“What did he say?” Darnel asked the Division Commander in a weary tone.
“Born of fire,” the commander translated. “The sailors say the witch was born of fire, because of her burns.”
“Burns?”
“Her face.” The sailor played a hand over his own features. “Burned, vile to look upon. A creature not a woman.”
“And I thought you people were absent all superstition,” Darnel said before turning back to Alucius. “What do you imagine this means for our great enterprise, little poet?”
“It would seem the Meldenean Islands did not fall so easily after all, my lord,” Alucius replied in a flat tone. He saw his father shift at Darnel’s side, catching his eye with a warning glare, however Darnel seemed untroubled by the observation.
“Quite so. Despite the many promises made by our allies, they fail to secure me the Isles and instead bring dogs into my home barking nonsense.” He pointed a steady finger at the sailor. “Get him out of here,” he told Mirvek.
“Come forward, little poet.” Darnel beckoned him with a languid wave when the Volarians had made their exit. “I’d have your views on another tall tale.”
Alucius strode forward and went to one knee before the throne. He was continually tempted to abandon all pretence of respect but knew the Lord’s tolerance had its limits, regardless of his usefulness.
“Here.” Darnel picked up a spherical object lying at the foot of his throne and tossed it to Alucius. “Familiar, is it not?”
Alucius caught the item and turned it over in his hands. A Renfaelin knight’s helmet, enamelled in blue with several dents and a broken visor. “Lord Wenders,” he said, recalling that Darnel had made his chief lapdog a gift of an unwanted suit of armour.
“Indeed,” Darnel said. “Found four days ago with a crossbow bolt through his eye. I assume you have little trouble guessing the origin of his demise.”
“The Red Brother.” Alucius concealed his grin. Burned the Urlish to nothing and still you couldn’t get him.
“Yes,” Darnel said. “Curious thing, they tended his wounds before they killed him. What’s even more curious is the tale told by the only survivor of his company. He didn’t last very long, I’m afraid, victim of a crushed and festered arm. But he swore to the Departed that the entire company had been buried in a rock-slide called forth by the Red Brother’s fat master.”
Grealin. Alucius kept all expression from his face as he asked, “Called forth, my lord?”
“Yes, with the Dark, if you can believe it. First the tale of the Dark-afflicted brother, now the ballad of the witch’s shark. All very strange, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would, my lord. Most certainly.”
Darnel reclined in his throne, regarding Alucius with arch scrutiny. “Tell me, in all your dealings with our cherished surviving Aspects, did they ever make mention of this fat master and his Dark gifts?”
“Aspect Dendrish asks for books, and food. Aspect Elera asks for nothing. They make no mention of this master . . .”
Darnel glanced at Alucius’s father. “Grealin, my lord,” Lakrhil Al Hestian said.
“Yes, Grealin.” Darnel returned his gaze to Alucius. “Grealin.”
“I recall the name, my lord. I believe Lord Al Sorna made mention of him during our time together in the Usurper’s Revolt. He minded the Sixth Order’s stores, I believe.”
Darnel’s face lost all expression, draining of colour, as it often did at mention of the name Al Sorna, something Alucius knew well and counted on to provide suitable distraction from further astute questioning. Today, however, the Fief Lord was not so easily diverted.
“Store-minder or no,” he grated after a moment. “It now seems he’s a pile of ash.” He pulled something from the pocket of his silk robe and tossed it to Alucius; a medallion on a chain of plain metal, charred but intact. The Blind Warrior. “Your father’s scouts found this amongst the ashes in a pyre near Wenders’s body. It’s either the fat master’s or the Red Brother’s, and I doubt we’d ever get that lucky.”
No, Alucius agreed silently. You never would.
“Our Volarian allies are extremely interested in any whisper of the Dark,” Darnel told him. “Paying huge sums for slaves rumoured to be afflicted with it. Imagine what they’ll do to your friends in the Blackhold if they suspect they have knowledge of more. The next time you visit them show them this medallion, tell them this tall tale, and report back to me every word they say.”