“You only get countesses in Nilsael.” She pulled on the reins, Snorter coming to a halt. She sat in the saddle for a long time, the coldness gradually giving way to a heart-thumping bout of terror. “I can’t stay here,” she decided in a tremulous voice. “I should never have lingered.”

“Your uncle has been good to you, to us.”

“Because he wants an heir.”

“Not just that. He loves you, I can tell.”

Or the memory of his brother, the man he couldn’t be. Reva ran a shaking hand over her forehead. “The Northern Reaches,” she said. “We can go there. You said you’d like that.”

“When there wasn’t anywhere else . . .”

“We can go now. We have horses, weapons, money . . .”

“Reva . . .”

“I can’t do this! I’m just a filthy, Fatherless sinner! Don’t you understand?”

She spurred Snorter to a gallop, making for the trees. She was halfway there when something made her pull up, another horse cresting the hilltop ahead. It moved with the ragged trot of an exhausted animal, foam covering its flanks and mouth, the rider slumped forward, barely able to keep himself in the saddle. Well-honed instincts brought one word to mind. Trouble.

She watched them straggle closer, Snorter stirring beneath her, nostrils flaring at the unwelcome stench of a fellow horse near death, keen to keep running. The Northern Reaches, Reva thought. Al Sorna will welcome you.

She kicked Snorter into motion, closing the distance to the horse. The rider was so exhausted he barely noticed when she reached out to grab the reins, tugging his mount to a halt. Realm Guard, she noted from his garb, taking in the red-brown smears on his breastplate and the empty scabbard on his saddle. “Where’s your sabre?” she asked.

His head snapped up in alarm, a face of encrusted sweat and dried blood, regarding her in naked terror before he blinked and took in his surroundings. “Alltor?” he croaked.

“Yes,” Reva replied. “Alltor. What has happened to you?”

“To me?” The man bared his teeth, a strange light in his eyes as he giggled. “They killed me, girl. They killed us all.” His giggle turned into a full laugh, the laugh into a choking cough before he slumped forward, falling from the saddle. Reva dismounted, taking the waterskin from Snorter’s saddlebag and holding it to the guardsman’s lips. He coughed again, but was soon gulping down water in great heaves.

“I . . . need to see the Fief Lord,” he gasped when he had drunk his fill.

Reva looked back at the city, shrouded in the pall rising from many chimneys, the dim outline of the manor where the servants would be preparing the evening meal, and the great twin spires, home to a great old liar. “I’ll take you to him,” she said. “He’s my uncle.”

CHAPTER TWO

Vaelin

“The Volarian Imperial Army is formed of three principal contingents,” Brother Harlick said, voice rising and falling as he bounced along on the back of a pony. “The citizen conscripts known as Free Swords, the great mass of slave-soldiery known as Varitai, and the Kuritai, highly trained slave-elite of fearsome reputation. A basic structure that has been in place for nearly four hundred years.”

At Vaelin’s command he had been talking constantly for hours, relating all he knew about the Volarian Empire as they journeyed back to the tower. “Individual units are grouped into battalions, which are in turn grouped into a division comprising eight thousand men when at full strength. A typical division will include both Free Swords and Varitai with smaller specialist contingents of engineers and Kuritai. An army grouping consists of three or more divisions under the command of a general . . .”

Vaelin had insisted on setting off the night before, having recovered from the vision which laid him low on the beach. Despite its intensity, the vision had been brief, the chill lingered but without the same depth as before, although the images it left brought all the discomfort he could want, the conclusion inescapable. Something very bad has happened.

He could offer only a brief farewell to Nortah and Sella, sensing their alarm and feeling a liar for the comforting words he spoke as he left. “It’s likely nothing,” he had said. “I grow overly cautious with age.”

“Burning!” little Lohren was saying in a sing-song voice as he made for the door, jumping in excitement. “Burning houses! Burning people! Bad men burning everything! Uncle’s going to kill them!”

