“It seems we both have hard roads ahead of us.”
“It would be best if you don’t share your course with me. If she found me and somehow took me alive, I . . . doubt I could keep secrets from her should she bind me again.”
Vaelin nodded, turning back from the sea, sorrow plain on his brow. “I searched for you for such a long time, casting my song out far and wide, but I never caught more than the vaguest glimpse. Now, it seems I am bound to send you away again and have no song to find you in any case.”
“I have much to balance, brother. And an assassin shouldn’t linger in sight of his victim’s sister.” He extended his hand and Vaelin gripped it tight. “We’ll find each other in Volar, of that I’ve no doubt.”
• • •
The headache was everything Brother Kehlan promised, the pain alleviated somewhat by the welcome realisation that the concoction worked. His sleep had been free of dreams, absent any further horrors or entreaties to surrender to her will. He had continued to sleep at the Blackhold in the days since his release, he and Lekran now more comfortably accommodated in the guard room. It was a strange feeling to reside in such a large building now stripped of all but two occupants, the queen having quickly redeployed her guardsmen to training duties. He found the former Kuritai at practice in the courtyard, moving with all the speed and precision instilled by years of conditioning and battle. Instead of the usual twin swords today he wielded an axe, whirling as he fought an army of imaginary opponents.
“Redbrother,” he greeted Frentis, coming to a halt, panting a little from the exertion. He had forsaken the razor since his liberation and a dark stubble had formed on his face and head. “Your chief-woman sent a slave with this. She makes a mighty gift.” He hefted the axe, grinning broadly. It was a double-bladed weapon of Renfaelin design, the flat steel of the inner blades inlaid with an intricate pattern of gilded gold. Probably one of Darnel’s toys, Frentis decided, once again feeling a pang of regret that he hadn’t been the one to kill the Fief Lord.
“There are no slaves here,” Frentis told him, a fact he had been obliged to repeat several times. Lekran seemed to have difficulty conceiving of a land free of slavery. He was fulsome in his description of his homelands, apparently lying somewhere among the wild mountain country beyond the northern provinces, his tribe’s principal occupations seemingly digging for ore and waging constant war on their neighbours.
“Good stuff.” Lekran said after a hearty gulp of wine. “You have any more?”
Frentis gestured to a stack of bottles nearby, found beneath the bed of the Free Sword officer who had command of this place. The city had turned out to be rich in hidden stashes of wine and assorted loot. The Volarian army permitted looting on a formalised basis, as long as all booty was declared and subject to a one-tenth tax, but clearly many had felt disinclined to abide by this policy.
“Your chief-woman,” Lekran said, sitting down again with bottle in hand. “She has a man?”
“She’s called a queen, and no.”
“Good. I’ll claim her.” He took a long drink and burped extravagantly. “How many heads will it take, do you think?”
Apparently it was the custom of Lekran’s tribe to offer the heads of fallen enemies to prospective brides as proof of husbandly worthiness. “A thousand should do,” Frentis advised.
Lekran frowned and gave an annoyed huff. “So many?”
“She’s a queen. They’re expensive.” He watched the former slave exhaust the bottle in a few gulps and knew, for all his bluster, this was a man attempting to drown the many horrors in his head. “How long were you Kuritai?” he asked him.
“I had nineteen years when they took me. Now I see my father’s face when I look in the mirror. Time is lost to the binding.” Lekran grimaced at the empty bottle and threw it against the flagstones.
“You don’t remember it?” Frentis pressed. “I recall every instance of mine.”
“Then you are greatly unfortunate.” Lekran sat fidgeting for a moment, muscular arms bulging as he clasped his hands together, casting a hungry glance at the wine. “I remember . . . enough.”
“Alucius Al Hestian, you remember you were set to guard him?”
A very faint smile played over Lekran’s lips. “Yes. He wanted a drink too.”
“He died a hero, trying to kill a much-hated enemy of mine.”
“That fuck-brain on the big chair?” Lekran gave an amused grunt. “Well, good for him. Let’s drink to his memory.” He rose to fetch another bottle.
