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  “He will not, Highness.” Fornella’s relief was palpable, her years showing again in the sag of her mouth. “I will do as you ask.”

  “Very well.” Lyrna looked at Verniers, summoning her regretful smile. “And you my lord? Will you do this for me?”

  “No, Highness,” he replied, the even tone of his voice and narrowness of his gaze making it clear her smile was a wasted effort. This one sees far too much.

  “I will do it,” Verniers went on, “for my Emperor, who is great in his wisdom and benevolence.”

  She stood on the roof of the harbour-master’s house to watch the ships leave, seeing Vaelin’s farewell to Dahrena, finding herself unable to look away even though she felt like an intruder. He held her for such a long time. The small woman moved back from him, exchanged farewells with Lady Alornis, Lord Adal, Brother Kehlan and Sanesh Poltar, then turned and walked the gangplank to the Red Falcon, Ship Lord Ell-Nurin greeting her with a bow. As the ship made for the harbour mouth, Lyrna wondered if there was any significance in the fact that not a single Seordah had come to see her off.

  Vaelin stayed to watch the ship sail away, responding to his sister’s embrace with a slight shake of the head before she and the others drifted away. After a while Lord Verniers and the Volarian woman arrived and she saw him escort them to the ship. She was still puzzled over the interest he had shown in choosing the vessel to carry them to the empire, but he was ever a man of secrets.

  She turned as Orena climbed onto the roof bearing a fur-trimmed cloak. “The wind is harsh today, Highness.”

  Lyrna nodded her thanks as the lady placed the cloak over her shoulders, still watching him as he stared after the departing scholar. “Murel says he’s the most frightening man she’s ever met,” Orena mused softly.

  “Then there is wisdom in the young,” Lyrna said. “Does he frighten you, my lady?”

  Orena shrugged; of all her attendants, she was the least given to formality when they were alone, something Lyrna found sufficiently refreshing to forgive her often-wayward tongue. “Some men are brutes, some are kind. Every once in a while you meet one who’s both.” She straightened then gave a formal bow. “Lord Marshal Travick craves an audience, Highness. It seems his new recruits are squabbling over what to name their regiments.”

  “I’ll be there directly, my lady.”

  Alone again, she waited and watched as he turned back from the harbour, walking away with a purposeful gait. It wasn’t jealousy, she thought. I can permit you no distractions, my lord.

  She was awoken in the small hours by Murel’s soft but insistent hand. There had been no dreams tonight and wrenching herself from an untroubled sleep birthed a foul mood. “What is it?” she snapped.

  “Lord Vaelin is downstairs, Highness. With Captain Belorath. It seems he bears an important message from the Isles.”

  Lyrna ordered her to fetch a bowl of cold water and plunged her face into it, gasping at the instant headache as the lingering tiredness vanished. She dressed in her simplest robe and managed to summon a welcoming visage by the time she descended the steps to her makeshift throne room.

  Captain Belorath matched Vaelin’s bow though his face betrayed his discomfort at finding himself in a servile position to a woman once his captive, a captive he had come close to killing. After the Shield took over the monstrous Volarian flagship, Belorath had resumed command of the Sea Sabre, sailing back to the Isles for repairs and to impart news of the great victory at Alltor. Also, Lyrna had hoped, to fetch more ships for the fleet.

  “My lord, Captain,” she greeted them, settling onto her throne. “I trust the news is grave enough to justify the lateness of the hour.”

  “Indeed, Highness,” Vaelin said, nodding to Belorath.

  The captain’s face betrayed a certain reluctance as he spoke, the tone clipped and careful. “As Your Highness knows, the Ship Lords have been keen to ensure the security of the Isles through … certain discreet measures…”

  “You’ve had spies planted in this Realm for years, Captain,” Lyrna broke in. “A fact not unknown to the late King or myself.”

  “Yes, Highness. Most have fallen silent since the invasion; however, we have continued to receive occasional intelligence from one in Varinshold.”

  “The one who warned the Volarian fleet had sailed,” Lyrna recalled.

