“Oh come now,” she mocked. “Not giving up, are you?”
You love me too much, he thought with an inward sigh. Scared to watch me die again. He cast his gaze at the field below the hill where they practised, the army labouring under the instruction of officers and sergeants, new recruits and old being honed into their queen’s deadly instrument of justice. He could see her cantering along on her white horse, black cloak trailing in the wind, raising salutes and exhortations wherever she rode.
“Do you . . . ?” Reva had come to stand beside him, speaking in hesitant tones.
“What?” he prompted.
“The queen.” Reva’s eyes tracked Lyrna’s horse as she trotted towards Nortah’s new companies, people falling to the knees as she came to a halt. “What was done to her. Do you ever wonder what it might mean?”
“Her healing?”
“No. Not her healing. What was done before. To suffer what she suffered, healed or not the scars run deep.”
“As deep as yours, sister?”
“Perhaps deeper, that’s what worries me. My hands are red, as are yours. We have no claim to innocence and I’ll answer to the Father when my time comes. But she . . . Sometimes I think she would burn the whole world if it meant the death of the last Volarian. And even then she wouldn’t be sated.”
“Don’t you hunger for justice?”
“Justice, yes. And to make my people secure once more. To do that I’ll fight her war and free her city. But that won’t be enough will it? What will you tell her when she orders you to follow her across the ocean?”
No song. No guidance. Just ever-more-silent uncertainty.
“Thank you for the practice, my lady,” he said, turning to offer a bow. “But I think I need a less caring tutor.”
? ? ?
Davern’s ash sword batted Vaelin’s parry aside and cracked against his unarmoured ribs, leaving him winded and doubled over. Davern stepped back as Vaelin gasped for air, glaring up at him. “Who told you to stop, sergeant?”
The former shipwright gave a momentary frown, which quickly transformed into a bright-toothed grin, lunging forward to deliver a jab at Vaelin’s nose. He twisted, the ash blade missing by a whisker, grabbing the sergeant’s arm and throwing him over his shoulder. Davern was quick to recover, leaping to his feet and whirling to deliver a round-house slash at Vaelin’s legs. Wood cracked as Vaelin blocked the blow then replied with a series of two-handed strokes aimed at chest and head, the sergeant backing away and blocking every blow, deaf to the calls of the onlookers.
Three days now and Vaelin had yet to land a blow, drawing a larger crowd with each repeated bout of practice. Davern, as expected, had needed little persuasion to fight with the Battle Lord, his evident delight increasing further when Vaelin’s reduced skills became apparent. It would have been easy to do this away from the eyes of the army but Vaelin resisted the temptation, finding the scrutiny of so many critical eyes a useful impetus to greater effort.
He was improving, he could feel it, the chill not so deep now. But still the sword felt strange in his hand, the once-sublime artistry replaced with workmanlike efficiency. How much was the song? he wondered continually. How much do I need it?
Davern ducked under another stroke, jerking to the side then delivering a precise thrust that found its way past Vaelin’s guard to jab into his upper lip, drawing blood and making him reel backwards.
“Apologies, my lord,” Davern said, his sword smacking into Vaelin’s right leg and sending him to the ground, slapping his feeble counterstroke away and raising his weapon for a no-doubt-painful final blow. “But you did say to display no restraint.”
“That’s enough!” Alornis was striding forward, face red with fury. She shoved a smirking Davern aside and knelt by Vaelin, pressing a clean rag to his bleeding lip. “This is over,” she told the sergeant. “Go back to your regiment.”
“Does your lady sister command here now, my lord?” Davern asked Vaelin. “Perhaps she should.”
“Sergeant.” The voice was soft but Davern’s smirk disappeared in an instant. Nortah stood nearby, casting his eye about the onlooking soldiers, mostly free fighters from his own regiment, all quickly finding somewhere else to be. Snowdance moved from Nortah’s side to nudge at Vaelin’s shoulder, purring insistently until he got to his feet.
“Your man is a brute,” Alornis told Nortah, continuing to staunch the blood flowing from Vaelin’s lip.
“Merely following his lordship’s order, Teacher,” Davern said to Nortah. Whereas he showed a complete absence of fear in regard to Vaelin, his attitude to Nortah was always markedly more respectful.
“Indeed he was,” Vaelin said, pausing to hawk a red glob onto the ground. “And very well too, I might add.”
Nortah spared Davern a brief glance. “See to the pickets,” he ordered quietly.