“You ask much, man of tower,” the young Eorhil had cautioned. “Not since war with beast people do so many come. Then they knew old tower man, you they don’t. Wisdom will decide.”
They had been sitting like this for much of the afternoon, the woman staring at him through the smoke rising from the fire. He heard no note from the blood-song, she possessed no gift, at least none it could recognise. Ten days’ march had brought them here to the lake the Eorhil called the Silver Tear, a small placid body of water shining amidst the great expanse of the plains where the Eorhil were already waiting with their full number.
“Al Myrna wanted a quiet life,” Wisdom said finally in flawless Realm Tongue, Vaelin starting at the sudden break in the silence. “A man with many battles in his past, tired of war. Our trust in him was built on that weariness. It’s the man of energy who hungers for war, and you, Vaelin Al Sorna, are a man of considerable energy.”
“Perhaps,” he replied. “But I’ve seen enough battle also. It pains me to lead so many to war once more.”
“Then why do it?”
“Why does any man of reason go to war? To preserve what is good and destroy what is not.”
“The Volarians seek to destroy your homeland. But that is far from here.”
“Your forest sister has seen the hearts of these people. They will not stop at my homeland. And I have seen what they did to the ice people. They will take all they can, from the Seordah, the Lonak and you.”
“And if we give you our warriors, the bright promise of our youth, how many will return?”
“I do not know. Many will fall, I do not deny it. I do know that the Eorhil will have to fight the Volarians, either on these plains or in my realm.”
“To reach your realm we must travel through the forest. You expect the Seordah to allow this?”
“I expect them to heed the words of the blind woman.”
Wisdom gave a start of her own, stiffening as her gaze narrowed. “You’ve seen her?”
“And spoken with her.”
The Eorhil woman’s mouth twitched and he discerned she was fighting fear. She got to her feet muttering, “We named you wrong.” She stalked back to her people, casting her final words over her shoulder. “We will ride with you.”
◆ ◆ ◆
“Wisdom,” Vaelin read slowly, pronouncing each syllable with care.
“Good,” Dahrena said. “And this?” Her finger moved on to the next word.
“Aah-greeed?”
She smiled. “Very good, my lord. A few more weeks and you won’t need me at all.”
“I very much doubt that will be the case, my lady.” He reclined in his chair, yawning. The evening drill had been hard, far too many men still stumbling about with faint notion of the difference between right and left, clumsiness made worse by fatigue from the day’s march, but there was no other choice if they were to have a hope of facing a disciplined enemy.
They were four days from the lake, the Eorhil scouting ahead and covering the flanks as they moved south towards the forest, now no more than a week away. Dahrena fretted over the fact they were yet to meet any Seordah but he told her to stow her worries, forcing more certainty into his tone than he actually felt. Just tell them you met a blind woman from several centuries hence, and they’ll throw their arms wide in welcome? he asked himself. Do you really suppose it’ll be that easy?
But the blood-song was unchanged; the route to the Realm lay through the forest. So he marched his army, trained them for two hours in the morning and two hours at night, suffered the grumbling and doubts of his captains and spent a blessed hour before slumber learning letters with the Lady Dahrena.
He was finding a joy in the words the more he learned, the poetry his mother had tried to impart now laid bare, the emptiness of the catechisms glaring and obvious when captured in ink. It gave him a deeper appreciation of the gift enjoyed by Brother Harlick, the power and the beauty of it, to have an entire library in one’s head.
Dahrena sat at the table they shared, adding the final words to the treaty formalising the Eorhil’s alliance to their cause, including an unasked-for grant of ownership over the northern plains in perpetuity. The treaty would require ratification by the monarch of the Unified Realm, assuming they could find one. Vaelin had ordered Brother Harlick to draw up a list of those with a legitimate claim to the throne should the Al Nieren line prove extinct. It consisted of just four names.
“King Janus lost much of his family to the Red Hand,” Harlick explained. “Many of the survivors perished in the wars of unification. These”—he held up the list—“are the only blood relatives still living in the Realm, to the best of my knowledge, since it’s several years since I lived there.”
“Anyone of note?” Vaelin asked.
