Blood Song

The focus returned to the king's eyes, fixing Vaelin with cold calculation. “Your father appears to have developed unhealthy interests, Young Hawk.”

The blood-song returned, loud and harsh, as strong as he had ever known it, its meaning more clear than he could remember. There was great danger in this room. Danger from the knowledge this spying whore possessed. Danger from the king’s design. But most of all the danger of the blood-song telling him to kill them both.

“I have no father,” he grated.

“Perhaps. But you do have a sister. Bit young to be hung from the walls with her tongue ripped out, after receiving the Fourth Order’s ministrations in the Blackhold. Her mother too I shouldn’t wonder, caged side by side, gabbling nonsense at each other until starvation weakens them and the crows come to peck at their flesh whilst they still live. You wanted a better reason. Now you have one.”

Dark eyes, like his own, small hands clutching winterblooms. Mumma said you would come and live in our house and be my brother…

The blood-song howled. His hands twitched. Never killed a woman before, he thought. Or a king.

Watching the old man yawn and rub at his pained knees he saw how easy it would be to take his fragile neck and snap it like a twig. How satisfying it would be…

He clenched his fists, stilling the twitch, sitting down heavily at the table.

And the blood-song died.

“Actually,” the king said, levering himself upright. “I don’t think I’ll stay for the cakes after all. Please enjoy them with my compliments.” He placed a bony hand on Vaelin’s shoulder. An owl’s talon. “I assume I don’t have to coach you in what to say when Aspect Arlyn seeks your counsel.”

Vaelin refused to look at him, worried the blood-song would return, nodding stiffly.

“Excellent. Derla, please linger a while. I’m sure Lord Vaelin has more questions.”

“Of course, Highness.” She gave another perfect bow as he left. Vaelin remained seated.

“May I sit, my lord?” Derla asked him.

He said nothing so she took the seat opposite. “Quite a treat for me to meet so distinguished a Lordship as yourself,” she went on. “Done business with lords aplenty of course. His Highness is always interested in their habits, the more beastly the better.”

Vaelin said nothing.

“Are all the stories about you true, I wonder?” she continued. “Seeing you now I think they might be.” She waited for him to speak and fidgeted in discomfort when he gave no reply. “The baking widow is taking her time with those cakes.”

“The cakes aren’t coming,” Vaelin told her. “And I don’t have any questions. He left you here so I would kill you.”

He met her eyes, seeing genuine emotion there for the first time: fear.

“The widow Nornah is no doubt skilled in the quiet disposal of corpses,” he elaborated. “I expect he's led quite a few unsuspecting fools here over the years. Fools like the two of us.”

Her eyes flicked to the door then back to his. Her mouth twisted, biting back challenges and provocation. She knew she couldn’t brawl with him. “I am not defenceless.”

“You keep a knife in your bodice and another at the small of your back. I assume the pin in your hair is fairly sharp too.”

“I have served King Janus loyally and well for five years - ”

“He doesn’t care. The knowledge you possess is too dangerous.”

“I have money…”

“I have no need of riches.” The bag holding the bluestone was heavy on his belt. “No need at all.”

“Well.” She leaned back from the table, letting her hands fall to her side, lifting her skirts to show her parted knees, another half-smile playing on her lips, no more genuine than the first. “At least show me the courtesy of fucking me before rather than after.”

A laugh died on his lips. He looked away, clasping his hands together on the table top. “You’re safe from me but not from him. You should leave the city, the Realm if you can. Don’t ever come back.”

She rose slowly, moving cautiously to the door, reaching for the handle, her other hand behind her back, no doubt clutching her knife. Turning the handle, she paused, “Your father is fortunate in his son, my lord.” And she was gone, the door swinging closed on poorly oiled hinges.

“I have no father,” he said softly to the empty room.

Chapter 3

Away from the Alpiran coast scrubland gave way to broad trackless desert, swept by a stiff southerly wind that stirred the sands into funnels of dust, drifting over the dunes like wraiths. The army kept to the fringes of the desert, advancing towards Untesh in a column more than two miles long. Watching the army Vaelin was reminded of a great snake he had once seen slip from a cage on a ship from the Far West, it had stretched across the width of the deck, scales glittering in the sun like the spears of the Realm Guard now.