“VAELIN!”
He blinked and it was all gone, the sun, the lush grass beneath his boots, Nersus Sil Nin and her maddening riddles. Gone. The air felt shockingly cold after the warmth of that summer’s day uncountable years ago, the whiteness of the snow making him shield his eyes.
“Vaelin?” It was Nortah, standing over him, his face a mixture of bemusement and worry. “Are you hurt?”
He was still slumped against the plinth, now once again covered in weeds. “I… needed to rest.” He accepted Nortah’s hand and hauled himself upright. Nearby Barkus was rifling the corpse of the old archer Vaelin had killed.
“You tracked me here?” he asked Nortah.
“It wasn’t easy without Caenis. You don’t leave much of a trail.”
“Caenis is hurt?”
“He took a cut on the arm when he took care of the sentries. It’s not too bad but he’s laid up for a while.”
“The battle?”
“It’s over. We counted sixty-five Cumbraelin bodies. Brother Sonril lost an eye and five of Al Hestian’s men have gone to join the Departed.” Nortah’s eyes showed the same haunted look that had clouded them when he first killed a man during their hunt for Frentis. Unlike Caenis and the others, Nortah did not appear to be growing accustomed to killing. He gave a mirthless laugh. “A victory, brother.”
Vaelin recalled the sound of the arrow as it flew past his ear and embedded itself in Linden Al Hestian. A victory…It feels like the worst of defeats.
“Did he linger for long?”
Nortah frowned. “Who?
“Lord Al Hestian. Did he suffer?”
“He suffers still, poor bastard. The arrow didn’t kill him. Brother Makril doesn’t know if he’ll live. He’s been asking for you.”
Vaelin fought down a shudder of guilt-ridden despair. Seeking a distraction, he moved to where Barkus was busily stripping the archer’s corpse of any valuables. “Anything to say who he was?”
“Not much.” Barkus quickly pocketed a few silver coins and extracted a sheaf of papers from the small leather satchel slung over the man’s shoulder. “Found some letters. Might tell you something.”
Nortah took the papers, his eyebrows rising as he read the first few lines.
“What is it?” Vaelin asked.
Nortah carefully folded the papers away. “Something for the Aspect’s eyes. But I think this little war of ours may be about to grow beyond this forest.”
Lord Linden Al Hestian lay on a bed of wolf fur, dragging air into his lungs with long rasping breaths, his skin grey and moist with sweat. Brother Makril had extracted the arrow from his shoulder and dressed the wound with a herb poultice to draw out the poison, but this was only to ease the noble’s mind, there was no saving him. They had forced redflower on him despite his objections, taking the edge from his pain but still he suffered as the poison worked its way through his veins. The men had erected a tent for him, the stench inside stirring Vaelin’s memory of his agonised recovery from the Joffril root.
“My lord?” Vaelin said, sitting down next to him.
“Brother.” There was a ghost of a smile on the young noble’s pale lips. “They told me you went after Black Arrow. Did you get him?”
“He’s… with his god now,” Vaelin replied, though in truth he still didn’t know for certain who the man had been.
“Then we can go home, eh? I think the king will be satisfied, don’t you?”
Vaelin looked into Al Hestian’s eyes, seeing the pain and the fear there, the knowledge that there would be no home-coming for him, he would soon be gone from this world. “He will be satisfied.”
Al Hestian slumped back into the furs. “They killed the boy, you know. I told them to leave him be but they cut him to pieces. He didn’t even cry out.”
“The men were angry. They respect you greatly. As do I.”
“To think my father warned me against you.”
“My lord?”
“My father and I have many differences, many arguments. Truth to tell I confess I like him not, father or no. Sometimes I think he hates me for not matching his ambition with my own. And men of ambition see enemies everywhere, especially at court where intrigue abounds. Before I left he warned me of rumours, tales of a hidden hand moving against me, although he refrained from telling me who’s hand. But he said I should mind you well.”
Rumours of a hidden hand… The princess has been busy it seems.
“Why you would seek to hurt me I cannot imagine,” Al Hestian went on in his pained rasp. “You’ll tell him for me, won’t you? You’ll tell him we were friends.”
“You’ll tell him yourself.”
Al Hestian’s laugh was faint. “Humour me not, brother. There is a letter in my tent, back at the camp. I wrote it before we left. I would be grateful if you would see to its delivery. It’s… for lady of my acquaintance.”