  “Quite so. Upon returning to the Isles I found another message had arrived from the same source.” Belorath pulled a scroll from his belt and came forward to hand it to her. “It’s addressed to you, Highness.”

  Lyrna unfurled the scroll, finding the words scant, but enough to make her wonder if, for all her vaunted intelligence, she wasn’t just a fool after all.

  Lyrna—

  Attack on Winterfall Eve. Avoid the walls if you can. Aspects E & D in Blackhold. I’m sorry.

  —Alucius

  CHAPTER TEN

  Alucius

  “Don’t lie to me, little poet!” Darnel glowered at him, his voice low and filled with dire promise, the recently stitched cut below his eye threatening to split as he snarled. “They must have told you something.”

  Alucius spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “No more than regret at the passing of a brother in the Faith, my lord. Though I did sense a certain satisfaction from Aspect Dendrish at finally becoming the fattest man in Asrael.”

  Darnel rose from his throne, his hand going to his sword, face red with fury. He halted when Division Commander Mirvek gave a warning cough and Alucius’s father stiffened, stepping closer to his son’s side. Darnel’s gaze swept around them all, his hand quivering on his sword-handle. His recent flight from the Red Brother and the news that his fief was now raised in rebellion had done little to improve his temperament. Also Mirvek’s increasing disregard and deference to his Battle Lord provided ample evidence of Darnel’s burgeoning irrelevance. Only a handful of his knights remained and there were no more to be had in his fief. Alucius wondered why the Volarian didn’t simply have Darnel killed and assume command himself, but the man was clearly a soldier to his core and would continue to follow orders until contrary word came from the Council. Darnel was their appointed vassal and Mirvek lacked the authority to depose him, however useless he had become.

  “They know of more Gifted,” Darnel told the Volarian, failing to keep a desperate note from his voice. “I’m sure of it.”

  Not so much a fool he doesn’t know his stock has fallen, Alucius realised, watching Darnel fidget. Seeking to buy security with the Aspects’ knowledge.

  “The Aspects are precious to all those still free in these lands,” Alucius’s father said. “Harming them in any way invites further rebellion.”

  “His people rebel in any case,” Mirvek pointed out in a reflective tone. “These Aspects of yours are intriguing. The warrior Aspect intriguing enough the Council ordered him shipped back to the empire the day he was captured. Questioning them could prove fruitful.”

  Alucius didn’t like the weight the Volarian placed on the word “questioning.” “If you’ll allow me more time,” he said. “I’m sure they will prove more accommodating. Aspect Dendrish in particular would probably spill every secret in his head for a full dinner.”

  Mirvek failed to laugh, regarding him with a narrow gaze. Up until now his attitude to his slave general’s son had been one of vague contempt, but now Alucius knew he was seeing him with uncomfortable clarity. “My most able questioner was taken by your Red Brother,” the Volarian said. “He could have had them talking in seconds. I have sent for a replacement, arriving with our reinforcements by the week’s end. You have until their arrival.”

  Alucius replied with a grateful bow, backing away as the Volarian dismissed him with a flick of his hand. He could feel Darnel’s eyes on him as he made his way from the throne room and once again wondered at his complete absence of fear.

  “Well,” Alucius said as Sister Cresia panted in his ear, her naked form atop him, trembling a little. “That was unexpected.”

>   She levered herself off him, turning her back and reaching for her blouse. “I haven’t spent my entire life skulking here,” she said. “I was bored. Don’t fall in love with me, poet.”

  He forced away an image of Alornis’s face, hiding guilt in a laugh. “Trust me, sister, I need no such instruction.”

  Sister Cresia shot him a sharp glance and rose from the pile of furs where she made her bed. She had said nothing when he made his way down here once again, inclining her head at a side passage and leading him to her chamber, shrugging her clothes off and standing naked with a questioning look. Alucius had glanced at Twenty-Seven standing in the passage outside, his blank gaze seemingly fixed on the fine brickwork. Cresia’s brother and sister were off somewhere in the nighttime streets above, gathering knowledge and supplies she said, though he had brought sufficient to last them until Winterfall Eve, after that a lack of provisions was likely to be the least of their concerns.