Harlick considered the list. “Lord Al Pernil is a famed horse-breeder, assuming he still lives. My lord, you may have to consider the possibility that there is no surviving heir to the throne of the Unified Realm. If that’s the case, other options will have to be considered.”
“Options?”
“The Realm is not the Realm without a monarch. And in a time of chaos people will look to the strongest man for leadership, regardless of blood or station.”
Vaelin studied the man’s face, wondering if some fresh design lurked behind his eyes. “More honest and unselfish intent, brother?”
“Merely the observations of a well-read man, my lord.”
“Well, confine your observations to those subjects I ask you to consider.” He moved to the map table, his eyes picking out Alltor, the blood-song flaring as it always did whenever his thoughts turned to Reva. Recently there had been a change in the tone, an ominous counterpoint to the usual compulsion. They come for her, he decided. And she won’t run.
“The population of Alltor?” he asked Harlick.
“The King’s census ten years ago put the total at some forty-eight thousand souls,” the brother replied without hesitation. “Though, in times of siege it could be expected to double.” He paused. “That’s where we’re going?”
“As fast as the men can stand it.”
“The distance . . .”
Vaelin shook his head. “Is immaterial. We march to Alltor, even if it’s only to survey a ruin. That’s all for now, brother.”
◆ ◆ ◆
Four days’ march saw a dark uneven line appear on the horizon. It thickened as they marched, growing into a great wall of trees, stretching away on either side as far as eyes could see. Vaelin ordered the army to camp a half mile short of the forest and bowed to Dahrena. “Allow me to escort you home, my lady.”
Nortah guided his horse closer, Snowdance padding alongside. “We should go too,” he said. “The sight of a war-cat may ward against anger at your intrusion.”
“It’s more likely to provoke it,” Dahrena told him. “In any case, my people will not harm us. I’m sure of it.” Vaelin detected a wariness to her gaze as she eyed the forest, indicating a lack of conviction in her own words.
“If you don’t return?” Nortah asked.
Vaelin was tempted to offer a flippant response but seeing Dahrena’s unease decided on a reasoned reply. “Then I name you as my successor, brother. You will lead the army back to the tower and prepare against siege.”
“You imagine these people will follow a simple teacher?”
“A teacher with a war-cat.” Vaelin grinned and spurred Flame into motion.
The blood-song swelled as they neared the forest edge, not in warning, but welcome. It subsided to a soft contented note as the trees closed in around them, the air cool and musty with the myriad scents offered by all forests. Dahrena reined to a halt and dismounted, her face raised to the canopy of branches, eyes closed and a faint smile on her lips. “I missed you,” she said softly.
Vaelin dismounted and left Flame grazing on a patch of long grass, his eyes scanning the trees and finding a man standing between two elms, watching him with a deeply furrowed brow.
“Hera!” Dahrena gave a joyous yelp and ran to the Seordah, jumping to embrace him.
The man seemed less joyful as she drew back, his smile of welcome strained. His hair was long and streaked with grey, swept back from a hawk-nosed face stirring Vaelin’s memory.
“Hera Drakil,” he said, moving towards the man. “Friend to Tower Lord Al Myrna. I . . .”
“I know who you are,” Hera Drakil said, his accent thick but clear. “Beral Shak Ur, though I had hoped to be hunting in the dream age when your shadow fell on this forest.”
“I come with friendship . . .”
“You come with war, ever the way with the Marelim Sil.” The Seordah laid an affectionate hand on Dahrena’s cheek and turned away. “Come, the stone waits.”
◆ ◆ ◆
There were a dozen Seordah chiefs waiting, five women and seven men, all of an age with Hera Drakil who sat in their centre of their line. He had led them to a small clearing some miles into the forest, in the centre of which stood a stone plinth. The shape and height of the stone reminded Vaelin of one he had seen before, although whilst the stone in the Martishe had been overgrown with weeds and creepers, this was free of any vegetation, the carved granite seemingly unmarked by age or weather. In the trees beyond he could see many other Seordah, faces concealed in shadow, but he made out bows and war clubs amongst the shifting silhouettes. Warriors, he thought. Waiting for something.