Blood Song

For all his wariness he couldn’t deny the sharpness of her mind. What he had previously taken for low cunning was but a facet of a considerable intellect. Many times over the past three years he had pondered the meaning of Harlick’s confession in the fallen city, trying to draw together the different strands of knowledge. But nothing gelled; the Aspects’ apparent betrayal of the Faithful, One Eye’s power, the familiar voice of whatever had lived behind the eyes of Hentes Mustor. Try as he might he could see no link. There was a continual sense of something hovering out of reach, a profound conclusion even the blood-song couldn’t divine. But can she? And if she can, could she be trusted with the knowledge? The idea of trusting her was absurd, of course. But even the untrustworthy could be useful.

“Tell me Highness,” he said. “Why would a man devoted to learning read a book then immediately throw it on the fire?”

She frowned quizzically. “Is this relevant?”

“Would I ask you if it wasn’t?”

“No. I doubt you would ask me anything if you didn’t need to.”

On the field the number of knights still fighting had dwindled to a dozen or so, Lord Darnel now exchanging blows with Baron Banders, the stiffness of his rust-stained armour apparently doing little to stem his ferocity.

“If such a man were truly devoted to learning,” the princess continued as if her previous comment had remained unspoken, “then the burning of a book would seem to him a terrible crime. Books have been burnt before, King Lakril the Mad once famously made a bonfire of every book in Varinshold, pronouncing any subject who could read as disloyal and worthy of execution. Luckily the Sixth Order deposed him shortly after. However, there was wisdom Lakril’s madness. A book’s value rests in the knowledge it contains, and knowledge is ever a dangerous thing.”

“So, burning the book removes the danger posed by the knowledge.”

“Perhaps. This man was learned you say. How learned?”

Vaelin hesitated, unwilling to part with the name. “He was once a scholar in the Great Library.”

“Learned indeed.” She pursed her lips. “Do you know I never read a book twice? I don’t need to. I remember every word perfectly.”

Her tone was so matter-of-fact he knew this was no boast. “So a man with the same skill would have no need to keep a book, a dangerous book. Once read he has possession of the knowledge.”

She nodded. “Perhaps this man was attempting to preserve such knowledge, not destroy it.”

So that was Harlick’s mission. He stole the Dark books from the Great Library. Destroying them to hide their knowledge, first reading them to keep it, protect it. But why?

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” the princess asked. “Who he was. Where you found him.”

“Just a curious incident I witnessed…”

“I know my regard for you is not returned, brother. I know your opinion of me is not high. But my opinion of you has always been based on the fact that you do not lie to me. Your truth may be harsh, but it is always truth. Tell me the truth now, please.”

He met her eyes and was shocked to see tears shining there. Are they real? Can they be? “I don’t know if I can trust you,” he told her simply. “We once did a terrible thing together…”

“I didn’t know!” she whispered fiercely. She leaned close, her tone urgent. “Linden came to me with his mad idea for an expedition to the Martishe. My father ordered me to bless his endeavour. I made no promises to Linden, I did love him but as a sister loves a brother. But he loved me more than any sister and he heard what he wanted to hear. I swear I didn’t know my father’s true design. After all you

were going too, and I knew you were not capable of murder.” The tears spilled from her eyes and traced along the perfect oval of her face. “I made my own researches, Vaelin. I know you didn’t murder him, I know you spared him a horrible end. I tell you these truths because you must believe me now. You must heed my words. You must refuse to do what my father asks of you this day.”

“What does he ask of me?”

“Princess Lyrna Al Nieren!” A strong voice. A voice of command. A king’s voice. Vaelin hadn’t seen Janus for over a year and found him yet more aged, the lines in his face deeper, more grey streaking the copper main of his hair, the stoop of his shoulders more pronounced. But still, he retained a king’s voice. They both rose and bowed, suddenly aware of the vast silence of the crowd.

“Daughter of the royal line of Al Nieren,” the king continued. “Princess of the Unified Realm and second in line to the throne.” A thin, liver-spotted hand appeared from beneath the king’s ermine robes, jabbing at the field behind them. “You forget your duty.”