  “Who was she?” Cresia asked, her tone lightly curious.

  “Who was who?”

  “The woman you were thinking of a few moments ago.” She fastened the belt to her trews and sat to pull on her boots.

  Is that her design? he wondered. Seeking to garner knowledge through intimacy. She’s as much a spy as I am.

  “How could any man think of another when in your arms, my lady?” he replied, sitting up. He felt her flinch at his caustic tone and felt a pang of regret. I always hurt them, he recalled, thinking back over the years, the girls drawn to the handsome poet with the sad smile, the sweet embraces and the inevitable tears. Alornis was the only woman he had never contrived to disappoint, and he had never even kissed her.

  “If you require intelligence from me,” he told Cresia, “it might be simpler, and less time-consuming, to just ask.”

  She rose and tossed him his shirt. “Very well. When my brother and sister return. And I’ll expect a full account if we’re to help in this escapade of yours.”

  They ate a sparse meal of dried beef and bread washed down with water, since his father hadn’t seen fit to provide wine with the extra provisions. If Inehla and Rhelkin sensed any tension between them, they failed to show it, though he fancied there was a faint glint of amusement in the glance Inehla gave her sister.

  “How can you be certain the queen’s army will attack on Winterfall Eve?” Rhelkin asked when the meal was done.

  “I can’t,” Alucius admitted. “The only surety I can give is that I sent word for them to do so.”

  “How?” Cresia asked.

  “By pigeon. My last, in fact. So please don’t ask me to send any more.”

  “How does a poet come to keep pigeons?”

  “Because he’s also a spy in service to the Meldenean Ship Lords.” Alucius sipped his water, sighing in fond remembrance of his last taste of decent wine as the others stared in silence. It had been a bottle from his father’s cellar, one of his oldest, Cumbraelin naturally, a deep and richly flavoured red from the southern vineyards. The bottle had been pleasant but not enough to see him to the sleep he craved, plagued as he was by the ache left by Alornis’s departure to the Reaches. So he had sought out a bottle of brandy from the kitchens, falling into bed only to be roused some hours later by a Volarian army.

  “Then you,” Sister Cresia said, breaking through his reminiscence, “are a traitor to this Realm.” Alucius noted her hand had moved to the leather pouch on her belt whilst Brother Rhelkin was now turned towards Twenty-Seven, poised no doubt to employ his gift.

  “I suppose so,” Alucius said. He looked at his cup of water and grimaced, putting it aside.

  Cresia continued to glare as the silence thickened. “Why?” she asked eventually.

  “That is not your concern,” Alucius stated. “What matters is that we have a common interest in ensuring this city is recovered for the Realm with a minimum of bloodshed. And, at present, I stand best placed to achieve this outcome.”

  “A spy deserves no trust.”

  “Trust? You speak of trust?” Alucius laughed. “You who have lived a lifetime of lies. What service have you done in the name of the Faith, I wonder? How much blood spilled in the shadows over the years?”

  Inehla’s rat scurried along the table, sniffing his hand then baring its teeth with a loud squeak. “Does he smell a lie?” Cresia asked her.

  The plump sister shook her head, her expression dark. “No, only this one’s contempt for us.”

  Cresia’s face registered a scowl of fury before she forced it to a neutral frown, her hand retreating from her pouch. Inehla’s rat gave a final squeak then ran back to its mistress as Brother Rehlkin turned away from Twenty-Seven.

  “How is it to be done?” Cresia asked Alucius.

  “The Volarian reinforcements are due to arrive on Winterfall Eve,” he said. “To be greeted at the docks by Commander Mirvek, Lord Darnel, and my father. I doubt any will object, or notice if I’m there. I shall require your sister’s skill to create sufficient diversion.”

  “Diversion from what?”

  “This city will stand or fall on my father’s judgement. Without it, Darnel and his allies are doomed.”

  “A hard thing for a son to kill a father,” Rehlkin observed.

  “If you doubt my ability to do this,” Alucius replied, “you should kill me now and keep skulking here until Queen Lyrna arrives.” He saw the man’s dislike in his cold glare and found himself beyond caring. “I’ll need you and Sister Cresia to secure the Aspects.”

