look terrible.”

She turned and descended the steps, returning a few minutes later with a cloth and a steaming bowl of water. She closed the door and sat on the bed as he stripped to the waist and washed, Scratch’s head in her lap as she rubbed the fur behind his ears. He could feel her gaze on his torso, knowing her eyes lingered on his scars, sensing her sorrow. “Nothing I didn’t earn, sister,” he told her, reaching for his razor. “All of it, and more besides.”

“So you hate yourself now?” There was an edge of anger to her tone. Clearly her bitterness at his beating of Brother Commander Iltis was taking a while to fade.

“The things I’ve done. This war…” He trailed off, closing his eyes briefly before lathering his face and lifting the razor to his skin.

“Here.” Sherin rose and moved to his side, taking the razor from him. “You haven’t slept, your hands are unsteady.” She pulled over a stool and made him sit. “Relax, I’ve done this more times than I can remember.” He had to admit many barbers would envy the skill with which she wielded the razor, sliding the blade over his skin with deft precision, her healer’s hands gentle and soothing. For a moment he was lost in the scent and the closeness of her, the grief and self-loathing vanished by this new intimacy. He knew he should tell her to stop, that this was inappropriate, but found himself too intoxicated to care.

“There.” She moved back, smiling down at him, a finger tracing over his chin. “Much better.”

Possessed by a sudden and nearly irresistible impulse to pull her close again, he reached instead for the cloth to wipe away the remaining soap. “Thank you sister.”

“Brother Dentos was a good man,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“He was the son of a whore who grew up in a place where everyone hated him. For him there was no other role in this world than to fight and die in service to the Order. But you’re right, he was a good man, and he deserved a longer life and a better death.”

“Why did you come here, Vaelin?” Her voice was soft, the anger gone now, her tone merely sorrowful. “You detest this war, I can see it. Your skills, like mine, were not meant for this. We are supposed to serve a Faith that defends against greed and cruelty. What are we defending here? What did the king promise or threaten to force you to this?”

The impulse to lie, to continue to wallow in secrets as he had for years, was only the faintest whisper now, a nagging sense of stepping too far on an uncharted path, easily overridden by the need to tell her. If he couldn’t hold her at least he could find some comfort in confidence. “He discovered my father has become a Denier. The Ascendant sect, I believe. Whatever that is.”

“We leave our ties of blood behind when we give ourselves in service to the Faith.”

“Do we? Did you? Your compassion was born somewhere, sister. In those streets you came from, amongst those beggared people you try so hard to save. Do we ever really leave anything behind?”

She closed her eyes, face downcast, unspeaking.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Your past is your own. I don’t mean to…”

“My mother was a thief,” she said, eyes open now, meeting his gaze, a harsh unfamiliar accent colouring her tone. “Finest dipper the quarter ever saw. Hands like lightning, could have a ring off a merchant’s finger quicker than a snake takes a rat. Never knew my father, she said he was a soldier, lost to the wars, but I knew she done some whorin’ before she learned the trade. She taught me, y’see, said I had the hands for it.” She looked down at her hands, the deft, slender fingers clenching. “I was her darlin’ little thief, she said, and a thief never needs to be a whore.

“Turns out I wasn’t quite the thief she thought I was. Fat old rich man with a fat old wife managed to corner me when I lifted her brooch. Was beating on me with his walking stick when my mum knifed him. ‘No-one hits my Sherry!’ she said. She could’ve run but she stayed.” She crossed her arms, hugging herself. “She stayed for me. She was still stabbin’ away when the Guard came. They hanged her the next day. I was eleven years old.

“After the hanging I sat down and waited to die. Couldn’t steal any more y’see, just couldn’t. And it was all I knew how to do. No mum, no trade. I was done. Next morning a pretty lady in a grey robe asked if I needed help.”

He couldn’t recall standing or pulling her close, but found her head was on his chest, breath catching as she fought down tears. “I’m sorry sister…”

She breathed deeply, her sobs fading, lifting her face, a small wry smile on her lips, whispering “I’m not your sister,” before she pressed them against his.