He roused Captain Orven, finding scant surprise at the sight of the Eorhil woman’s head poking out from his tent as he stumbled into his boots. “Battle order,” Vaelin told him. “Scouts on both flanks. Torches for every man. Send a squad to the beach, they’ll find a man in a hut. He’s coming with us. If he objects, tie him to a horse.”

“Officers of general rank are typically drawn from the small but immensely wealthy ruling class,” Harlick was saying. “The only class of Volarian society entitled to wear red. Although such privileged status affords the chance of high command, appointments are given only to those of proven leadership experience . . .”

“What do they come for?” Vaelin broke in. “What do they want?”

Harlick thought for a moment, perhaps considering a complex response, but seeing Vaelin’s expression replied simply, “Everything, I imagine.”

He began a description of the working practises of the Volarian Governing Council but Vaelin waved his hand. “That’s enough for now.”

The Lady Dahrena had ridden in silence, her expression one of controlled concern as she listened to Harlick’s knowledge. “I know this reaction may seem excessive . . .” Vaelin began but she shook her head.

“I trust my lord’s . . . judgement.”

“I regret the necessity of making my next request . . .”

“Tonight,” she said. “When we return to the tower.”

“It’s not too far?”

“It’s a fair distance, but I have managed it before, during the riots after the Aspect Massacre. Father was concerned the Realm might be undone.”

“My thanks, my lady.”

“Thank me when I bring news all is peace and harmony.”

“I fervently hope to.” Hope all you want, his doubts mocked him. You know what she’ll tell you.

? ? ?

Dawn was breaking as they clattered through the cobbled streets of North Tower, the courtyard gates swinging open as they approached. Vaelin climbed down from Flame’s back, fighting weariness and calling for Captain Adal.

“My lord.” The captain’s greeting was clipped, his hard gaze evidence he still smarted from Vaelin’s threat of dismissal.

“Sound the muster,” Vaelin told him, ascending the steps to the tower. “Every North Guard is to report here forthwith. Send emissaries to the Eorhil and the Seordah. The Tower Lord calls for all the warriors they can send.”

“My lord . . . ?”

“Just do it, please, Adal,” Dahrena said, moving past him and making for the stairs. “I’ll need a few hours,” she called to Vaelin before disappearing from view.

For want of another resting place, Vaelin slumped into the Lord’s Chair, wincing against the din of shouted orders as Adal went about his business. Can I do this again? he wondered. The canvas bundle rested on his knees, feeling heavier now.

“Vaelin?” Alornis stood before him, a shawl over her shoulders, feet slippered against the chill of the stone floor. Her eyes were wide with uncertainty and her gaze continually drawn to the commotion outside. He noticed her fingers were stained with dried paint.

He held out a hand and she came to him, sinking down to rest against his knees. “What’s happening?” she asked in a small voice.

“It seems, as ever, my mother is shown to be a very wise woman.” He smiled as she frowned up at him, teasing the hair back from her eyes. “There’s always another war.”

? ? ?

“The palace is a ruin,” Dahrena said, her features pale and eyes red with recent tears. However, her voice was clear and free of any tremble as she made her report. “Bodies lie thick in the streets. Volarian ships fill the harbour. People line the docks, hundreds of them, in chains.”

Vaelin had convened a council in his rooms on the upper floor. Captain Adal stood by the window, arms crossed. Brother Kehlan, invited at Dahrena’s insistence, sat at her side, face drawn in concern. Also present, at Vaelin’s invitation, was Brother Hollun of the Fourth Order, clutching a bundle of scrolls, eyes wide with unabashed fear as he regarded Dahrena. She had waved aside Vaelin’s suggestion she contrive to conceal her gift from those not already party to the knowledge. “After what I saw, I fear secrets are of small use now. Besides, I’ve long suspected most already know.”

Seated in the corner was Brother Harlick. Although appointed archivist to the tower he made no notes of the meeting, Vaelin knowing he would remember every word spoken here for transcription later. Alornis sat at Vaelin’s side, hands clasped tight to conceal the tremble that had begun the night before. She worries for Alucius, he thought. And Master Benril.

“The Realm Guard?” he asked Dahrena.