  “Breaking into the Blackhold is no easy task,” Cresia said.

  “But within your abilities, I’m sure. I’ve little doubt their guards have orders to kill them should the city fall, and it’s better to risk death than blindly accept it.”

  He saw them exchanging glances, reaching agreement in silent nods, Cresia’s the most reluctant. “We’ll do this,” she said. “But when it’s done, poet, you will not be spared an accounting.”

  “No.” He got up and turned away, walking back to the tunnel with Twenty-Seven falling in behind. “I don’t imagine I will.”

  “I must say, Aspect,” he said, sitting on the bunk beside her. “I found the wine rather bitter.”

  “But you did find it?” she asked, her gaze intent.

  “Indeed I did. Only three bottles, though.”

  Her mouth twitched in suppressed disappointment. “Pity.”

  “Disappointment was ever my lot, Aspect. I do, however, have news. It seems we have a new queen.”

  “Lyrna? She lives?”

  “Hale, whole and leading an army to our salvation as we speak, an army commanded by Lord Al Sorna himself, having crushed General Tokrev at Alltor.”

  Aspect Elera sat straight, closing her eyes, her shoulders pulled back as she breathed a series of controlled breaths. He had seen her do this before, when her usual composure slipped and the faint sheen of tears glimmered in her eyes. After a few seconds she reopened her eyes and smiled, the same calm, open smile he knew he would miss a great deal.

  “Excellent news, Alucius,” she said. “Thank you for telling me. And when can we expect our queen’s arrival?”

  Alucius flicked his eyes at the Free Sword outside. The man might appear dumb as a stump and capable of no more than a few words of Realm Tongue, but Alucius’s short spying career had taught him the value of seeing beyond appearances. “Such intelligence is far beyond my reach, Aspect.” He folded his arms and extended three fingers towards his elbow, seeing understanding in her gaze as she resisted the impulse to nod.

  “It is my belief you should not save the wine,” she said in a brisk tone. “These are troubled times, and wine always offers an escape from worry, don’t you think?”

  “You are kind to think of my comfort, Aspect. But, if ever a man has drunk his fill, it’s me.”

  The Free Sword gave an impatient jangle of his keys and Alucius stood. “Though, I am able to share two bottles with you,” Alucius told her. “Your own comfort being of paramount importance to me.”


  Her smile faltered a little, a stern glint appearing in her gaze. “Wine should not be wasted, Alucius.”

  “And it won’t be.” He knelt, meeting her eyes, seeing how she fought tears. Instead of raising her hand for him to kiss, as was their habit, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead, whispering, “I beg you, go.”

  He clasped her hands and kissed them, standing and moving from the cell. He was careful in his scrutiny of the Free Sword as he locked the door, seeing only the dull eyes of a brutal fool. Nevertheless, he was glad he had told Cresia to kill him the instant she entered this chamber.

  It was the one house he had never visited since the city’s fall, a part-tumbled-down, once-impressive mansion near Watcher’s Bend, shaded by the branches of a great old oak. The roof was even more threadbare than he remembered and the windows were all gone, stirring memories of how hard Alornis had worked to keep them clean and intact. The house had been spared burning by some happy chance, perhaps because of its size or the barren rooms within, void of any useful loot, at least to those unskilled in spotting concealment.

  The door was half-off its hinges, the hallway beyond all peeling paint and bare floorboards. He remembered his first visit here, the falsely confident knock she took so long to answer. “Alucius Al Hestian, my lady,” he had greeted her, bowing low. “Former comrade to your noble brother.”

  “I know who you are,” she replied with a puzzled frown, opening the door only wide enough to look him up and down. “What do you want?”

  It had taken several visits before she let him in, and only then because it had been raining, pointing him to a stool in the kitchen with a stern warning against dripping on her drawings. It had been duty that made him persist, the appearance of adherence to a royal command, but it was the drawings that made him come back the next night, suffering her puzzled indifference and occasional barbs. He had never seen anything like them, the clarity and feeling rendered with such economy, as irresistible as he came to find their creator.