“You taste,” Sherin’s tongue played over his chest, “of sand and sweat.” She wrinkled her nose. “And you smell of smoke.”

“I’m sorry...”

She giggled a little, raising herself up to kiss his cheek before pressing her nakedness against him, her head resting on his chest. “I’m not complaining.”

His hands played over the slim smoothness of her shoulders, drawing a sigh of pleasure. “I had heard that one had to be experienced at this to find it truly enjoyable,” he said.

“I heard that true devotion to the Faith would blind me to the lure of such pleasures.” She kissed him again, longer this time, tongue probing his lips. “It appears you can’t believe all you hear.”

They had lain together for hours, making love with urgent whispered intimacy, Scratch posted outside the door to discourage visitors. The wonderful, electrifying feel of her against him, the caress of her breath on his neck as he moved in her, was overpowering, amazing. Despite the grief and the guilt and knowledge of what waited beyond this room, for now he was, perhaps for the first time he could remember, truly happy.

The dim light of dawn was filtering through the shutters on the window and he could see her face clearly, her smile of serene bliss as she drew back. “I love you,” he told her, fingers tracing through her hair. “I always have.”

She nuzzled against him, her hand playing over the hard muscle of his chest and belly. “Really? After all these years apart?”

“I don’t think love like that can ever really fade.” He clasped her hand, fingers entwining. “The Blackhold. Were you… did they hurt you?”

“Only if terror is a kind of torture. I was only there for one night, but the things I heard.” She gave a small shudder and he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“I’m sorry, I had to know. Your words must have carried great weight to have worried the King and Aspect Tendris so.”

“This war is more than just a mistake, Vaelin. It sullies our souls. It is against the Faith in every way. I had to speak out. No one else would, not even Aspect Elera, though I begged her to. I started standing up in market squares and shouting it out to anyone who’d listen. To my surprise some did, especially in the poorer quarters. My words were written down, reproduced with that new ink and block device the Third Order uses. Pamphlets were being passed around in growing numbers, saying things like ‘End the War and Save the Faith.’”

“Has a ring to it.”

“Thank you. It took two weeks for them to come for me, Brother Iltis and his men storming in to the Order House with a King’s warrant for my arrest. Brother Iltis is not the kindest of men, as you noticed, and took great delight in explaining to me in detail what was in store in the Blackhold. I lay awake all that night, listening to the screams. When the cell door opened I nearly fainted with fear, but it was Princess Lyrna with fresh clothes and a King’s order for my release into her custody.”

Lyrna. What stratagem lay behind this I wonder?
“Then I am in her debt.”

“And I. Such a kindly and courageous soul is rare. She made sure I had everything I needed, a fine room of my own, books and parchment. We spent many hours talking in her secret garden. You know, I think she’s a little lonely. When I left on receiving your summons she even cried. She said to give you her warmest regards by the way.”

“Kind of her.” He was keen to change the subject. “What did he offer you? Janus, I know he must have tried to ensnare you in some kind of bargain.”

“Actually, I only met him once. The Guard Captain, Smolen, took me to his room. Rumours were flying around the city and the palace that he’s not a well man these days, and I could see it clear as day in the greyness of his skin, the way his flesh hung on his bones. Probably the onset of age coupled with some wasting illness. I offered to examine him but he said he had physicians aplenty. After that he stared at me for a moment or two and asked me just one question. When I gave him an answer he laughed and told the Captain to take me back to Princess Lyrna’s quarters. It was a sad laugh, full of regret.”

“What did he ask you?”

She shifted, rising to her knees, the sheets falling away to reveal her slender form, her eyes glittered and he realised she was crying. “He asked if I loved you. I said I did. And I do.” Her hands caressed his face with trembling fingers. “I do. I should have gone away with you when you asked, all those years ago.”

The morning he awoke after the agony of her cure, after the Aspect Massacre, after she had saved his life. “I thought it was a dream.”

“Then it was one we shared.” Her hands stopped in mid-caress, her tone suddenly hesitant. “One we could still share. There is no longer a place for me in the Realm, and there is a whole world I’ve yet to see. We could see it together. Perhaps find a place where there are no kings, no wars, no people killing each other over faith and gods and money.”

