Vaelin rubbed his hands together, trying to keep the chatter from his teeth. “D-did she live?”
Dahrena gave a small smile and nodded. “Just one more season. To the best of my knowledge she never used her gift again. It was strange but the summer ended that day, rain and wind replacing sun and heat until autumn brought golden relief. She told me she had tipped the balance too far and it would take time for the scales to right themselves.”
Dahrena extended a hand towards the fire, fingers wide in the warmth. “Our gifts are us, my lord. They do not come from elsewhere, they are as much a part of your being as your thoughts or your senses, and like any other action they require fuel, fuel that burns with the use, as this fire will burn until it’s nothing but ash.” She withdrew her hand, her face serious. “As First Counsel, I ask that you exercise greater care in future.”
“S-something comes,” he stammered, clenching his teeth in frustration. “My song brings warning.”
“Warning of what?”
Lyrna’s face . . . The song like a scream . . .
He closed his eyes against the vision, fearing the song would return, knowing he wouldn’t survive another verse. “I don’t kn-know. B-but there is one amongst the gifted who may, one who lives at the p-place they call the Dark Clave . . . A man named Harlick.”
She wanted him to spend the next day resting but he refused, clamping himself to Flame’s saddle and staying there by sheer effort of will, though Captain Orven had to reach out and steady him a few times. The guardsman was clearly disconcerted by his Tower Lord’s sudden and unexplained illness but wise enough not to voice any unwelcome questions. Insha ka Forna however, felt no such restraint, offering several caustic observations to Dahrena throughout the day. He thought it best not to ask for a translation, though from the discomfort on Orven’s face, it seemed his knowledge of the Eorhil language had grown considerably.
The chill had begun to abate by midday, and by the time they made camp all trace of the tremble had disappeared. But the vision lingered, the princess’s face capturing his thoughts with maddening compulsion. Throughout his captivity he had never sought her out when he sang, more through indifference than spite. His anger towards her had faded that day on the Linesh docks, but he never grew any more regard for her than his already healthy respect for the sharpness of her mind. Her ambition had been too great, the crime they shared too terrible to allow for affection or friendship. There were times though, when he felt the song tug at him, singing the tune he recalled from his last vision of her, when she had wept, alone with no-one to see. But he had always resisted the song’s call, concentrating instead on Frentis and, occasionally, Sherin. Finding no more than the vaguest glimpses of the former and increasingly dim visions of the latter.
Is it because she feels our love gone? he often wondered. He understood now the blood-song was not limitless, that he could seek out only those he knew, those who had touched his soul somehow, and even then the clarity of the vision varied. His first visions of Sherin had been bright and clear, like looking through well-polished glass, gradually becoming more opaque as time passed. His last glimpse had seen her alongside Ahm Lin, standing in a courtyard set within a house of completely unfamiliar design, exchanging words with a man in plain clothing, unarmed but exuding a warrior’s nature. Vaelin saw how the man tried to hide his regard for Sherin, but it was clearly considerable from the way his eyes tracked her. Vaelin knew his own face had once held a near-exact expression. The vision faded, leaving hurt and regret in its wake. He didn’t search for her again for almost a year, and when he did all he could find was a sensation of clear air and great height, as if she stood atop a mountain . . . That and something more; she had been happy.
The journey to the place Sister Virula called the Dark Clave, and Dahrena called Nehrin’s Point, took the best part of another week, tracking through mountain and forest. They took hospitality from a few settlements along the way, Vaelin gaining an appreciation of the hardships and rewards on offer to those who chose to make a life in the Reaches.
“Came north four years ago, m’lord,” a gap-toothed Asraelin bargeman told him at Lowen’s Cove, a small port serving the mines some forty miles south of Mirror Sound. “Worked barges on the Brinewash from a boy, till the Fleet Lord scooped me up for my three years under the King’s flag. Half the fleet’s gone now, sold off to settle the war debts. Got left on the quay with no more than the shirt on my back, worked passage on a freighter to the Reaches. Came ashore penniless, now I got a wife, son, house and third share in my own barge.”
“You don’t miss the Realm?” Vaelin asked.
