“Got a talent for this girl,” another soldier said, a sergeant by his bearing. He tossed the girl a coin, a silver, more money than she had ever held in her life. “Put even the Fifth Order to shame with skills like that.”
The girl turned to the woman who stood in the corner casting nervous glances at the soldiers. “What’s the Fifth Order, Mumma?”
“Vardrian,” Reva said, breaking the vision. She was standing by the fireplace reading a wooden plaque nailed to the wall. “The family who lived here maybe?”
“Yes.” He went to the plaque, fingers tracing over the letters, finely carved, painted white, the colour peeling away.
“You’re bleeding.”
It was just a spot on his upper lip. It had happened sometimes back in his cell, when he sang rather than listened. The louder the song the more the blood would flow from his nose, or on one occasion as he had sought to reach across the broad ocean to the Far West, his eyes. It is the price I pay, the blind woman said. The truth of it was becoming ever more clear: We all pay a price for our gifts.
“It’s nothing,” he said, wiping the spot of blood away, leaving the plaque in place and going outside.
Two more days and the bridge over the Brinewash came into view. What had once been wood was now stone, broader and sturdier than its predecessor. “The King likes to build,” Janril said as the wagon rolled up to the toll-house, tossing the bridgemaster a purse with enough coin for the players’ wagons. “Bridges and libraries, healing houses. Tears down the old, builds the new. Some call him Malcius the Bricklayer.”
“There are worse names to earn,” Vaelin replied. He sat in the wagon’s shadowed interior, wary of showing himself even in his hood this close to the capital. Butcher, madman, schemer, invader. Janus earned them all.
They made for the great expanse of grass where the Summertide Fair made its home every year. A large number of other player caravans had already gathered, along with numerous hawkers and craftsmen come to sell their wares, and a group of carpenters had begun construction of the wooden arena where the Renfaelin Knights would assail each other in the tourney. Vaelin waited for evening before leaving the wagon. He offered Janril his remaining coin, knowing it would be refused, and embraced the minstrel in farewell.
“You don’t need this place, my lord,” Janril said. His eyes were bright and his smile forced. “Stay with us. The common folk may sing their songs about you but few nobles will relish the sight of your return. There’s only envy and treachery inside those walls.”
“There are things I must do here, Janril. But I thank you.” He gripped the player’s shoulders a final time, hefted his canvas bundle and walked off towards the city gate. Reva quickly appeared at his side.
“Well?” she said.
He kept walking.
“You may have noticed we’re at Varinshold,” she went on, casting a hand at the city walls. “In accordance with our agreement.”
“Soon,” he said.
“Now!”
He stopped, meeting her gaze squarely, voice soft but precise. “You will have your answer soon. Now, come with me or stay here. I’m sure Janril can use another dancer.”
She eyed the city gate with a mix of distrust and contempt. “Not even inside yet and it stinks like a fat man’s outhouse,” she grumbled but followed as he walked on.
His father’s house had once seemed huge, a mighty castle in his boy’s mind as he raced around hallway and grounds in a tireless frenzy of imagined heroism, his wooden sword a terror to servants and livestock alike. The great oak that stretched its branches over the slanted roof had been his arch-enemy, a giant, come to tear down the castle walls. Childhood fickleness sometimes made a friend of the giant, and he would nestle in his thick arms as he watched his father put a warhorse through its paces on the acre and a half of grass between the stables and the riverbank.
It never seemed strange to him that he had no real friends, that the only children he knew were the sons and daughters of the servants with whom he was permitted only the briefest playtime before his mother shooed them away, kind but firm. “Don’t bother them, Vaelin. They’ve better things to do.” He realised later she deliberately kept him from other children, forming a true friendship would only make it harder when the time came for him to join the Order.
The house had shrunk in the many years since, and not only to his adult eye. The roof sagged and had sore need of a slater, the walls dull and grey with aged whitewash. At least half the windows were boarded up, and those free of boards lacked more than a few panes. Even the branches of the great oak were drooping, the giant was getting old. He could see a fire burning in one of the windows, just one flicker of warmth in the whole house.
“You grew up here?” Reva asked in surprise. The rain had come in earnest as they made their way through the northern quarter to Watcher’s Bend, droplets falling thick from the hem of her hood. “The songs say you are of the common folk, risen from the streets. This is a palace.”
“No,” he murmured, walking on. “It’s a castle.”
He stopped in front of the main door. The quality door, one of the maids had called it, a jovial plump woman he was ashamed to find he could no longer name. Quality door for quality people. Looking at the bell, tarnished and dull, the rope threadbare, he wondered how many quality people had been through it recently. He watched the rope sway in the rain as Reva gave a loud and deliberate sniff. He drew a breath and pulled the rope.
The echo had died away for a good few minutes before there came a muffled shout from beyond the door. “Go away! I’ve got another week! The magistrate decreed it! There’s a mighty hero of the Alpiran war upstairs who’ll hack your hands off in a trice if you don’t leave us in peace!”
There was a faint sound of retreating footsteps. Vaelin exchanged a glance with Reva and rang the bell again. This time the wait was shorter.
“Right! You were warned!” The door swung inwards and they were confronted with the sight of a young woman drawing back a bucket, the contents looking both moist and unfragrant. “Week’s worth of slops for you l-” She froze when she saw him, the bucket slipping from her hands, eyes wide as she slumped against the wall, hands going to her face.
“Sister,” Vaelin said. “May I come in?”
He had to half carry her to the kitchen where it seemed she made her home, judging from the chill emptiness of every room they passed. He sat her on a stool before the range, clasping her trembling hands, finding them cold. Her eyes seemed unable to leave his face. “I thought . . . you were hooded . . . for a moment I thought.” She blinked away tears.
“I’m sorry . . .”
“No . . .” Her hands came free of his, reaching up to touch his face, a smile growing as the tears fell. The dark, earnest eyes of the little girl he had met on that distant winter day were still there, but womanhood had given her the kind of comeliness he knew could be dangerous, especially when living alone in a ruined house. “Brother. I always knew . . . I never doubted . . .”
There was a loud clatter as Reva dumped the slop bucket in a corner.
“Alornis, this is Reva. My . . .” He paused as she raised an eyebrow at him from the depths of her hood. “. . . travelling companion.”
“Well.” Alornis used her apron to wipe away tears and rose from the stool. “Having travelled, you must be hungry.”
“Yes,” said Reva.
“We’re fine,” Vaelin insisted.
“Nonsense,” Alornis scoffed, bustling off to the larder. “Lord Vaelin Al Sorna welcomed back to his own house by a snivelling girl who can’t even offer him a meal. Won’t do at all.”