“You know our course?” Frentis asked him as he rummaged through the wine, unstoppering a bottle to sniff the contents before grimacing and tossing it aside. “You are content to follow me?”
“My father was the only man I ever followed willingly.” Lekran sniffed another bottle, raising his eyebrows in appreciation. “But I’ll lend my axe to your cause on the way home.” He sat back down, grinning as he took another drink. “Your queen is owed a thousand heads, after all.”
• • •
“Belorath,” the captain introduced himself, regarding Frentis with obvious suspicion, deepening even further at the sight of Lekran stepping off the gangplank complete with twin swords on his back and axe in hand. “Welcome to the Sea Sabre. Your comrades are here already.”
The morning air was bracing, the sea-borne wind adding a cutting edge as they came aboard, the cluster of familiar figures on the deck huddling in their cloaks as Frentis advanced on them, his chill banished by a sudden anger. “What is this?” he demanded.
“Come to follow the queen’s command, brother,” Draker said, getting to his feet, the others rising at his back. “In truth, brother. She was kind enough to grant our request, since none of us relished the thought of life in the Realm Guard.”
Frentis’s gaze swept over the thirty survivors of his company from the Urlish, hard-faced men and women garbed in muted colours and bristling with a variety of favoured weapons. Although there was one exception. Illian made a striking figure in her dark blue cloak, seeming to have grown somewhat in the few days since their last meeting. On either side of her sat Blacktooth and Slasher, both gazing up at him with wide eyes and heads lowered as they licked their lips; pups greeting the pack leader. Frentis knelt to run a hand over their heads, provoking a welcoming whine.
“Brother Sollis has a message, I assume,” Frentis asked Illian, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice.
She replied with a tight smile, her tone formal. “Only that you allow me to join this mission, brother. And to ensure my training doesn’t slacken during the voyage.”
Frentis forced down the impulse to order her from the ship as she continued, “Davoka wasn’t happy about it either, if that’s any comfort.”
“It isn’t . . . sister. She stays by the queen’s side, I take it?”
Illian nodded. “Not without regret. She did give me this.” She held up a sack containing a number of leather flasks. “Mixed by Brother Kehlan according to the Lonak recipe.”
Frentis nodded. “Keep it safe, and don’t be tempted to open a single flask.” He rose from the dogs as Thirty-Four came forward to grip his hand. “You are a free man now,” he reminded the former slave. “Returning to the land of your bondage. And our success is far from certain.”
“I’ve yet to find my name,” Thirty-Four replied with a shrug, dropping his voice a little and slipping into Volarian. “And I find your queen . . . troubling.”
Frentis released his hand and turned to Master Rensial, standing apart from the others, expression more vacant than usual. “I had hoped you would return to the stables, Master,” Frentis told him. “The Order will have need of your talents.”
“The boy isn’t there,” Rensial muttered. “Or the girl, or the tall woman.” He glanced around suspiciously and moved closer, speaking in a whisper. “Where are the horses?”
“We go to find them, Master.” Frentis gripped his arm in reassurance. “Far across the sea is a whole empire of horses.”
Rensial replied with a grave nod then wandered off towards the prow. Frentis decided to warn Captain Belorath to make sure his men gave the horse master as much space as possible. His gaze was drawn to the rail where an unfamiliar figure stood staring out to sea, a young well-built man with a thick head of curly blond hair.
“His name’s Weaver,” Draker said. “Doesn’t talk much.”
Frentis knew the name of course. The Gifted who healed the queen. “He also comes at the queen’s command?”
“Not really sure, brother. He was already aboard when we arrived.”
Frentis nodded, turning back to meet the weight of their collected gaze. “I thank you all,” he said. “But you offer me too much. Please go ashore and leave me to this mission.” They stared back in silence, expressions expectant rather than angry. None made a single step towards the gangplank. “This mission holds no return journey . . .” he began then stopped as Draker gave a broad grin.