He pulled her close, enfolding her in his arms, rejoicing in the warmth of her, inhaling the smell of her hair. “There is something I have to do here. Something that has to happen.”

He felt her stiffen. “If you mean to win this war, you must know that is a fool’s hope. The empire stretches for thousands of miles, from desert to frozen mountains, with more people than there are stars in the sky. Fight off one army and the emperor is sure to send another, and another after that.”

“No, not the war. A task given to me by my Aspect. And I can’t run from it, though I want to. When it’s done, our dreams will be our own.”

She pressed closer, her lips touching his ear, whispering. “You promise?”

“I promise.” He meant it, with all his soul, and couldn’t understand why it felt like a lie.

The moment was broken by a loud growl from the hallway. Janril Noren, voice unnerved in the face of the angry slave-hound, called to him through the door.

Sherin put her hands to her lips to suppress a laugh and shrank into the covers as Vaelin reached for his trews. “What is it?” he demanded, pulling the door open.

“There’s an Alpiran at the gates demanding you come and fight him, my lord.” Janril’s eyes slid from Vaelin’s face to snatch a glance at the room beyond, before fixing on the still growling Scratch. “Captain Antesh offered to feather him but Brother Caenis thought you might want him alive.”

“What does he look like, this Alpiran?”

“Big fellow, greying hair. Dressed like one of those horsemen we fought at the beach. Seems in a bad way, having a hard time staying in the saddle. Too long in the desert I think.”

“How many with him?”

“None, my lord. He’s all alone if you can believe such a thing.”

“Tell Brother Frentis to muster the scout troop and inform Brother Caenis I’ll be there directly.”

“My lord.”

He closed the door and began to dress.

“Are you going to fight him?” Sherin asked, emerging from the covers.

“You know I’m not.” He pulled his shirt on and leaned over to kiss her. “I need you to do something for me.”

Captain Neliesen Nester Hevren sat slumped in his saddle, a desolate fatigue marring his unshaven face. However, as the gates swung open and he caught sight of Vaelin, his evident exhaustion was replaced by grim satisfaction.

“Found the courage to face me, Northman?” he called as Vaelin approached.

“I had no choice, my men were starting to lose all respect for me.” He looked beyond the captain at the empty desert. “Where’s your army?”

“Fools led by a coward!” Hevren spat. “No stomach for what needed to be done here. Gods curse Everen, desert-born scum. The Emperor will take his head.” He fixed Vaelin with a stare of pure unbridled hatred. “But I’ll have yours first, Hope Killer.”

Vaelin inclined his head. “As you wish. Care to dismount or do you want it said you had an unfair advantage?”

“I need no advantage.” Hevren slid from his saddle with difficulty, desert sand shifting from his clothes, his horse giving a snort of relief. Vaelin surmised he had been in the saddle for days and noted how his legs sagged for a moment before he straightened.

“Here.” He unslung the canteen on his shoulder, removing the cap and taking a drink. “Quench your thirst, lest people say
I
had the advantage.” He replaced the cap and tossed the canteen to Hevren.

“I need nothing from you,” Hevren said, but Vaelin saw how his hand shook as it held the canteen.

“Then stay here and rot,” he replied, turning to go.

“Wait!” Hevren uncapped the canteen and drank, gulping down the water until it was empty, then tossing it aside. “No more talk, Hope Killer.” He drew his sabre, planting his feet in a fighting stance, flicking a sudden rush of sweat from his brow.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” Vaelin told him. “Sorry for the Hope, sorry we came here, sorry I can’t give you the death you hunger for.”

“I said no more talk!” Hevren took a step forward, sabre drawing back for a thrust, then stopped, blinking in confusion, eyes suddenly unfocused.

“Two parts valerian, one part crown root and a pinch of camomile to mask the taste.” Vaelin held up the canteen cap he had switched for the one containing Sherin’s sleeping draught. “Sorry.”

“You…” Hevren stumbled forward a few steps before collapsing. “No!” he grunted, desperately trying to heave himself upright. “No…” He thrashed for a while longer then lay still.