“What’s there to miss? There a man is born to his station, here he makes his own. And the air.” The bargeman put his head back and breathed in deeply. “It’s clearer, sweeter. In the Realm I was always choking.”
Nehrin’s Point sat on a promontory overlooking a sickle-shaped bay where waves pounded a beach of white sand. There were perhaps forty houses, well-built with thick stone walls against the sea-borne wind. They arrived in late afternoon when a stream of children were emerging from one of the larger buildings. There was no sign of any Faith presence or guard house.
Vaelin made for the large building where a blond, bearded man played with an equally blond boy of no more than six years age. The boy was throwing stones at the blond man, his small hands plucking them from a pile at his feet, the man batting them away with a stick. Despite his age the boy had a good arm, his throws fast and precise, but the blond man smacked every stone from the air with unerring precision as the stick moved in a blur, stopping as he caught sight of Vaelin, giving a pained grunt as one of the boy’s stones thumped into his chest.
“Got you, Father!” the boy yelped, jumping with excitement. “Got you! Got you!”
Vaelin dismounted a short distance away, walking towards the blond man who dropped his stick and ran to embrace him.
“Brother,” Vaelin said.
“Brother.” Nortah laughed. “I could hardly believe it was true, but here you are.”
Vaelin drew back, seeing the curious stare of the boy, and the settlers beyond who had all paused to take in the sight of the Tower Lord. The blood-song’s note of recognition grew loud in proximity to so many gifted.
“Artis,” Nortah told the boy. “Give greeting to your uncle Vaelin.”
The boy stared for a few seconds more then gave an awkward bow. “Uncle.”
Vaelin returned the bow, feeling the song’s volume dip a little. The boy has no gift. “Nephew. I see you have your father’s arm.”
“You should see him with a sling,” Nortah said. He turned to bow as Dahrena joined them. “My lady. Your visit is welcome, as always.”
“Teacher,” she replied, returning the bow.
“There was talk of the Horde,” Nortah said. “My fellow townsfolk were concerned.”
“It wasn’t the Horde,” she replied. “Just starving people in search of refuge. Which the Tower Lord provided.”
“Cheated of battle, brother?” Nortah enquired, a small glint in his eye. “That must have been a bitter pill.”
“One I swallowed happily.”
Nortah’s gaze went to the canvas bundle hanging from Vaelin’s saddle. His eyes narrowed but he didn’t press the matter. “Come, come.” He turned, beckoning them to follow, taking Artis’s hand. “Sella will be anxious to see you.”
They found Sella hanging freshly washed sheets on a rope fixed to the side of a single-storey house. Nearby a girl of about four sat astride a huge cat which padded back and forth, the girl giggling as she bounced on its back. The horses began to fidget in alarm as the cat bared its daggerlike fangs. Vaelin and Dahrena dismounted and he ordered Orven to make camp a good distance away.
Sella came to him with a bright smile, gloved hands touching his in welcome. She was as lovely as he remembered, though considerably more pregnant, her dress billowing in the wind around the bulge of her belly. Twins, her hands said as she tracked his gaze. Boy and girl. The boy will be named Vaelin.
“Oh, don’t curse him with that,” he said, squeezing her hand.
Never a curse. Always blessing. She extended a hand to Dahrena who came forward to take it. “It’s been far too long.”
Snowdance came padding up, grown to full size since the fallen city, pressing her great head against Vaelin’s side, purring like distant thunder as he played a hand through her fur. The little girl on her back stared up at Vaelin in wide-eyed curiosity. The blood-song stirred in recognition and he felt a sudden tumble of images in his head, toys and sweets and laughter and tears . . . He grunted, blinking in discomfort.
Sella clapped her hands and the images faded. The little girl pouting a little as her mother wagged a finger at her. Apologies, her hands said to Vaelin. Her way of saying hello. Doesn’t realise not everyone can do what she can.
Vaelin crouched down, coming level with the girl’s gaze. “I’m your uncle Vaelin,” he said. “Who are you?”
A murmur in his mind, soft and shy. Lohren.
Sella clapped her hands again and the girl frowned and spoke in a sullen voice, “Lohren.”
